12690	----	THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER or Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. The Principal Hears Something About Pennies II. Dick Takes Up His Pen III. Mr. Cantwell Thinks Twice---or Oftener IV. Dave Warns Tip Scammon V. Ripley Learns That the Piper Must be Paid VI. The Call to the Diamond---Fred Schemes VII. Dave Talks with One Hand VIII. Huh? Woolly Crocheted Slippers IX. Fred Pitches a Bombshell into Training Camp X. Dick & Co. Take a Turn at Feeling Glum XI. The Third Party's Amazement XII. Trying out the Pitchers XIII. The Riot Call and Other Little Things XIV. The Steam of the Batsman XV. A Dastard's Work in the Dark XVI. The Hour of Tormenting Doubt XVII. When the Home Fans Quivered XVIII. The Grit of the Grand Old Game XIX. Some Mean Tricks Left Over XX. A Tin Can for the Yellow Dog XXI. Dick is Generous Because It's Natural XXII. All Roads Lead to the Swimming Pool XXIII. The Agony of the Last Big Game XIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I THE PRINCIPAL HEARS SOMETHING ABOUT "PENNIES" Clang! "Attention, please." The barely audible droning of study ceased promptly in the big assembly room of the Gridley High School. The new principal, who had just stepped into the room, and who now stood waiting behind his flat-top desk on the platform, was a tall, thin, severe-looking man of thirty-two or three. For this year Dr. Carl Thornton, beloved principal for a half-score of years, was not in command at the school. Ill health had forced the good old doctor to take at least a year's rest, and this stranger now sat in the Thornton chair. "Mr. Harper," almost rasped out Mr. Cantwell's voice, "stop rustling that paper." Harper, a little freshmen, who had merely meant to slip the paper inside his desk, and who was not making a disturbing noise thereby, flushed pink and sat immobile, the paper swinging from one hand. From the principal's attitude and his look of seriousness, something unusual was pending. Some of the girls permitted their apprehension to be seen. On the faces of several of the boys rested a look of half defiance, for this principal was unpopular, and, by the students, was considered unjust. "It being now in the early part of December," went on Mr. Cantwell, "we shall, on Monday, begin rehearsing the music for the special exercises to be held in this school on the day before Christmas. To that end, each of you found, on returning from recess, the new Christmas music on your desk." Mr. Cantwell paused an instant for this important information to sink in. Several slight, little sighs of relief escaped the students, especially from the girls' side of the great room. This speech did not presage anything very dreadful to come. "This sheet music," continued Mr. Cantwell, "is to be sold to the pupils at cost to the Board of Education. This cost price is fifteen cents." Again Mr. Cantwell paused. It was a trick of his, a personal peculiarity. Then be permitted himself a slight smile as he added: "This being Friday, I will ask you all to be sure to bring, on Monday morning, the money, which you will pay to me. Don't forget, please; each of you bring me his little fifteen pennies. Now, return to your studies until the beginning of the fourth period is announced." As he bent his head low behind a bulky textbook, Dan Dalzell, of the sophomore class, glanced over at Dick Prescott with sparkling mischief gleaming in his eyes. Dick, who was now a sophomore, and one of the assured leaders in sports and fun, guessed that Dan Dalzell was hatching another of the wild schemes for which Dalzell was somewhat famous. Dick even guessed that he knew about what was passing in Dan's mind. Though moderate whispering was permitted, at need, in the assembly room, there was no chance for Dick and Dan to pass even a word at this time, for almost immediately the bell for the fourth period of the morning's work sounded, and the sections rose and filed out to the various recitation rooms. To readers of the preceding volume in this series, Dick & Co. will need no introduction. All six of the youngsters were very well introduced in "The High School Freshmen." Such readers will remember their first view of Dick & Co. With brown-haired Dick Prescott as leader, the other members of this unique firm of High School youngsters, were Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Harry Hazelton, Gregory Holmes and Dave Darrin. The six had been chums at the Central Grammar School, and had stuck together like burrs through the freshman year at the Gridley High School. In fact, even in their freshmen period, when new students are not expected to have much to say, and are given no chance at the school athletics, Dick & Co. had made themselves abundantly felt. Our readers will recall how the Board of Education had some notion of prohibiting High School football, despite the fact that the Gridley H.S. eleven was one of the best in the United States. Readers will also recall the prank hatched by Dick & Co., by means of which the Board was quickly shown how unpopular such a move would be in the city. Our readers will also recollect that, though freshmen were barred from active part in sports, yet Dick & Co. found the effective way of raising plentiful funds for the Athletics Committee. In the annual paper chase the freshmen hounds, under Dick Prescott's captaincy, beat the sophomore hares---for the first time in many years. In the skating events, later on, Dick and his chums captured, for the freshman class, three of the eight events. From the start, Dick & Co. had shown great ingenuity in "boosting" football, in return for which, many of the usual restrictions on freshmen were waived where Dick & Co. were concerned. In the nearly three months, now, that the new school year had gone along, Dick & Co. had proved that, as sophs, they were youngsters of great importance in the student body. They were highly popular with most of their fellow-students; but of course that very popularity made them some enemies among those who envied or disliked them. For one thing, neither Dick nor any of his partners came of families of any wealth. Yet it was inevitable that some of the boys and girls of Gridley H.S. should come from families of more or less wealth. It is but fair to say that most of these scions of the wealthier families were agreeable, affable and democratic---in a word, Americans without any regard to the size of the family purse. A few of the wealthier young people, however, made no secret of their dislike for smiling, happy, capable Dick & Co. One of the leaders in this feeling was Fred Ripley, son of a wealthy, retired lawyer. During the skating events of the preceding winter, Dick Prescott, aided by his chums, had saved the life of Ripley, who had gone through thin ice. However, so haughty a young man as Fred Ripley, though he had been slightly affected by the brave generosity, could not quite bring himself to regard Dick as other than an interloper in High School life. Ripley had even gone so far as to bribe Tip Scammon, worthless, profligate son of the honest old janitor of the High School, to commit a series of robberies from the locker rooms in the school basement while Dick carried the key as monitor there. The "plunder" had been found in Dick's own room at home, and the young man had been suspended from the High School for a while. Thanks, however, to Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, two girls then freshmen and now sophs, Tip had been run down. Then the police made Tip confess, and he was sent away to the penitentiary for a short term. Tip, however, refused to the last to name his accomplice. Dick knew that Ripley was the accomplice, but kept his silence, preferring to fight all his own battles by himself. So Fred Ripley was now a junior, in good standing as far as scholarship and school record went. So far, during this new year, Ripley had managed to smother his hatred for Dick & Co., especially for Dick himself. Lessons and recitations on this early December morning went off as usual. In time the hands of the clock moved around to one o'clock in the afternoon, at which time the High School closed for the day. The partners of Dick & Co. went down the steps of the building and all soon found their way through the surging crowds of escaped students. This sextette turned down one of the streets and trudged along together. At first several of the other High School boys walked along near them. Finally, however, the crowd thinned away until only Dick & Co. were together. "Dan," said Dick, smilingly, "something struck you hard this morning, when Mr. Cantwell asked us all to bring the music-money on Monday." "He didn't say exactly 'money,'" retorted Dan Dalzell, quickly. "What Prin. did say was that each one of us was to bring fifteen _pennies_." "Yes, I remember," laughed Dick. "Now, we couldn't have held that mob when school let out," pursued Dan. "And now it's too late. But say, if the Prin. had only sprung that on us _before_ recess-----" "Well, suppose he had?" interrupted Greg Holmes, a trifle impatiently. "Why, then," retorted Dan, mournfully, "we could have passed word around, at recess, to have everybody bring just what the Prin. called for---_pennies_!" "Hm!" grinned Dave Darrin, who was never slow to see the point of anything. "Then you had a vision of the unpopular Prin. being swamped under a deluge of pennies---plain, individual little copper cents?" "That's it!" agreed Dan. "But now, we won't see more than a few before we go to school again Monday. Oh---wow! What a chance that takes away from us. Just imagine the Prin. industriously counting away at thousands of pennies, and a long line of boy and girl students in line, each one waiting to pass him another handful of _pennies_! Say, can you see the Prin.---just turning white and muttering to himself? But there's no chance to get the word around, now!" "We don't need to get the word around," smiled Dick. "If we passed the word around, it might get to the Prin.'s ears before Monday, and he'd hatch up some way to head us off." "If you can see how to work the trick at this late hour, you can see further than I can," muttered Dan, rather enviously. "Oh, Dick has the scheme hatching, or he wouldn't talk about it," declared Dave Darrin, confidently. "Why, if all you want is to send the whole student body on Monday morning, each with fifteen copper cents to hand the Prin., that can be fixed up easily enough," Dick pronounced, judicially. "How are we going to do it?" asked Dalzell, dubiously. "Well, let us see how many pennies would be needed? There are close to two hundred and fifty students, but a few might refuse to go into the trick. Let us say two hundred and forty _times_ fifteen. That's thirty-six hundred, isn't it? That means we want to get thirty-six dollars' worth of pennies. Well, we'll get them!" "_We_ will?" demanded Dan, with a snort. "Dick, unless you've got more cash on hand than the rest of us then I don't believe a dragnet search of this crowd would turn up two dollars. Thirty-six? That's going some and halfway back!" "There are three principal ways of buying goods of any kind," Dick continued. "One way is with cash-----" "That's the street we live on!" broke in Harry Hazelton, with a laugh. "The second way," Dick went on, "is to pay with a check. But you must have cash at the bank behind the check, or you get into trouble. Now the third way is to buy goods on credit." "That's just as bad," protested Dan. "Where, in the whole town, could a bunch of youngsters like us, get thirty-six dollars' worth of real credit?" "I can," declared Dick, coolly. "You? Where? With your father?" "No; Dad rarely takes in much in the way of pennies. I don't suppose he has two dollars' worth of pennies on hand at any time. But, fellows, you know that 'The Morning Blade' is a one cent paper. Now, the publisher of 'The Blade' must bank a keg of pennies every day in the week. I can see Mr. Pollock, the editor, this afternoon, right after luncheon. He has probably sent most of the pennies to bank today, but I'll ask him if he'll have to-morrow's pennies saved for us." "Say, if he'll only do that!" glowed Dan, his eyes flashing. "He will," declared Dave Darrin. "Mr. Pollock will do anything, within reason, that Dick asks." "Now, fellows, if I can put this thing through, we can meet in my room to-morrow afternoon at one o'clock. Pennies come in rolls of fifty each, you know. We'll have to break up the rolls, and make new ones, each containing fifteen pennies." Dave Darrin stopped where he was, and began to laugh. Tom Reade quickly joined in. The others were grinning. "Oh, say, just for one look at Prin.'s face, if we can spring that job on him!" chuckled Harry Hazelton. "We can," announced Dick, gravely. "So go home and enjoy your dinners, fellows. If you want to meet on the same old corner on Main Street, at half-past two to-day, we'll go in a body to 'The Blade' office and learn what Mr. Pollock has to say about our credit." "_Your_ credit, you mean," corrected Dave. After dinner Dick & Co. met as agreed. Arrived at "The Blade" office it was decided that Dick Prescott should go in alone to carry on the negotiation. He soon came out again, wearing a satisfied smile and carrying a package under one arm. "If I'm any good at guessing," suggested Dave, "you put the deal over." "Mr. Pollock agreed, all right," nodded Dick. "I have fourteen dollars here. He'll let us have the rest to-morrow." They hurried back to Dick's room, over the bookstore that was run by Mr. and Mrs. Prescott. "Whew, but this stuff is heavy," muttered Dick, dumping the package on the table. "Mr. Pollock sent out to the pressroom and had some paper cut of just the size that we shall need for wrappers." "Did you tell Pollock what we are going to do?" asked Greg Holmes. "Not exactly, but he guessed that some mischief was on. He wanted to know if it was anything that would make good local reading in 'The Blade,' so I told him I thought it would be worth a paragraph or two, and that I'd drop around Monday afternoon and give him the particulars. That was all I said." Inside the package were three "sticks" of the kind that are used for laying the little coins in a row before wrapping. "Now, one thing we must be dead careful about, fellows," urged Dick, as he undid the package, "is to be sure that we get an exact fifteen coins in each wrapper. If we got in more, we'd be the losers. If we put less than fifteen cents in any wrapper, then we're likely to be accused of running a swindling game." So every one of the plotters was most careful to count the coins. It was not rapid work, and only half the partners could work at any one time. They soon caught the trick of wrapping, however, and then the little rolls began to pile up. Saturday afternoon Dick & Co. were similarly engaged. Nor did they find the work too hard. Americans will endure a good deal for the sake of a joke. Monday morning, shortly after half-past seven, Dick and his chums had stationed themselves along six different approaches to the High School. Each young pranker had his pockets weighted down with small packages, each containing fifteen pennies. Purcell, of the junior class, was the first to pass Dick Prescott. "Hullo, Purcell," Dick greeted the other, with a grin. "Want to see some fun?" "Of course," nodded the junior. "What's going?" "You remember that Prin. asked us, last Friday, to bring in our fifteen pennies for the Christmas music?" "Of course. Well, I have my money in my pocket." "_In pennies_?" insisted Dick. "Well, no; of course not. But I have a quarter, and I guess Prin. can change that." Dick quickly explained the scheme. Purcell, with a guffaw, purchased one of the rolls. "Now, see here," hinted Dick, "there'll be such a rush, soon, that we six can't attend to all the business. Won't you take a dozen rolls and peddle them? I'll charge 'em to you, until you can make an accounting." Purcell caught at the bait with another laugh. Dick noted Purcell's name on a piece of paper, with a dollar and eighty cents charged against it. All the other partners did the same with other students. With such a series of pickets out around the school none of the student body got through without buying pennies, except Fred Ripley and Clara Deane. They were not asked to buy. Meanwhile, up in the great assembly room a scene was going on that was worth looking at. Abner Cantwell had seated himself at his desk. Before him lay a printed copy of the roll of the student body. It was the new principal's intention to check off each name as a boy or girl paid for the music. Knowing that he would have a good deal of currency to handle, the principal had brought along a satchel for this morning. First of all, Harper came tripping into the room. He went to his desk with his books, then turned and marched to the principal's desk. "I've brought the money for the music, Mr. Cantwell." "That's right, Mr. Harper," nodded the principal. The little freshman carefully deposited his fifteen pennies on the desk. They were out of the roll. Dick & Co. had cautioned each investor to break the wrapper, and count the pennies before moving on. Two of the seniors presently came in. They settled with pennies. Then came Laura Bentley and Belle Meade. Their pennies were laid on the principal's desk. "Why, all pennies, so far!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell. "I trust not many will bring coins of such low denomination." A look of bland innocence rested on Laura's face. "Why, sir," she remarked, "you asked us, Friday, to bring pennies. "Did I?" demanded the principal, a look of astonishment on his face. "Why, yes, sir," Belle Meade rattled on. "Don't you remember? You laughed, Mr. Cantwell, and asked each one of us to bring fifteen pennies to-day." "I had forgotten that, Miss Meade," returned the principal. Then, as the sophomore young ladies turned away, a look of suspicion began to settle on the principal's face. Nor did that look lessen any when the next six students to come in each carried pennies to the desk. Twenty more brought pennies. By this time there was a stern look on the principal's white face. During the next few minutes after that only two or three came in, for Dick had thought of a new aspect to the joke. He had sent messengers scurrying out through the street approaches with this message: "We're not required to be in the assembly room until eight o'clock. Let's all wait until two minutes of eight---then go in a throng." So the principal had a chance to catch up with his counting as the minutes passed. So busy was he, however, that it didn't quite occur to him to wonder why so few of the student body had as yet come in. Then, at 7.58, a resounding tread was heard on the stairs leading up from the basement locker rooms. Some two hundred boys and girls were coming up in two separate throngs. They were still coming when the assembly bell rang. As fast as any entered they made their way, with solemn faces, to the desk on the platform. As Mr. Cantwell had feared, the pennies still continued to pour in upon him. Suddenly the principal struck his desk sharply with a ruler, then leaped to his feet. His face was whiter than ever. It was plain that the man was struggling to control himself against an outburst of wrath. He even forced a smile to his face a sort of smile that had no mirth in it. "Young ladies and young gentlemen," Mr. Cantwell rasped out, sharply, "some of you have seen fit to plan a joke against me, and to carry it out most audaciously. It's a good joke, and I admit that it's on me. But it has been carried far enough. If you please---_no more pennies_!" "But pennies are all I happen to have, sir," protested Dave Darrin, stepping forward. "Don't you want me to pay you for the music, sir?" "Oh, well," replied the principal, with a sigh, "I'll take 'em, then." As Dick & Co. had disposed of every one of their little rolls of fifteen, few of the students were unprovided with pennies. So the copper stream continued to pour in. Mr. Cantwell could have called any or all of his submasters and teachers to his aid. He thought of it presently, as his fingers ached from handling all the pennies. "Mr. Drake, will you come to the desk?" he called. So Submaster Drake came to the platform, drawing a chair up beside the principal's. But Mr. Cantwell still felt obliged to do the counting, as he was responsible for the correctness of the sums. So all Mr. Drake could do was check off the names as the principal called them. Faster and faster poured the copper stream now. Mr. Cantwell, the cords sticking out on his forehead, and a clammy dew bespangling his white face, counted on in consuming anger. Every now and then he turned to dump two or three handfuls of counted pennies into his open satchel. Gathered all around the desk was a throng of students, waiting to pay. Beyond this throng, safely out of range of vision, other students gathered in groups and chuckled almost silently. Clatter! By an unintentional move of one arm Mr. Cantwell swept fully a hundred pennies off on to the floor. He leaped up, flushed and angry. "Will the young---gentlemen---aid me in recovering the coins that went on the floor?" he asked. There was promptly a great scurrying and searching. The principal surely felt harassed that morning. It was ten minutes of nine when the last student had paid and had had his name checked off. Mr. Cantwell was at the boiling point of wrath. Just as the principal was putting the last of the coins into his satchel Mr. Drake leaned over to whisper: "May I make a suggestion, sir?" "Certainly," replied the principal coldly. "Yet I trust, Mr. Drake, that it won't be a suggestion for an easy way of accumulating more pennies than I already have." "I think, if I were you, sir, I should pay no heed to this joke-----" "Joke?" hissed the principal under his breath. "It's an outrage!" "But intended only as a piece of pleasantry, sir. So I think it will pass off much better if you don't allow the students to see that they have annoyed you." "Why? Do the students _want_ to annoy me?" demanded Mr. Cantwell, in another angry undertone. "I wouldn't say that," replied Mr. Drake. "But, if the young men discover that you are easily teased, they are sufficiently mischief-loving to try other jokes on you." "Then a good friend of theirs would advise them not to do so," replied Mr. Cantwell, with a snap of his jaws. That closed the matter for the time being. The first recitation period of the morning had been lost, but now the students, most of them finding difficulty in suppressing their chuckles, were sent to the various class rooms. Before recess came, the principal having a period free from class work, silently escaped from the building, carrying the thirty-six hundred pennies to the bank. As that number of pennies weighs something more than twenty-three pounds, the load was not a light one. "I have a big lot of pennies here that I want to deposit," he explained to the receiving teller. "How many?" asked the teller. "Thirty-six hundred," replied Mr. Cantwell. "Are they counted and done up into rolls of fifty, with your name on each roll?" asked the teller. "Why---er---no," stammered the principal. "They're just loose---in bulk, I mean." "Then I'm very sorry, Mr. Cantwell, but we can't receive them in that shape, sir. They will have to be counted and wrapped, and your name written on each roll." "Do you mean to say that I must take these pennies home, count them all---again!---and then wrap them and sign the wrappers." "I'm sorry, but you, or some one will have to do it, Mr. Cantwell." Then and there the principal exploded. One man there was in the bank at that moment who was obliged to turn his head away and stifle back the laughter. That man was Mr. Pollock, of "The Blade." Pollock knew now what Dick & Co. had wanted of such a cargo of pennies. "I can't carry this infernal satchel back to school," groaned the principal, disgustedly. "Some of the boys, when they see me, will realize that the satchel is still loaded, and they'll know what has happened to me at the bank. It will make me look fearfully ridiculous to be caught in that fashion, with the joke against me a second time! And yet I have a class immediately after recess. What can I do?" A moment later, however, he had solved the problem. There was a livery stable not far away, and he knew the proprietor. So to that stable Mr. Cantwell hurried, changing the satchel from one hand to the other whenever an arm ached too much. "This satchel contains a lot of currency, Mr. Getchel," explained the poor principal. "I wish you could do me the favor of having a horse hitched up and take this to my wife. Will you do it?" "Certainly," nodded the liveryman. "Just lock the satchel; that is all. I'll have the bag at your home within fifteen minutes." So during the first period after recess Mrs. Cantwell was visited by Getchel, who handed her the satchel, merely remarking: "Mr. Cantwell left this at my office, ma'am, and asked me to bring it down to you. It contains some money that your husband sent you." Money? The good woman, who "loved" money too well to spend much of it, hefted the satchel. Gracious! There must be a big lot of the valuable stuff. But the satchel was locked. Mrs. Cantwell promptly hunted until she found another satchel key that fitted. Then she opened the bag, staring at the contents with big eyes. "What on earth can my husband have been doing?" she wondered. "Surely he hasn't been robbing the Salvation Army Christmas boxes! And the idea of sending me money all in pennies!" The more she thought about it the more indignant did Mrs. Cantwell become. Finally, a little after noon, Mrs. Cantwell decided to take the stuff to the bank, have it counted and turned over into greenbacks. So she trudged up to the bank with it. The journey was something more than a mile in length. Mrs. Cantwell arrived at the bank, only to make the same discovery that her husband had made about the need of counting and wrapping the money before it could be deposited or exchanged. It was close to one o'clock, and the High School not far away. So, full of ire, Mrs. Cantwell started down to her husband's place of employment. Once school let out for the day, a quarter of a thousand members of the student body went off, full of glee, to spread the news of the joke. As they hurried along many of the students noticed that Mrs. Cantwell was standing not far from the gate and that, at her feet, lay her husband's black satchel. Several of the students were quick to wonder what this new phase of the matter meant. After school was dismissed Fred Ripley remained behind, strapping several books together. Then, as he passed the principal's desk, he remarked: "I suppose, Mr. Cantwell, that some of the students thought that a very funny trick that was played on you this morning. While I am speaking of it, I wish to assure you, sir, that I had no hand in the outrage." "I am very glad to hear you say that, Mr. Ripley. Some day I hope I shall have a notion who _did_ originate the practical joke." "I don't believe you would have to guess very long, sir," Ripley hinted. "What do you mean?" "Why, sir, whenever anything of that sort is hatched up in this school, it's generally a pretty safe guess that Dick & Co. are at the bottom of it all." "Dick & Co.?" repeated Mr. Cantwell. "Dick Prescott and his chums, sir," replied Ripley, rapidly naming the five partners. Then, having accomplished what he wanted, Fred sauntered out. "I'll look into this further," thought Mr. Cantwell, angrily. "If I can satisfy myself that Prescott was at the bottom of this wicked hoax then I---I may find it possible to make him want to cut his High School course short!" Mrs. Cantwell was waiting at the gate. "What on earth, Abner, did you mean by sending me this great cartload of pennies?" demanded the principal's spouse. "Here I've taken it up to the bank, and find they won't accept it---not in this form, anyway. Now, I've carried it this far, Abner, and you may carry it the rest of the way home." "Why---er---er---" stammered the principal. "Mr. Getchel brought the satchel to me, and told me it was money you had sent me. But I want to say, Abner, that of all the-----" At this moment the principal picked up the hateful satchel and the pair passed out of hearing of four young freshmen who had hidden near to learn what the mystery of the satchel meant. It was not long, either, before the further joke had become known to a great many of the students. CHAPTER II DICK TAKES UP HIS PEN Dick had no sooner ventured out on the street after dinner than he encountered the news of Mrs. Cantwell's meeting with her husband. But Dick did not linger long to discuss the matter. His pockets now contained, in place of pennies, a few banknotes and many dimes, pennies and nickels, amounting in all to thirty-six dollars. He was headed for "The Blade" office to settle with Mr. Pollock. "I think I can tell you a little story now, that may be worth a paragraph or two," Dick announced after he had counted out the money and had turned it over to the editor. "You played a little joke on your new and not wholly popular principal, didn't you?" Mr. Pollock asked, his eyes twinkling. "Yes; has the thing reached you already?" "I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied, "but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know." Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank. "Now, I've got a still further side to the story," Dick continued, and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway. Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor, presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny." "Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished Dick Prescott, rising. "Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause, "See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?" "I?" repeated Dick, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication in my life." "Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr. Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too. See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in dragging a woman into a hazing scrape." Dick went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, Dick began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock. "I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very red, "but the main facts are all there." Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully. The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last sheet. "Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking somewhere inside of you." Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out a half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick. "What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore. "Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you." "For me?" gasped Dick. "Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not high. But see here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column for anything you write for us that possesses local interest enough to warrant our printing it. Now, while going to the High School, why can't you turn reporter in your spare time, and earn a little pocket money?" Again Dick gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why not, indeed! "Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr. Pollock, after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High School. You would not even neglect your studies in the least. But a young man who knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who goes about town as much as you do, ought to be able to pick up quite a lot of newsy stuff." "I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," Dick pondered. "The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock. "For myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good reporter. By the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you mean to be when you're through school?" "Why, it isn't settled yet," Dick replied slowly. "Father and mother hope to be able to send me further than the High School, and so they've suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through before I decide on what I want to be. Then, if it's anything that a college course would help me to, they'll try to provide it." "What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired the editor of "The Blade." "A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and emphasis. "Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied the editor. "We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's word does the work that the sword used to do." "This country has been in several wars," argued Dick, "and will be in others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty is to fit himself for the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe there's plenty, always, that an American soldier ought to be doing." "Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering, anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant of the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve to be a reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it should be done. The reporter's life is almost as full of adventure as the soldier's. And there are no 'peace times' for the reporter. He never knows when his style of 'war' will break out. But I must get back to my work. Are you going to try to bring us in good matter at a dollar a column?" "Yes, I am, thank you," Dick replied, unhesitatingly, now. "Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers over his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear." He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated. "It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the paper's name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on your vest." "I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed Dick, drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing to me if they caught me wearing a reporter's badge." "Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing the badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us in something good, Prescott." "I won't forget, Mr. Pollock." As Dick went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his hand in his pocket on the half-dollar. He had had much more money with him a little while before, but that was to pay to some one else. This half-dollar was wholly his own money, and, with the prospect it carried of earning more, the High School boy was delighted. Pocket money had never been plentiful with young Prescott. The new opportunity filled him with jubilation. It was not long, however, before a new thought struck him. He went straight to his parents' bookstore, where he found his mother alone, Mr. Prescott being out on business. To his mother Dick quickly related his new good fortune. Mrs. Prescott's face and words both expressed her pleasure. "At first, mother, I didn't think of anything but pocket money," Dick admitted. "Then my head got to work a bit. It has struck me that if I can make a little money each week by writing for 'The Blade,' I can pay you at least a bit of the money that you and Dad have to spend to keep me going." "I am glad you thought of that," replied Mrs. Prescott, patting her boy's hand. "But we shan't look to you to do anything of the sort. Your father and I are not rich, but we have managed all along to keep you going, and I think we can do it for a while longer. Whatever money you can earn, Richard, must be your own. We shall take none of it. But I trust you will learn how to handle your own money wisely. _That_ is one of the most valuable lessons to be learned in life." To his chums, when he saw them later in the afternoon, Dick said nothing of Mr. Pollock's request. The young soph thought it better to wait a while, and see how he got along at amateur reporting before he let anyone else into the secret. But late that afternoon Dick ran into a matter of interest and took it to "The Blade" office. "That's all right," nodded Mr. Pollock, after looking over Dick's "copy." "Glad to see you have started in, my boy. Now, I won't pay you for this on the nail. Wait until Saturday morning, cutting all that you have printed out of the 'The Blade.' Paste all the items together, end on end, and bring them to me. That is what reporters call a 'space string.' Bring your 'string' to me every Saturday afternoon. We'll measure it up with you and settle." Dick hurried away, content. He even found that evening that he could study with more interest, now that he found he had a financial place in life. In the morning Gridley read and laughed over Dick's item about the High School hoax. But there was one man who saw it at his breakfast table, and who went into a white heat of rage at once. That man was Abner Cantwell, the principal. He was still at white heat when he started for the High School; though, warned by prudence, he tried to keep his temper down. Nevertheless, there was fire in Mr. Cantwell's eyes when he rang the bell to bring the student body to attention to begin the morning's work. CHAPTER III MR. CANTWELL THINKS TWICE---OR OFTENER "Young ladies and young gentlemen," began the principal, "a very silly hoax was perpetrated on me yesterday. I do not believe you will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. But the matter went beyond this school room. An account of the hoax was published in the morning paper, and that holds me up to severe ridicule. I trust that we shall not have any repetition of such childish, so-called jokes. I do not know yet what action I may or may not take in this matter, and can promise nothing. I can and do promise, however, that if any more such hoaxes are attempted I shall do all in my power to ferret out and summarily punish the offenders!-----" Here the principal's own sense of prudence warned him that he had gone quite as far as was necessary or prudent. So he choked down his rising words and called for the morning singing. Yet, as Mr. Cantwell uttered his last words his glance fell very sternly on one particular young member of the sophomore class. Dick Prescott. "Prin. has it in for you, old fellow!" whispered Dave Darrin, as he and Dick jostled on the way to a recitation. "But if he has---humph---it won't be long before he finds out that you had some help. You shan't be the scapegoat for all of Dick & Co." "Don't say anything," Dick whispered back. "I'll find a way to take care of myself. If any trouble is to come, I think I can take care of it. Anyway, I won't have anyone else dragged into it." But the principal said nothing more during that school session. In the afternoon, however, when Mr. Cantwell took his accustomed walk after dinner, he met several acquaintances who made laughing or casual references to the yarn in the morning's "Blade." "I've got to stamp this spirit out in the school," decided the principal, again at a white heat. "If I don't I'll soon have some real trouble on hand with these young jackanapes! The idea of their making me---the principal---ridiculous in the town! No school principal can submit to hoaxes like that one without suffering in public esteem. I'll sift this matter down and nip the whole spirit in the bud." In this Mr. Cantwell was quite possibly at error in judgment. Probably the High School boys wouldn't have played such a prank on good old Dr. Thornton, had he still been their school chief. But, if they had, Dr. Thornton would have admitted the joke good-humoredly and would have taken outside chaffing with a good nature that would have disarmed all wit aimed at him. Mr. Cantwell, as will be seen, lacked the saving grace of a sense of humor. He also lacked ability in handling full-blooded, fun-loving boys. Wednesday, just before one o'clock, the principal electrified the assembled students by saying, in a voice that was ominously quiet and cool: "When school is dismissed I shall be glad to have Mr. Prescott remain for a few words with me." "Now it's coming," thought Dick, though without any particular thrill of dismay. He waited while the others filed out. Somehow the big building didn't empty as fast as usual. Had Mr. Cantwell known more about boy nature he would have suspected that several of Dick's friends had remained behind in hiding places of their own choosing. Dick remained in his seat, coolly turning the pages of his text-book on ancient history. "Mr. Prescott," called the principal sharply. "Yes, sir," responded Dick, closing the book, slipping it into his desk, and rising as though to go forward. "No, no; keep your seat until I am ready to speak with you, Mr. Prescott. But it isn't necessary to read, is it?" "I was looking through to-morrow's history lesson, sir," Dick replied, looking extremely innocent. "But, of course, I won't if you disapprove." "Wait until I come back," rapped out the principal, leaving the room. He went out to see that the building was being emptied of students, but of course he failed to discover that a few were hiding as nearly within earshot as they could get. Two or three of the teachers who had remained behind now left the room. The last to go was Mr. Drake, the submaster. As he went he cast a look at Dick that was full of sympathy, though the submaster, who was a very decent man and teacher, did not by any means intend to foster mutiny in the heart of a High School boy. But Mr. Drake knew that Mr. Cantwell was not fitted either to command respect or to enforce discipline in the High School. When Mr. Cantwell came back he and the young soph had the great room to themselves. "Now you may come forward, Mr. Prescott," announced the principal, "and stand in front of the platform." As Dick went forward there was nothing of undue confidence or any notion of bravado in his bearing. He was not one of those schoolboys who, when brought to task by authority, try to put on a don't-care look. Dick's glance, as he halted before the platform and turned to look at Mr. Cantwell, was one of simple inquiry. "Mr. Prescott, you are fully informed as to the hoax that was perpetrated on me yesterday morning?" "You mean the incident of the pennies, I think, sir?" returned the boy, inquiringly. "You know very well that I do, young man," retorted Mr. Cantwell, rapping his desk with one hand. "Yes, sir; I am fully informed about it." "And you know who was at the bottom of it, too, Mr. Prescott?" The principal bent upon the boy a look that was meant to make him quail, but Dick didn't quail. "Yes, sir," he admitted, promptly. "I know at least several that had a hand in the affair." "And you were one of them?" "Yes, sir," admitted the young soph, frankly. "I think I had as much to do with what you term the hoax, sir, as anyone else had." "Who were the others?" fired the principal, quickly and sharply. "I---I beg your pardon, sir. I cannot answer that." "You can't? Why not, Mr. Prescott?" demanded the principal. Again the principal launched his most compelling look. "Because, sir," answered Dick, quietly, and in a tone in which no sign of disrespect could be detected, "it would strike me as being dishonorable to drag others into this affair." "You would consider it dishonorable?" cried Mr. Cantwell, his face again turning deathly white with inward rage. "_You_, who admit having had a big hand in what was really an outrage?" But Dick met and returned the other's gaze composedly. "The Board of Education, Mr. Cantwell, has several times decided that one pupil in the public schools cannot be compelled by a teacher to bear tales that implicate another student. I have admitted my own share in the joke that has so much displeased you, but I cannot name any others." "You _must_!" insisted the principal, rising swiftly from his chair. "I regret to have to say, sir," responded Prescott, quietly, "that I shall not do it. If you make it necessary, I shall have to take refuge behind the rulings of the Board of Education on that point." Mr. Cantwell glared at Dick, but the latter still met the gaze unflinchingly. Then the principal began to feel his wrath rising to such a point that he found himself threatened with an angry outburst. As his temper had often betrayed him before in life, Mr. Cantwell, pointing angrily to Dick's place, said: "Back to your seat, Mr. Prescott, until I have given this matter a little more thought!" Immediately afterward the principal quitted the room. Dick, after sitting in silence for a few moments, drew his history again from his desk, turned over the pages, found the place he wanted and began to read. It was ten minutes later when the principal returned to the room. He had been to one of the class rooms, where he had paced up and down until he felt that he could control himself enough to utter a few words. Now, he came back. "Prescott, I shall have to think over your admission before I come to any decision in the matter. I may not be able to announce my decision for a while. I shall give it most careful thought. In the meantime, I trust, very sincerely, that you will not be caught in any more mischief---least of all, anything as serious, as revolutionary, as yesterday's outrageous impudence. You may go, now---for to-day!" "Very good, sir," replied Dick Prescott, who had risen at his desk as soon as Mr. Cantwell began to talk to him. As young Prescott passed from the room he favored the principal with a decorous little bow. Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Harper and another member of the freshman class, came out of various places of hiding. As he went down the stairs Dick was obliged to tread heavily enough to drown out their more stealthy footfalls. Once in the open, Harper and the other freshman scurried away, their curiosity satisfied. But, a moment later, when Mr. Cantwell looked out of the window, he was much surprised to see four members of Dick & Co. walking together, and almost out through the gate. "Have they been within earshot---listening?" wondered the principal to himself, and jotted down the names of Darrin, Reade and Holmes. The two freshmen, by their prompt departure had saved themselves from suspicion. On Thursday nothing was said or done about Dick's case. When Friday's session drew toward its close young Prescott fully expected to have sentence pronounced, or at least to be directed to remain after school. But nothing of the sort happened. Dick filed out at the week's end with the rest. "What do you imagine Prin. can be up to?" Dave Darrin asked, as Dick & Co. marched homeward that early Friday afternoon. "I don't know," Dick confessed. "It may be that Mr. Cantwell is just trying to keep me guessing." "If that's his plan," inquired Reade, "what are you going to do, old fellow?" "Perhaps---just possibly---I shall fight back with the same weapon," smiled Dick. Mr. Cantwell had, in truth, formed his plan, or as much of it as he could form until he had found just how the land lay, and what would be safe. His present berth, as principal of Gridley H.S., was a much better one than he had ever occupied before. Mr. Cantwell cherished a hope of being able to keep the position for a good many years to come. Yet this would depend on the attitude of the Board of Education. In order not to take any step that would bring censure from the Board, Mr. Cantwell had decided to attend the Board's next meeting on the following Monday evening, and lay the matter before the members confidentially. If the Board so advised, Mr. Cantwell was personally quite satisfied with the idea of disciplining Dick by dropping him from the High School rolls. "I'll protect my dignity, at any cost," Mr. Cantwell, murmured, eagerly to himself. "After all, what is a High School principal, without dignity?" Monday afternoon Dick Prescott stepped in at "The Blade" office. "Got something for us again?" asked Mr. Pollock, looking around. "Not quite yet," Dick replied. "I've come to make a suggestion." "Prescott, suggestions are the food of a newspaper editor. Go ahead." "You don't send a reporter to report the Board of Education meetings, do you?" "No; those meetings are rarely newsy enough to be worth while. I can't afford to take up the evening of a salaried reporter in that way. But Spencer generally drops around, at the time the Board is expected to adjourn, or else he telephones the clerk, from this office, and learns what has been done. It's mostly nothing, you know." "Spencer wouldn't care if he didn't have to report the Board meetings at all?" "Of course not. Len would be delighted at not having anything more to do." "Then let me go and report the meetings for you, on space." "My boy, a reporter would starve on that kind of space work. Why, after you put in the whole evening there, you might come to the office only to learn that we didn't consider any of the Board's doings worth space to tell about them." "Will you let me attend a few of the meetings, and take my chances on the amount of space I can get out of it?" "Go ahead, Prescott, if you can afford to waste your time in that fashion," replied Mr. Pollock, almost pityingly. "Thank you. That's what I wanted," acknowledged Dick, and went out very well contented. When it lacked a few minutes of eight, that evening, all the members of the Board of Education had arrived. It was the same Board as in the year before. All the members had been re-elected at the last city election, though some of them by small majorities. Mr. Gadsby, one of the members who had won by only a slight margin over his opponent, stood with his back to a radiator, warming himself, when he saw the door open. Mr. Gadsby nodded most genially to Mr. Cantwell, who entered. The principal came straight over to this member, and they shook hands cordially. Mr. Gadsby had been one of the members of the Board who had been most anxious about having Cantwell appointed principal; Cantwell was, in fact, a family connection of Mrs. Gadsby's. "Coming to make some report, or some suggestion, I take it, eh, Cantwell?" murmured Mr. Gadsby in a low voice. "Most excellent idea, my dear fellow. Keeps you in notice and shows that your heart is in the work. Most excellent idea, really." "I have a report to make," admitted Mr. Cantwell, in an equally low voice. "I---I find it necessary to make a statement about the doings of a rather troublesome element in the school. Suspension or expulsion may be necessary in order to give the best ideas of good discipline to many of the other students. But I shall state the facts, and ask the Board to advise me as to just what I ought to do in the premises." "Ask the Board's advice? Most excellent idea, really," murmured Mr. Gadsby. "You can't go wrong then. But---er---what's the nature of the trouble? Who is the offen-----" Mr. Gadsby was rubbing his hands, under his coat tails, as he felt the warmth from the steam radiator reach them. "Why, the principal offender is named-----" Here Mr. Cantwell paused, and looked rather astonished. "Tell me, Mr. Gadsby, what is Prescott, of the sophomore class, doing here?" The principal's glance had just rested on Dick, who sat at a small side table, a little pile of copy paper on the table, a pencil in his hand. "Oh---ah---Prescott, Richard Prescott?" inquired Mr. Gadsby. "Some of us were a bit surprised this evening to learn that Prescott, though he will continue to attend High School, has also taken a position with 'The Morning Blade.' Among other things to which he will attend, after this, Cantwell, is the matter of school doings in this city. He is to be the regular reporter of School Board meetings. Rather a young man to wield the power of the press isn't he?" Mr. Gladsby chuckled at his own joke. "'Power of the press'?" murmured Mr. Cantwell, uncomfortably. "Surely you don't mean, Gadsby, that this mere boy, this High School student, is going to be taken here seriously as representing the undoubtedly great power of the press?" "To some extent, yes," admitted Mr. Gadsby. "'The Blade,' as you may know, is a good deal of a power in local politics. Now, some of us---er---did not win our re-elections by any too large margins. A little dangerous opposition to---er---some of us---would mean a few new faces around the table at Board meetings. Mr. Pollock is---er---a most estimable citizen, and a useful man in the community. Yet Mr. Pollock is---er---Cantwell---er---that is, a bit 'touchy.' No matter if Pollock's reporter is a schoolboy, if we treated the boy with any lack of consideration, then Pollock would most certainly take umbrage at what he would choose to consider a slight upon himself, received through his representative. So at these Board meetings, young Prescott will have to be treated with as much courtesy as though he were really a man, for Pollock's hostility would be most disastrous to us---er---to some of us, possibly, I mean. But, really, young Prescott is a most bright and enterprising young fellow, anyway---a very likable boy. _You_ like him, don't you, Cantwell?" "Ye-e-es," admitted the principal, though he added grimly under his breath: "I like him so well that I could eat him, right now, if I had a little Worcestershire sauce to make him more palatable." "The Board will please come to order," summoned Chairman Stone, rapping the table with his gavel. "Mr. Reporter, have you good light over at your table." "Excellent, thank you, Mr. Chairman," Dick replied. "Er---aren't you going to stay, Cantwell?" demanded Gadsby, as the principal turned to leave the room. "No; the fact is---I---well, I want to consider my statement a little more before I offer it to the Board. Good evening!" Mr. Cantwell got out of the room while some of the members were still scraping their chairs into place. Dick Prescott had not openly looked in the principal's direction. Yet the amateur reporter had taken it all in. He was grinning inside now. He had taken upon himself the work of reporting these meetings that he might be in a position to block any unfair move on the part of the principal. "I wonder what Mr. Cantwell is thinking about, _now_?" Dick asked himself, with an inward grin as he picked up his pencil. That Board meeting was about as dull and uneventful as the average. Yet Dick managed to make a few live paragraphs out of it that Guilford, "The Blade's" news editor, accepted. It still lacked some minutes of ten o'clock when young Prescott left the morning newspaper office and started briskly homeward. "I didn't catch that Board-reporting idea a day too soon," the boy told himself, laughing. "Mr. Cantwell was certainly on hand for mischief to-night. But how quickly he made his get-away when he discovered that his culprit was present as a member of the press! I guess Mr. Gadsby must have passed him a strong hint. But I must be careful not to have any malice in the matter. Some evening when Mr. Cantwell does come before the Board with some report I must take pains to give him and his report a nice little notice and ask 'The Blade' folks to be sure to print it. Then---gracious!" Utterly startled, Dick heard and saw an ugly brickbat whizz by his head. It came out of the dark alley that the sophomore was passing at that moment. And now came another, aimed straight for his head! CHAPTER IV DAVE WARNS TIP SCAMMON There wasn't time to jump out of the way of that second flying missile. By an instinct of self-preservation young Prescott, instead of trying to leap out of the way, just collapsed, going down to his knees. As he sank the missile struck the top of his cap, carrying it from his head. "Hi! Stop that, you blamed rascal!" It was Dave Darrin's voice that rang out, as that young man came rushing down the street behind Prescott. Dick in another second was on his feet, crouching low, and running full tilt into the alleyway. It was Dick's way---to run at danger, instead of away from it. At his first bound into the alley, Prescott dimly made out some fellow running at the further end. There was an outlet of escape down there---two of them, in fact, as the indignant pursuer knew. So he put on speed, but soon was obliged to halt, finding that his unknown enemy had gotten away. Here Dick was joined by breathless Dave Darrin, who had followed swiftly. "You go through there, Dave; I'll take the other way," urged Dick, again starting in pursuit. The unknown one, however, had taken advantage of those few seconds of delay to get safely beyond chase. So the chums met, soon, in a side street. "His line of retreat was good," muttered Dick, rather disgustedly. "Who was it, anyway?" Dave indignantly inquired. "I don't know. I didn't see." "Do you suppose it could have been Tip Scammon?" asked Dave, shrewdly. "Is Tip Scammon back from the penitentiary?" "Got back this afternoon, and has been showing himself around town this evening," nodded Dave. "Say, I wonder if he could have been the one who ambushed you?" "I don't like to throw suspicion on anyone," Dick replied. "Still, I can't imagine anyone else who would have as much temptation to try to lay me up. Tip Scammon acted as Fred Ripley's tool, last year, in trying to make me out a High School thief. Tip was sent away, and Fred didn't have to suffer at all, because Tip wouldn't betray his employer. But Tip must have felt sore at me many a time when he was breaking rock at the penitentiary." The two chums walked slowly back to Main Street, still talking. "I saw you ahead of me, on the street," Dave rattled on. "I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head. Say, Dick, I wonder---" "What?" demanded Prescott. "Oh, of course, it's a crazy notion. But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he'd put anyone up to lying in ambush for you." Dick started, then thought a few moments. "No," he decided. "Cantwell may be erratic, and he certainly has a treacherous temper, and some mean ways. But this was hardly the sort of trick he'd go in for." "Then it was Tip Scammon, all by himself," declared Darrin, with great conviction. "But to go back to Mr. Cantwell," Dick resumed, with a grin, "I must tell you something really funny. Prin. went to School Board tonight with a long, bright knife sharpened for me. But he didn't do a thing." Then Prescott confessed to being a "Blade" representative, and told of the principal's visit to the Board, and of his hurried departure. Dave laughed heartily, though what seemed to amaze him most of all was that Dick had found a chance to write for pay. "Of course you can do it, Dick," continued his loyal friend, "but I never thought that anyone as young as you ever got the chance." "It came my way," Dick went on, "and I'm mighty glad it did. So-----" "Wow!" muttered Dave, suddenly, then started off at a sprint, as he muttered: "Here's Tip Scammon now!" Both boys moved along on a hot run. Tip was walking slowly along Main Street, giving a very good imitation of one unconcerned. He turned when he heard the running feet behind him, however. His first impulse seemed to be to take to his heels. But the young jailbird quickly changed his mind, and turned to face them, an inquisitive look on his hard cunning face. "Good evenin', fellers. Where's the fire?" he hailed. "In my eyes! See it?" demanded Dave Darrin. His dark eyes certainly were flashing as he reached out and seized Tip by one shoulder. "Now don't ye git festive with _me_!" warned Tip. "Oh, we don't feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching party," muttered Dave, hotly. "See here, you-----" "I s'pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because I've been doin' my stretch?" demanded Tip, aggressively. "But don't be too sure. Take yer hand offen my shoulder!" Dave didn't show any sign of immediate intention of complying. "_Take it off_!" insisted Tip. But Dave met the fellow's baleful gaze with a cool, steady look. Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave's extended hand. "Now, ye wanter understand," continued young Scammon, "that I can't be played with, jest because some folks think I'm down. If you come fooling around me you'll have to explain or apologize." "Tip," questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, "why did you just throw two brickbats at Dick Prescott's head?" "I didn't," retorted Tip, stolidly. "You _did_." "I didn't." "Tip," declared Dave, solemnly, "I won't call you a liar. I'll just remark that you and truth are strangers." "I ain't interested in what you fellers got to say," flared Tip, sullenly. "And I don't like your company, neither. So jest skate along." "We're not going to linger with you, Tip, any longer than seems absolutely necessary," promised Dave, coolly. "But what I want to say is this: If you make any more attempts to do Dick Prescott any harm our crowd will get you, no matter how far we have to go to find you. Is that clear?" "I s'pose it is, if you say so," sneered young Scammon. "We'll get you," pursued Dave, "and we'll turn you over to the authorities. One citizen like Dick Prescott is worth more than a million of your stamp. If we find you up to any more tricks against Dick Prescott, or against any of us, for that matter, we'll soon have you doing your second 'stretch,' as you have learned to call a term at the penitentiary. Tip, your best card will be to turn over a very new leaf, and find an honest job. Just because you've been in jail once don't go along with the notion that it's the only place where you can find your kind of company. But whatever you do, steer clear of Dick Prescott and his chums. I think you understand that. Now, go!" Tip tried to brazen it out, but there was a compelling quality in the clear, steady gaze of Dave Darrin's dark eyes. After a moment Tip Scammon let his own gaze drop. He turned and shuffled away. "Poor fellow!" muttered Dick. "Yes, with all my heart," agreed Dave. "But the fellow doesn't want to get any notion that he can go about terrorizing folks in Gridley!" CHAPTER V RIPLEY LEARNS THAT THE PIPER MUST BE PAID Scammon, however, knew one person in Gridley whom he thought he could terrorize. He started in promptly to do it. At three the next afternoon young Scammon loitered under a big, bare oak on one of the winding, little-traveled streets that led from Gridley out into the open country beyond. In summer it was a favorite thoroughfare, especially for young engaged couples who wanted to loiter along the road, chatting and picking wild flowers. In winter, however, the place was usually deserted, being more than a mile out of the city. As Tip lingered he caught sight of haughty Fred Ripley coming down the road at a fast walk. Fred looked both angry and worried. Tip, as soon as he caught sight of the young fellow who imagined himself an "aristocrat," began to grin in his evil way. A dull, sullen, red fired Fred's cheeks when he caught sight of the one who was waiting for him. "Ye're most nearly on time," Tip informed the other. "See here, Scammon, what in blazes did you mean by sending me a note like the one I got from you" demanded Fred? Tip only grinned. "What did you mean, fellow?" Ripley insisted angrily. "I meant to get ye here, to let ye know what I had to say to ye," Scammon retorted. "Why, confound you, fellow---" Fred began, stuttering a bit, but the other cut in on him in short fashion. "None o' that to me, now, Fred Ripley. D'ye hear? Me an' you used to be pretty good pals, once on a time." At this charge, Fred winced very plainly. "And maybe we'll be pals, now, too," Tip pursued, with the air of one who believed himself to be able to dictate terms. "That is, for your sake, I hope we are, Ripley." "What are you talking about? What do you want to see me about? Come to the point in mighty few words," Ripley commanded, impatiently. "Well, now, first-off, last year, before I went away for my health---" Tip grinned in ghastly fashion 'ye hired me to do a certain job for ye. Right, so far, ain't I?" "Possibly," assented Fred, coldly. "Ye hired me to get hold of keys that could be used on one o' the High School locker rooms," Tip went on, cunningly. "Ye hired me to steal some stuff from the coats o' the young gents that study there. Then ye hired me to break inter Dick Prescott's room and get the loot inter his trunk. Right, ain't I?" Tip spoke assertively, making no effort to keep his voice low. "For goodness' sake don't shout it all over four counties," protested Fred Ripley, glancing apprehensively about him. His face was paler, now, from uneasiness. "Oh, I ain't afraid about anyone hearing me," Tip went on, unconcernedly. "D'ye know why, Fred, my boy? Because I done my stretch for the trick, and there ain't nuthin' more comin' to me on that score. If _you're_ 'fraid, jest go an' do yer stretch, like I did, an' then ye won't care who hears or knows!" Tip laughed cunningly. Fred's face darkened. He squirmed, yet found himself afraid to show anger. "So I dropped ye that note, tellin' ye to come here at three this aft'noon," Scammon continued. "I told ye I hoped ye'd find it convenient to come, an' hinted that if ye didn't, ye might wish later, that ye had." "I'm here," retorted the Ripley heir. "Now, what do you want to say to me?" "I'm broke," Tip informed Ripley, plaintively. "Stony! Understand? I hain't got no money." "You don't expect me to furnish you with any?" demanded Fred, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "I paid you, in full, last year." "Ye didn't pay me fer the stretch I done, did ye?" demanded Tip, insolently. "How much did ye pay me for keeping my mouth closed, so you wouldn't have to do your stretch?" Fred winced painfully under that steady, half-ugly glance of the other. "And now," continued Scammon, in a half-hurt way, "ye think it's hard if I tell ye that I want a few dollars to keep food in my insides." "You've got your father," hinted Fred. "Sure, I have," Tip assented. "But it's mighty little he'll do for me until I get a job and settle down to it." "Well, why don't you?" asked Fred Ripley. "That's the surest way to get straight with the world." "When I want advice," sneered Scammon, "I won't tramp all the way out here, an' ask _you_ for it. Nope. I don't want advice. What I want is money." "Oh, well, Tip, I'm sorry for you and your troubles. Here's a dollar for you. I wish I could make it more." Fred Ripley drew out the greenback, passing it over. Tip took the money, studying it curiously. "Ye're sorry just a dollar's worth---is that it? Well, old pal, ye'll have to be more sorry'n that. I'll let ye off fer ten dollars, but hand it over quick!" Fred's first impulse was to get angry, but it didn't take him more than an instant to realize that it would be better to keep this fellow quiet. "I haven't ten dollars, Tip---on my honor," he protested, hesitatingly. "On yer---what?" questioned Scammon, with utter scorn. "I haven't ten dollars." "How much have ye?" There was something in Tip's ugly eyes that scared the boy. Fred went quickly through his pockets, producing, finally, six dollars and a half. "I'll give you six of this, Tip," proposed Fred, rather miserably. "Ye'll give me _all_ of it, ye mean," responded Scammon. "And ye'll meet me to-morrow aft'noon with five more---something for interest, ye know." "But I won't have five dollars again, as soon as that," argued Fred, weakly. "Yes, you will," leered Tip. "You'll have to!" "What do you mean?" demanded Fred, trying to bluster, but making a failure of the attempt. "It'll take five more to give me lock-jaw," declared Scammon. "I'm jest out of prison, and I mean to enjoy myself restin' a few days before I settle down to a job again. So, to-morrow, turn up with the five!" "I don't know where to get the money." "Find out, then," sneered the other. "I don't care where you get it, but you've got to get it and hand it over to me to-morrow, or it'll be too late, an' Gridley'll be too hot a place for 'ye!" "I'll try," agreed Ripley, weakly. "Ye'll do more'n try, 'cause if ye fail me ye'll have no further show," declared Tip, with emphasis. "See, here, Scammon, if I can find another five---somehow---that'll be the last of this business? You won't expect to get any more money out of me?" "The five that you're goin' to bring me tomorrow will be in full payment." "Of all possible claims to date?" Fred insisted. "Yes, in full---to date," agreed Scammon, grinning as though he were enjoying himself. "And there'll never be any further demands?" questioned Fred. "Never again!" Scammon asserted, with emphasis. "You promise that, solemnly?" "On my honor," promised the jailbird, sardonically. "I'll try to get you the money, Tip. But see here, I'll be in front of the drug store next to the post office, at just three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You stop and look in the same window, but don't speak to me. If I can get the five I'll slip it into your hand. Then I'll move away. You stand looking in the window a minute or so after I leave you, will you?" "Sure," agreed Scammon, cheerfully. "And don't do anything so plainly that any passerby can detect the fact that you and I are meeting there. Don't let anyone see what I slip into your hand." "That'll be all right," declared Tip Scammon, readily enough. "And mind you, that's the last money you're ever to ask me for." "That'll be all right, too," came readily enough from the jailbird. "Then good-bye until to-morrow. Don't follow me too closely." "Sure not," promised Tip. "Ye don't want anyone to know that I'm your friend, and I'm good at keepin' secrets." For two or three minutes young Scammon remained standing under the bare tree. But his gaze followed the vanishing figure of Fred Ripley, and a cunning look gleamed in Tip's eyes. Fred Ripley, when he had heard of Tip going to prison without saying a word, had been foolish enough to suppose that that incident in his own life was closed. Fred had yet to learn that evil remains a long time alive, and that its consequences hit the evil doer harder than the victim. CHAPTER VI THE CALL TO THE DIAMOND---FRED SCHEMES Recess! As the long lines filed rhythmically down from the second floor, thence to the basement, the leaders of the files quickly discovered something new posted on the bulletin board near the boys' locker rooms. As quickly as the files broke, there was such a rush to see the new bulletin that those who got the best places had to read aloud to others. This was what the bulletin proclaimed: Notice. _The gymnasium will be open at 2.30 this afternoon for the gathering of all male students, except freshmen, who may be interested in trying to make either the school or second baseball teams for the coming season. Gridley will have some notable rivals in the field this next year. Information comes that several of school baseball teams will have better material and longer training for next season. It is earnestly desired that all members of the three upper classes who consider themselves capable of making either of the Gridley High School baseball teams be on hand this afternoon, when as full plans as possible will be made. By order of the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association. (signed) Edward Luce, B.B. Coach._ A shout of approval went up from half of those present as Purcell, of the junior class, finished reading. Many of those who had no thought of making the school or second teams were filled with delight at thought of the training season being so soon to open. One of the boys who was pleased was Fred Ripley. He had handed that five-dollar bill to Tip Scammon the afternoon before, and now felt rather certain that he had closed the door on the whole Scammon episode. Like many another haughty, disagreeable person, Ripley had, in spite of his treatment of others, a keen desire to be well thought of. The year before, in the sophomore class, Fred had played as one of the pitchers in the second team, and had done fairly well on the few occasions when he had been given a chance. "There's no good reason why I can't make the post of pitcher on the school team this year," thought young Ripley, with a thrill of hope and expectant delight. "Going to show up this afternoon?" asked Dave of Prescott. "Of course I am, Darrin," answered Prescott, as Dick & Co. met out on the sidewalk. "Going to try to make the regular team?" "Of course I am," declared Dick, smiling. "And so, I hope, are every one of you fellows." "I'd like to," agreed Tom Reade. "Then don't say you'd _like_ to; say you're _going_ to," admonished Dick. "The fellow who doesn't quite know never gets much of any place. Just say to yourself that you're going to be one of the stars on the school team. If you have to fall into the second team---don't be cast down over it---but make every possible effort toward getting on the top team. That's the spirit that wins in athletics," finished Dick, sagely. "I'm going to make the school team," announced Dave Darrin. "Not only that, but I'll proclaim it to anyone who'll be kind enough to listen. The school nine, or 'bust,' for me." "Good enough!" cheered Dick. "Now, then, fellows, we'll all be on hand this afternoon, won't we, and on every other afternoon that we're needed?" Dick & Co. carried that proposition by a unanimous vote. "But see here, fellows," urged Dick Prescott, "just try to keep one idea in mind, please. There's a good deal of objection, every year, that athletics are allowed to interfere with studies. Now, as soon as the end of recess is called to-day, let's every one of us go back with our minds closed to baseball. Let us all keep our minds right on our studies. Why can't we six help to prove that interest in athletics puts the scholarship mark up, not down?" "We can," nodded Dave Darrin. "Good! I like that idea. We'll simply go ahead and put our scholarship away up over where it is at present." To this the other chums agreed heartily. Luce, the coach for baseball, was one of the under submasters. He had made a record at college, for both baseball and scholarship. He was a complete enthusiast on the game of the diamond. The year before he had trained the school nine to a record that beat anything in the High School line in the whole state. His bulletin announced that he intended to try to make the coming nine the best yet. It didn't say that, in so many words, but the bulletin implied it. Fred Ripley did not hit upon the idea of improved scholarship. Instead, that young man went into two classes, after recess, and reported "not prepared." Then he settled back into a brown study of his chances in baseball. "I don't suppose Dick & Co. will have the nerve to try for anything better than the second nine," muttered Fred to himself. "Still, one can never tell what that crowd will have the nerve to do!" School out, Fred hurried home faster than was his wont. He caught his father just as the latter was leaving the lunch table. "Dad, can I have a few minutes' talk with you about one of my ambitions?" pleaded Fred. "Certainly, my boy," replied the wealthy, retired lawyer. "I'm glad, indeed, to hear that you have any ambitions. Come into the library, if you can let your luncheon go that long." "If you don't mind, Dad, I'd rather eat while I talk," urged Fred. "I have to be back at school before three." "What---under discipline?" inquired the lawyer. "No, sir; it's baseball that I wish to talk about." "Well, then, Fred, what is it?" asked his father. "Why, sir, we're going to get together on baseball, this afternoon. The start for the season is to be made early this year. Gridley expects to put forth the finest High School nine ever." "I'm glad to hear that," nodded the lawyer. "School and college athletics, rightly indulged in, give the budding man health, strength, courage and discipline to take with him out into the battle of life. We didn't have much in the way of athletics when I was at college, but I appreciate the modern tendency more than do some men of my age." Fred, though not interested in his father's praise of athletics waited patiently until his parent had finished. "I'm pretty sure, Dad, I can make the chance of being the star pitcher on the school team for this coming season, if only you'll back me up in it." "Why, as far as that goes," replied Lawyer Ripley, "I believe that about all the benefits of school athletics can be gained by one who isn't necessarily right at the top of the crowd." "But not to go to the top of the crowd, and not to try too, Dad, is contrary to the spirit of athletics," argued Fred, rather cleverly. "Besides, one of the best things about athletics, I think, is the spirit to fight for leadership. That's a useful lesson---leadership---to carry out into life, isn't it, sir?" "Yes, it is; you're right about that, son," nodded the lawyer. "Well, sir, Everett, one of the crack pitchers of national fame, is over in Duxbridge for the winter. He doesn't go south with his team for practice until the middle or latter part of February. Duxbridge is only twelve miles from here. He could come over here, or you could let your man take me over to Duxbridge in your auto. Dad, I want to be the pitcher of the crack battery in the school nine. Will you engage Everett, or let me hire him, to train me right from the start in all the best styles of pitching?" "How much would it cost?" asked the lawyer, cautiously. "I don't know exactly, sir. A few hundred dollars, probably." Fred's face was glowing with eagerness. His mother, who was standing just behind him, nodded encouragingly at her husband. "Well, yes, Fred, if you're sure you can make yourself the star pitcher of the school nine, I will." "When may I go to see Everett, sir?" asked Fred, making no effort to conceal the great joy this promise had given him. "Since you're to be engaged for this afternoon, Fred, we'll make it to-morrow. I'll order out the car and go over to Duxbridge with you.". It was in the happiest possible frame of mind, for him, that Fred Ripley went back to the High School that afternoon. He didn't arrive until five minutes before the hour for calling the meeting; he didn't care to be of the common crowd that would be on hand at or soon after two-thirty. When he entered, he found a goodly and noisy crowd of some eighty High School boys of the three upper classes present. Ripley nodded to a few with whom he was on the best terms. Settees had been placed at one end of the gym. There was an aisle between two groups of these seats. "Gentlemen, you'll please come to order, now," called out Coach Luce, mounting to a small platform before the seats. It took a couple of minutes to get the eager, half-turbulent throng seated in order. Then the coach rapped sharply, and instantly all was silence, save for the voice of the speaker. "Gentlemen," announced Mr. Luce, "it is the plan to make the next season the banner one in baseball in all our school's history. This will call for some real work, for constantly sustained effort. Every man who goes into the baseball training squad will be expected to do his full share of general gymnastic work here, and to improve every favorable chance for such cross-country running and other outdoor sports as may be ordered. "To-day, as we are so close to Christmas, we will arrange only the general details---have a sort of mapping-out, as it were. But immediately after the holidays the entire baseball squad that enrolls will be required to start at once to get in general athletic condition. There will be hard---what some may call grilling---gym. work at the outset, and much of the gym. work will be kept up even after the actual ball practice begins. "Early in February work in the baseball cage must begin, and it will be made rather severe this year. In fact, I can assure you that the whole training, this coming year, will be something that none but those who mean to train in earnest can get through with successfully. "Any man who is detected smoking cigarettes or using tobacco in any form, will be dropped from the squad instantly. Every man who enrolls will be required to make a promise to abstain, until the end of the ball season, from tobacco in any form. "In past years we have often been urged to adopt the training table, in order that no greedy man may eat himself out of physical condition. It is not, of course, feasible to provide such a table here at the gym. I wish it were. But we will have training table to just this extent: Every member of the squad will be handed a list of the things he may eat or drink, and another list of those things that are barred. The only exception, in the way of departure, from the training list, will be the Christmas dinner. Every man who enrolls is in honor bound to stick closely to his list of permissible foods until the end of the training season. "Remember, this year's work is to be one of the hardest work and all the necessary self-denial. It must be a disciplined and sustained effort for excellence and victory. Those who cannot accept these principles in full are urged not to enroll in the squad at all. "Now, I will wait five minutes, during which conversation will be in order. When I call the meeting to order again I will ask all who have decided to enter the squad to occupy the seats here at my right hand, the others to take the seats at my left hand." Immediately a buzz of talk ran around that end of the gym. The High School boys left their seats and moved about, talking over the coach's few but pointed remarks. "How do you like Mr. Luce's idea, Dick?" asked Tom Reade. "It's good down to the ground, and all the way up again," Dick retorted, enthusiastically. "His ideas are just the ideas I'm glad to hear put forward. No shirking; every effort bent on excelling, and every man to keep his own body as strong, clean and wholesome as a body can be kept. Why, that alone is worth more than victory. It means a fellow's victory over all sloth and bad habits!" "Luce meant all he said, too, and the fellows know he did," declared Dave Darrin. "I wonder what effect it will have on the size of the squad?" There was a good deal of curiosity on that score. The five minutes passed quickly. Then Coach Luce called for the division. As the new baseball squad gathered at the right-hand seats there was an eager counting. "Forty-nine," announced Greg Holmes, as soon as he had finished counting. "Five whole nines and a few extras left over." "I'm glad to see that Gridley High School grit is up to the old standard," declared Coach Luce, cheerily, after he had brought them to order. "Our squad, this year, contains three more men than appeared last year. It is plain that my threats haven't scared anyone off the Gridley diamond. Now, I am going to write down the names of the squad. Then I will ask each member, as his name is called, to indicate the position for which he wishes to qualify." There was a buzz of conversation again, until the names had all been written down. Then, after Coach Luce had called for silence, he began to read off the names in alphabetical order. "Dalzell?" asked the coach, when he had gone that far down on the list. "First base," answered Dan, loudly and promptly. "Darrin?" "Pitcher," responded Dave. There was a little ripple of surprise. When a sophomore goes in for work in the box it is notice that he has a good opinion of his abilities. A few more names were called off. Then: "Hazelton?" "Short stop," replied Harry, coolly. "Whew!" An audible gasp of surprise went up and traveled around. After the battery, the post of short stop is the swiftest thing for which to reach out. "Holmes?" "Left field." "It's plain enough," sneered Fred Ripley to the fellow beside him, "that Dick & Co., reporters and raga-muffins, expect to be two thirds of the nine. I wonder whom they'll allow to hold the other three positions?" Several more names were called off. Then came: "Prescott?" "Pitcher," Dick answered, quietly. A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for. What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott! "Reade?" "Second base." "Ripley?" "P-p-pitcher!" Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically. In fact, the word left him so explosively that several of the fellows caught themselves laughing. "Oh, laugh, then, hang you all!" muttered Fred, in a low voice, glaring all around him. "But you don't know what you're laughing at. Maybe I won't show you something in the way of real pitching!" "The first Tuesday after the holidays' vacation the squad will report here for gymnastic work from three-thirty to five," called the coach. "Now, I'll talk informally with any who wish to ask questions." Fred Ripley's face was aglow with satisfaction. His eyes fairly glistened with his secret, inward triumph. "So you think you can pitch, Prescott?" he muttered to himself. "Humph! With the great Everett training me for weeks, I'll make you look like a pewter monkey, Dick Prescott." CHAPTER VII DAVE TALKS WITH ONE HAND The next afternoon Fred and his father went over to Duxbridge. They found the great Everett at home, and not only at home, but willing to take up with their proposal. The celebrated professional pitcher named a price that caused Lawyer Ripley to hesitate for a few moments. Then catching the appealing look in his son's face, the elder Ripley agreed to the terms. The training was to be given at Duxbridge, in Everett's big and almost empty barn. That night Lawyer Ripley, a man of prompt habit in business, mailed his check for the entire amount. Fred, in the privacy of his own room, danced several brief but exuberant jigs. "Now, I've got you, Dick Prescott! And I've not only got you, but if you come in second to me, I'll try to keep in such condition that I pitch every important game of the whole season!" But the next morning the Ripley heir received a sad jolt. In one of his text-books he ran across a piece of cardboard on which was printed, in coarse characters: "Tuday, same plas, same time. Bring ten. Or don't, if you dare!" "That infernal blackmailer, Tip Scammon!" flared Fred indignantly. In the courage of desperation Fred promptly decided that he would ignore the Scammon rascal. Nor did Fred change his mind. Besides, this afternoon he was due at Duxbridge for his first lesson under the mighty Everett. So Tip was on hand at the drug store beside the post office, but no Fred came. Tip scowled and hung about in the neighborhood until after four o'clock. Then he went away, a black look indeed on his not handsome face. Meanwhile, most of the people of Gridley, as elsewhere in the Christian world, were thinking of "Peace on Earth" and all that goes with it. The stores were radiant with decorations and the display of gifts. The candy stores and hot soda places were doing a rushing business. Dick, who had been scurrying about in search of a few news paragraphs, and had found them, encountered Dave Darrin. Being something of a capitalist in these days, when "The Blade" was paying him two and a half to three dollars a week, Prescott invited his chum in to have a hot soda. While they were still in the place Laura Bentley and Belle Meade entered. The High School boys lifted their hats courteously to the girls and Dick invited them to have their soda with Dave and himself. "We hear that baseball is going to be a matter of great enthusiasm during the next few months," said Laura, as they sipped their soda. "Yes; and the cause of no end of heartburnings and envies," laughed Prescott. "From just after the holidays to some time in April every fellow will be busy trying to make the school team, and will feel aggrieved if he hits only the second team." "Who's going to pitch for the school nine?" asked Belle. "Dick Prescott," declared Dave instantly. "I'd like to," nodded Dick, "but I've several good men against me. Darrin may take it all away from me. There are eight men down for pitching, altogether, so it isn't going to be an easy cinch for anyone." "The nine always has more than one pitcher. Why can't _you_ make the position of pitcher, too?" asked Belle, looking at Dave. "Oh, I may make the job of brevet-pitcher on the second nine," Dave laughed goodhumoredly. "The only reason I put my name down for pitcher was so as to make the fight look bigger." "Who are the other candidates for pitcher?" asked Laura. "Well, Ripley's one," replied Dave. "Ripley? Oh, _he_!" uttered Miss Bentley, in a tone of scorn. "I understand he's no fool of a pitcher," Dick remarked. "I congratulate him, then," smiled Laura. "On what?" "Not being a fool in everything," returned Laura. Then she added, quickly: "I'm afraid that expresses my real opinion, but I've no right to say it." "There are two reasons why you shouldn't say it," added Dave, gravely. "What are they?" Laura wanted to know. "First of all---well, pardon me, but it sounds like talking about another behind his back. The other reason is that Ripley isn't worth talking about, anyway." "Now, what are you doing?" demanded Belle. "Oh, well," Dave replied, "Ripley knows my opinion of him pretty well. But what are you doing this afternoon?" "We're going shopping," Laura informed the boys as the quartette left the soda fountain. "Do you care to go around with us and look at the displays in the stores?" "That's about all shopping means, isn't it?" smiled Dick. "Just going around and looking at things?" "Then if you don't care to come with us-----" pouted Miss Bentley. "Stop---please do, I beg of you," Dick hastily added. "Of course we want to go." The two chums put in a very pleasant hour wandering about through the stores with the High School girls. Laura and Belle _did_ make some small purchases of materials out of which they intended to make gifts for the approaching holiday. As they came out of the last store they moved toward the corner, the girls intending to take a car to pay a little visit to an aunt of Laura's before the afternoon was over. Dick saw something in one of the windows at the corner and signed to Dave to come over. The two girls were left, momentarily, standing on the corner. While they stood thus Fred Ripley came along. His first lesson in pitching had been brief, the great Everett declining to tire the boy's arm too much at the first drill. So young Ripley, after a twelve-mile trip in the auto through the crisp December air, came swinging down the street at a brisk walk. Just as this moment he espied the two girls, though he did not see Dick or Dave. Belle happened to turn as Ripley came near her. "Hullo, Meade!" he called, patronizingly. It is a trick with some High School boys thus to address a girl student by her last name only, but it is not the act of a gentleman. Belle resented it by stiffening at once, and glancing coldly at Ripley without greeting him. In another instant Dave Darrin, at a bound, stood before the astonished Fred. Dave's eyes were flashing in a way they were wont to do when he was thoroughly angry. "Ripley---you cur! To address a young woman in that familiar fashion!" glared Dave. "What have you to say about it?" demanded Fred, insolently. "This!" was Dave Darrin's only answer in words. Smack! His fist landed on one side of Fred's face. The latter staggered, then slipped to the ground. "There's the car, Dick," uttered Dave, in a low tone. "Put the girls aboard." Half a dozen passers-by had already turned and were coming back to learn the meaning of this encounter. Dick understood how awkward the situation would be for the girls, so he glided forward, hailed the car, and led Laura and Belle out to it. "But I'd rather stay," whispered Belle, in protest. "I want to make sure that Dave doesn't get into any trouble." "He won't," Dick promised. "It'll save him annoyance if he knows you girls are not being stared at by curious rowdies." Dick quickly helped the girls aboard the car, then nodded to the conductor to ring the bell. A second later Dick was bounding back to his chum's side. Fred Ripley was on his feet, scowling at Dave Darrin. The latter, though his fists were not up, was plainly in an attitude where he could quickly defend himself. "That was an unprovoked assault, you rowdy!" Fred exclaimed wrathfully. "I'd trust to any committee of _gentlemen_ to exonerate me," Dave answered coolly. "You acted the rowdy, Ripley, and you'd show more sense if you admitted it and reformed." "What did he do?" demanded one of the curious ones in the crowd. "He addressed a young lady with offensive familiarity," Dave replied hotly. "What did _you_ do?" demanded another in the crowd. "I knocked him down," Dave admitted coolly. "Well, that's about the proper thing to do," declared another bystander. "The Ripley kid has no kick coming to him. Move on, young feller!" Fred started, glaring angrily at the speaker. But half a dozen pressed forward about him. Ripley's face went white with rage when he found himself being edged off the sidewalk into the gutter. "Get back, there, you, and leave me alone!" he ordered, hoarsely. A laugh from the crowd was the first answer. Then some one gave the junior a shove that sent him spinning out into the street. Ripley darted by the crowd now, his caution and his dread of too much of a scene coming to his aid. Besides, some one had just called out, banteringly: "Why not take him to the horse trough?" That decided Fred on quick retreat. Ducked, deservedly, by a crowd on Main Street, Ripley could never regain real standing in the High School, and he knew that. As soon as they could Dick and Dave walked on to "The Blade" office. Here Darrin took a chair in the corner, occasionally glancing almost enviously at Prescott, as the latter, seated at a reporter's table, slowly wrote the few little local items that he had picked up during the afternoon. When Dick had finished he handed his "copy" to Mr. Pollock, and the chums left the office. "Dick, old fellow," hinted Dave, confidentially, "I'm afraid I ought to give you a tip, even though it does make me feel something like a spy." "Under such circumstances," smiled Prescott, "it might be well to think twice before giving the tip." "I've thought about it _seventeen_ times already," Dave asserted, gravely, "and you're my chum, anyway. So here goes. When we were in the department store, do you remember that the girls were looking over some worsteds, or yarns, or whatever you call the stuff?" "Yes," Prescott nodded. "Well, I couldn't quite help hearing Laura Bentley say to Belle that the yarn she picked up was just what she wanted for you." "What on earth did that mean?" queried Dick, looking almost startled. "It means that you're going to get a Christmas present from Laura," Dave answered. "But I never had a present from a girl before!" "Most anything is likely to happen," laughed Dave, "now that you're a sophomore---and a reporter, too." "Thank goodness I'm earning a little money now," murmured Dick, breathing a bit rapidly. "But, say, Dave!" "Well?" "What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?" "Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons---oh, hang it! I don't know," floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your scrape, Dick Prescott!" "Yours, too, Dave Darrin!" "What do you mean?" "Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too." "Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?" CHAPTER VIII HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter. Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade." Christmas morning the boy slept late, for his parents did not call him. When, at last, Dick did appear in the dining room he found some pleasing gifts from his father and mother. When he had sufficiently examined them, Mrs. Prescott smiled as she said: "Now, step into the parlor, Richard, and you'll find something that came for you this morning." "But, first of all, mother, I've something for you and Dad." Dick went back into his room, bringing out, with some pride, a silver-plated teapot on a tray of the same material. It wasn't much, but it was the finest gift he had ever been able to make his parents. He came in for a good deal of thanks and other words of appreciation. "But you're forgetting the package in the parlor," persisted Mrs. Prescott presently. Dick nodded, and hurried in, thinking to himself: "The worsted slippers from the girls, I suppose." To his surprise the boy found Dave Darrin sitting in the room, while, on a chair near by rested a rather bulky package. After exchanging "Merry Christmas" greetings with Darrin, Dick turned to look at the package. To it was tied a card, which read: "From Laura Bentley and Isabelle Meade, with kindest Christmas greetings." "That doesn't look like slippers, Dave," murmured Dick, as he pulled away the cord that bound the package. "I'll bet you're getting a duplicate of what came to me," Darrin answered. "What was that?" "I'm not going to tell you until I see yours." Dick quickly had the wrapper off, unfolding something woolleny. "That's it!" cried Dave, jubilantly. "I thought so. Mine was the same, except that Belle's name was ahead of Laura's on the card." Dick felt almost dazed for an instant. Then a quick rush of color came to his face. The object that he held was a bulky, substantial, woven "sweater." Across the front of it had been worked, in cross-stitch, the initials, "G.H.S." "Gridley High School! Did you get one just like this, Dave?" "Yes." "But we can't wear 'em," muttered Dick. "The initials are allowed only to the students who have made some school team, or who have captured some major athletic event. We've never done either." "That's just the point of the gift, I reckon," beamed Darrin. "Oh, I see," cried Dick. "These sweaters are our orders to go ahead and make the baseball nine." "That's just it," declared Dave. "Well, it's mighty fine of the girls," murmured Dick, gratefully. "Are you---going to accept yours, Dave?" "Accept?" retorted Dave. "Why, it would be rank not to." "Of course," Prescott agreed.. "But you know what acceptance carries with it? Now, we've got to make the nine, whether or not. We pledge ourselves to that in accepting these fine gifts." "Oh, that's all right," nodded Dave, cheerily. "You're going to make the team." "If there's any power in me to do it," declared Dick. "And you're going to drag me in after you. Dick, old fellow, we've absolutely as good as promised that we will make the nine." Dick Prescott was now engaged in pulling the sweater over his head. This accomplished, he stood surveying himself in the glass. "Gracious! But this is fine," gasped young Prescott. "And now, oh, Dave, but we've got to hustle! Think how disgusted the girls will be if we fail." "We can't fail, now," declared Dave earnestly. "The girls, and the sweaters themselves, are our mascots against failure." "Good! That's the right talk!" cheered Prescott, seizing his chum's hand. "Yes, sir! We'll make the nine or bury ourselves under a shipload of self-disgust!" "Both of the girls must have a hand in each sweater," Dave went on, examining Dick's closely. "I can't see a shade of difference between yours and mine. But I'm afraid the other fellows in Dick & Co. will feel just a bit green with envy over our good luck." "It's a mighty fine gift," Dick went on, "yet I'm almost inclined to wish the girls hadn't done it. It must have made a big inroad in their Christmas money." "That's so," nodded Darrin, thoughtfully. "But say, Dick! I'm thundering glad I got wind of this before it happened. Thank goodness we didn't have to leave the girls out. Though we would have missed if it hadn't been for you." "I wonder how the girls like their gifts?" mused Dick. It was sheer good luck that had enabled these youngsters to make a good showing. A new-style device for women, consisting of heater and tongs for curling the hair, was on the market this year. Electric current was required for the heater, but both Laura and Belle had electric light service in their homes. This new-style device was one of the fads of this Christmas season. The retail price was eight dollars per outfit, and a good many had been sold before the holidays. The advertising agent for the manufacturing concern had been in town, and had presented "The Blade" with two of these devices. Despite the eight-dollar price, the devices cost only a small fraction of that amount to manufacture, so the advertising agent had not been extremely generous in leaving the pair. "What on earth shall we do with them?" grunted Pollock, in Dick's hearing. "We're all bachelors here." "Sell 'em to me, if you don't want 'em," spoke up Dick, quickly. "What'll you take for 'em? Make it low, to fit a schoolboy's shallow purse." "Hm! I'll speak to the proprietor about it," replied Pollock, who presently brought back the word: "As they're for you, Dick, the proprietor says you can take the pair for two-fifty. And if you're short of cash, I'll take fifty cents a week out of your space bill until the amount is paid." "Fine and dandy!" uttered Dick, his eyes glowing. "One's for your mother," hinted Mr. Pollock teasingly. "_But who's the girl_?" "Two girls," Dick corrected him, unabashed. "My mother never uses hair-curlers." "_Two girls_?" cried Mr. Pollock, looking aghast. "Dick! Dick! You study history at the High School, don't you?" "Yes, sir; of course." "Then don't you know, my boy, how often _two girls_ have altered the fates of whole nations? Tremble and be wise!" "I haven't any girl," Dick retorted, sensibly, "and I think a fellow is weak-minded to talk about having a girl until he can also talk authoritatively on the ability to support a wife. But there's a good deal of social life going on at the High School, Mr. Pollock, and I'm very, very glad of this chance to cancel my obligations so cheaply and at the same time rather handsomely." So Laura and Belle had each received, that Christmas morning, a present that proved a source of delight. "Yet I didn't expect the foolish boys to send me anything like this," Laura told herself, rather regretfully. "I'm sure they've pledged their pocket money for weeks on this." When Belle called, it developed that she had received an identical gift. "It's lovely of the boys," Belle admitted. "But it's foolish, too, for they've had to use their pocket money away ahead, I'm certain." Dick and Dave had sent their gifts, as had the girls, in both names. Christmas was a day of rejoicing among all of the High School students except the least-favored ones. Fred Ripley, however, spent his Christmas day in a way differing from the enjoyments of any of the others. A new fever of energy had seized the young man. In his fierce determination to carry away the star pitchership, especially from Dick Prescott, Ripley employed even Christmas afternoon by going over to Duxbridge and taking another lesson in pitching from the great Everett. CHAPTER IX FRED PITCHES A BOMBSHELL INTO TRAINING CAMP "One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! "Halt! Rest!" "Attention! Overhead to front and back. Commence! One, two, three, four!" Coach Luce's voice rang out in a solid, carrying tone of military command. The baseball squad was hard at work in the gymnasium, perspiring even though the gym. was not heated above fifty degrees. Dumb-bell drill was going off with great snap. It was followed by work with the Indian clubs. Then, after a brief rest, the entire squad took to the track in the gallery. For ten minutes the High School young men jogged around the track. Any fellow in the lot would have been ashamed to drop out, short of breath. As a matter of fact, no one was out of breath. Mr. Luce was what the boys called a "griller," and he certainly knew all about whipping a lot of youngsters into fine physical shape. This training work was now along in the third week of the new winter term. Three times weekly the squad had been assembled. On other days of the week, the young men were pledged to outside running, when the roads permitted, and to certain indoor work at other times. Every member of the big squad now began to feel "hard as nails." Slight defects in breathing had been corrected; lung-power had been developed, and backs that ached at first, from the work, had now grown too well seasoned to ache. Every member of the squad was conscious of a new, growing muscular power. Hard, bumpy muscles were not being cultivated. The long, smooth, lithe and active "Indian" muscle, built more for endurance than for great strength, was the ideal of Coach Luce. After the jogging came a halt for rest. Luce now addressed them. "Young gentlemen, I know, well enough, that, while all this work is good for you, you're all of you anxious to see the production of the regular League ball on this floor. Now, the baseball cage will not be put up for a few days yet. However, this afternoon, for the rest of our tour, I'm going to produce the ball!" A joyous "hurrah!" went up from the squad. The ball was the real thing in their eyes. Coach Luce turned away to one of the spacious cupboard lockers, returning with a ball, still in the sealed package, and a bat with well wrapped handle. "I'll handle the bat," announced Mr. Luce, smiling. "It's just barely possible that I, can drive a good liner straighter than some of you, and put it nearer where I want it. Until the cage is in place, I don't like to risk smashing any of the gymnasium windows. Now, which one of you pitchers is ambitious to do something?" Naturally, all of them were. Yet none liked to appear too forward or greedy, so silence followed. "I'll try you modest young men out on my own lines, then," laughed the coach. Calling to one of the juniors to stand behind him as catcher, Luce continued: "Darrin, as you're a candidate for pitcher, show us some of the things you can do to fool a batsman." Dave took his post, his face a bit red. He handled the ball for a few moments, rather nervously. "Don't get rattled, lad," counseled the coach. "Remember, this is just fun. Bear in mind that you're aiming to send the ball in to the catcher. Don't let the ball drive through a window by mistake." A laugh went up at this. Dave, instead of losing his nerve, flashed back at the squad, then steadied himself. "Now, then, let her drive---not too hard," ordered Mr. Luce. Dave let go with what he thought was an outcurve. It didn't fool the coach. He deliberately struck the ball, sending it rolling along the floor as a grounder. "A little more twist to the wrist, Darrin," counseled the coach, after a scout from the squad had picked up the ball and sent it to this budding pitcher. Dave's next delivery was struck down as easily. Then Darrin began to grow a bit angry and much more determined. "Don't feel put out, Darrin," counseled the coach. "I had the batting record of my college when I was there, and I'm in better trim and nerve than you are yet. Don't be discouraged." Soon Dave was making a rather decent showing. "I'll show you later, Darrin, a little more about the way to turn the hand in the wrist twist," remarked the coach, as he let Dave go. "You'll soon have the hang of the thing. Now, Prescott, you step into the imaginary box, if you please." Dick took to an inshoot. His first serve was as easily clouted as Dave's had been. After that, by putting on a little more steam, and throwing in a good deal more calculation, Dick got three successive balls by Mr. Luce. At two of these, coach had struck. "You're going to do first-rate, Prescott, by the time we get outdoors, I think;" Mr. Luce announced. "I shall pay particular attention to your wrist work." "I'm afraid I showed up like a lout," whispered Dave, as Dick rejoined his chums. "No, you didn't," Dick retorted. "You showed what all of us show---that you need training to get into good shape. That's what the coach is working with us for." "I'm betting on you and Dick for the team," put in Tom Reade, quickly. "Dick will make it, and I think you will, too, Dave," added Harry Hazelton. "I wish I were as sure for myself," muttered Greg Holmes, plaintively. "Oh, well, if I can't make the team," grinned Dan Dalzell, "I'm going to stop this work and go in training as a mascot." "Look at the fellow who always carries Luck in his pocket!" gibed Hazelton, good-humoredly. Coach Luce was now calling off several names rapidly. These young men were directed to scatter on the gym. floor. To one of them Mr. Luce tossed the ball. "Now, then," shot out Luce's voice, "this is for quick understanding and judgment. Whoever receives the ball will throw it without delay to anyone I name. So post yourselves on where each other man stands. I want fast work, and I want straight, accurate work. But no amount of speed will avail, unless the accuracy is there. _And vice versa_!" For five minutes this was kept up, with a steam engine idea of rapidity of motion. Many were the fumbles. A good deal of laughter came from the sides of the gym. "Myself!" shouted Luce, just as one of the players received the ball. The young man with the ball looked puzzled for an instant. Then, when too late to count, the young man understood and drove the ball for the coach. "Not quick enough on judgment," admonished Mr. Luce. "Now, we'll take another look at the style of an ambitious pitcher or two. Ripley, suppose you try?" Fred started and colored. Next, he looked pleased with himself as he strode jauntily forward. "May I ask for my own catcher, sir?" Fred asked. "Yes; certainly," nodded the coach. "Rip must have something big up his sleeve, if any old dub of a catcher won't do," jeered some one at the back of the crowd. "Attention! Rip, the ladylike twirler!" sang out another teasing student. "Let her rip, Rip!" A good many were laughing. Fred was not popular. Many tolerated him, and some of the boys treated him with a fair amount of comradeship. Yet the lawyer's son was no prime favorite. "Order!" rapped out the coach, sharply. "This is training work. You'll find the minstrel show, if that's what you want, at the opera house next Thursday night." "How well the coach keeps track of minstrel shows!" called another gibing voice. "That was you, Parkinson!" called Mr. Luce, with mock severity. "Run over and harden your funny-bone on the punching bag. Run along with you, now!" Everybody laughed, except Parkinson, who grinned sheepishly. "Training orders, Parkinson!" insisted the coach. "Trot right over and let the funny-bone of each arm drive at the bag for twenty-five times. Hurry up. We'll watch you." So Mr. Parkinson, of the junior class, seeing that the order was a positive one, had the good sense to obey. He "hardened" the funny-bone of either arm against the punching bag to the tune of jeering laughter from the rest of the squad. That was Coach Luce's way of dealing with the too-funny amateur humorist. Fred, meantime, had selected his own catcher, and had whispered some words of instruction to him. "Now, come on, Ripley," ordered Mr. Luce, swinging his bat over an imaginary plate. "Let her come in about as you want to." "He's going to try a spit ball," muttered several, as they saw Fred moisten his fingers. "That's a hard one for a greenhorn to put over," added another. Fred took his place with a rather confident air; he had been drilling at Duxbridge for some weeks now. Then, with a turn of his body, Ripley let the ball go off of his finger tips. Straight and rather slowly it went toward the plate. It looked like the easiest ball that had been sent in so far. Coach Luce, with a calculating eye, watched it come, moving his bat ever so little. Then he struck. But the spit ball, having traveled to the hitting point, dropped nearly twenty inches. The bat fanned air, and the catcher, crouching just behind the coach, gathered in the ball. Luce was anything but mortified. A gleam of exultation lit up his eyes as he swung the bat exultantly over his head. In a swift outburst of old college enthusiasm he forgot most of his dignity as a submaster. "_Wow_!" yelled the coach. "That was a _bird_! A lulu-cooler and a scalp-taker! Ripley, I reckon you're the new cop that runs the beat!" It took the High School onlookers a few seconds to gather the full importance of what they had seen. Then a wild cheer broke loose: "Ripley? Oh, Ripley'll pitch for the nine!" surged up on all sides. CHAPTER X DICK & CO. TAKE A TURN AT FEELING GLUM "What's the matter with Ripley?" yelled one senior. And another answered, hoarsely: "Nothing! He's a wonder!" Fred Ripley was unpopular. He was regarded as a cad and a sneak. But he could pitch ball! He could give great aid in bringing an unbroken line of victories to Gridley. That was enough. By now Coach Luce was a bit red in the face. He realized that his momentary relapse into the old college enthusiasm had made him look ridiculous, in his other guise of High School submaster. But when the submaster coach turned and saw Parkinson butting his head against the punching bag he called out: "What's the matter, Parkinson?" "Subbing for you, sir!" That turned the good-natured laugh of a few on Mr. Luce. Most of those present, however, had not been struck by the unusualness of his speech. Dick and Dave looked hard at each other. Both boys wanted to make the team as pitchers. Yet now it seemed most certain that Fred Ripley must stand out head and shoulders over any other candidates for the Gridley box. Dick's face shone with enthusiasm, none the less. If he couldn't make the nine this year, he could at least feel that Gridley High School was already well on toward the lead over all competing school nines. "I wish it were somebody else," muttered Dave, huskily, in his chum's ear. "Gridley is fixed for lead, anyway," replied Dick, "if Ripley can always keep in such form as that." "Can Ripley do it again?" shouted one Gridley senior. "Try it, and see, Ripley," urged Mr. Luce, again swinging his bat. Fred had been holding the returned ball for a minute or two. His face was flushed, his eyes glowing. Never before had he made such a hit among his schoolmates. It was sweet, at last, to taste the pleasures of local fame. He stood gazing about him, drinking in the evident delight of the High School boys. In fact he did not hear the coach's order until it came again. "Try another one, Ripley!" The young man moistened his fingers, placing the ball carefully. Of a sudden his arm shot out. Again the coach struck for what looked a fair ball, yet once more Mr. Luce fanned air and the catcher straightened up, ball in hand. Pumph! The lazily thrown ball landed in Ripley's outstretched left. He moistened his fingers, wet the ball, and let drive almost instantly. For the third time Mr. Luce fanned out. Then Fred spoke, in a tone of satisfied self-importance: "Coach, that's all I'll do this afternoon, if you don't mind." "Right," nodded Mr. Luce. "You don't want to strain your work before you've really begun it any other candidates for pitching want to have a try now?" As the boys of the squad waited for an answer, a low laugh began to ripple around the gym. The very idea of any fellow trying after Ripley had made his wonderful showing was wholly funny! Coach Luce called out the names of another small squad to scatter over the gym. and to throw the ball to anyone he named. Except for the few who were in this forced work, no attention was paid to the players. Fred Ripley had walked complacently to one side of the gym. A noisy, gleeful group formed around him. "Rip, where did you ever learn that great work?" "Who taught you?" "Say, how long have you been hiding that thousand-candle-power light under a bushel?" "Rip, it was the greatest work I ever saw a boy do." "Will you show me---after the nine has been made up, of course?" "How did you ever get it down so slick?" This was all meat to the boy who had long been unpopular. "I always was a pretty fair pitcher, wasn't I?" asked Fred. "Yes; but never anything like the pitcher you showed us to-day," glowed eager Parkinson. "I've been doing a good deal of practicing and study since the close of last season," Fred replied importantly. "I've studied out a lot of new things. I shan't show them all, either, until the real season begins." Fred's glance, in roaming around, took in Dick & Co. For once, these six very popular sophomores had no one else around them. "Whew! I think I've taken some wind out of the sails of Mr. Self-satisfied Prescott," Fred told himself jubilantly. "We shan't hear so much about Dick & Co. for a few months!" "Well, anyway, Dick," said Tom Reade, "you and Dave needn't feel too badly. If Ripley turns out to be the nine's crack pitcher, the nine also carries two relief pitchers. You and Dave have a chance to be the relief pitchers. _That_ will make the nine for you both, anyway. But, then, that spitball may be the only thing Ripley knows." "Don't fool yourself," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If Ripley can do that one so much like a veteran, then he knows other styles of tossing, too. I'm glad for Gridley High School---mighty glad. I wouldn't mind on personal grounds, either, if only---if-----" "If Fred Ripley were only a half decent fellow," Harry Hazelton finished for him. Coach Luce soon dismissed the squad for the day. A few minutes later the boys left the gym. in groups. Of course the pitching they had seen was the sole theme. Ripley didn't have to walk away alone to-day. Coach Luce and a dozen of the boys stepped along with him in great glee. "It's Rip! Old Rip will be the most talked about fellow in any High School league this year," Parkinson declared, enthusiastically. Even the fellows who actually despised Fred couldn't help their jubilation. Gridley was strong in athletics just because of the real old Gridley High School spirit. Gridley's boys always played to win. They made heroes of the fellows who could lead them to victory after victory. Fred was far on his way home ere the last boy had left him. "I'll get everything in sight now," Ripley told himself, in ecstasy, as he turned in at the gateway to his home. "Why, even if Prescott does get into the relief box, I can decide when he shall or shall not pitch. I'll never see him get a _big_ game to pitch in. Oh, but this blow to-day has hurt Dick Prescott worse than a blow over the head with an iron stake could. I've wiped him up and put him down again. I've made him feel sick and ashamed of his puny little inshoot! Prescott, you're mine to do as I please with on this year's nine---if you can make it at all!" In truth, though young Prescott kept a smiling face, and talked cheerily, he could hardly have been more cast down than he was. Dick always went into any sport to win and lead, and he had set his heart on being Gridley's best man in the box. But now----- Dick & Co. all felt that they needed the open air after the grilling and the surprise at the gym. So they strolled, together, on Main Street, for nearly an hour ere they parted and went home to supper. The next day the talk at school was mostly about Ripley, or "Rip," as he was now more intimately called. Even the girls took more notice of him. Formerly Fred hadn't been widely popular among them. But now, as the coming star of the High School nine, and a new wonder in the school firmament, he had a new interest for them. Half the girls, or more, were "sincere fans" at the ball games. Baseball was so much of a craze among them that these girls didn't have to ask about the points of the game. They knew the diamond and most of its rules. Incense was sweet to the boy to whom it had so long been denied, but of course it turned "Rip's" head. CHAPTER XI THE THIRD PARTY'S AMAZEMENT Eleven o'clock pealed out from the steeple of the nearest church. The night was dark. Rain or snow was in the air. In a shadow across the street hung Tip Scammon. His shabby cap was pulled down over his eyes, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his ragged reefer. Tip's eyes were turned toward the Ripley home opposite. "To think o' that feller in a fine, warm, soft bed nights, an' all the swell stuff to eat at table!" muttered Tip, enviously. "And then me, out in the cold, wearing a tramp's clothes! Never sure whether to-morrer has a meal comin' with it! But, anyway, I can make that Ripley kid dance when I pull the string! He dances pretty tolerable frequent, too! He's got to do it to-night, an' he'd better hurry up some!" Soon after the sound of the striking clock had died away, Tip's keen eyes saw a figure steal around one side of the house from the rear. "Here comes Rip, now. He's on time," thought Tip. "Huh! It's a pity---fer---him that he wouldn't take a new think an' chase me. But he's like most pups that hire other folks to do their tough work---they hain't 't got no nerve o' their own." Fred came stealthily out of the yard, after looking back at the house. He went straight up to young Scammon. "So here ye are, pal," laughed Tip. "Glad ye didn't keep me waitin'. Ye brought the wherewithal?" "See here, Tip, you scoundrel," muttered Fred, hoarsely, a worried look showing in his eyes, "I'm getting plumb down to the bottom of anything I can get for you." "I told ye to bring twenty," retorted young Scammon, abruptly. "That will be enough." "I couldn't get it," muttered Fred. "Now, see here, pal," warned Tip, threateningly, "don't try to pull no roots on me. Ye can get all the money ye want." "I couldn't this time," Fred contended, stubbornly. "I've got eleven dollars, and that's every bit I could get my hands on." "But I've _got_ to have twenty," muttered Tip, fiercely. "Now, ye trot back and look through yer Sunday-best suit. You have money enough; yer father's rich, an' he gives ye a lot. Now, ye've no business spendin' any o' that money until ye've paid me what's proper comin' to me. So back to the house with ye, and get the rest o' yer money!" "It's no use, Tip. I simply can't get another dollar. Here's the eleven, and you'd better be off with it. I can't get any more, either, inside of a fortnight." "See here," raged young Scammon, "if ye think ye can play-----" "Take this money and get off," demanded Fred, impatiently. "I'm going back home and to bed." "I guess, boy, it's about time fer me to see your old man," blustered Tip. "If I hold off until to-morrer afternoon, will ye have the other nine, an' an extry dollar fer me trouble?" "No," rasped Fred. "It's no use at all---not for another fortnight, anyway. Good night!" Turning, Fred sped across the street and back under the shadows at the rear of the lawyer's great house. "I wonder if the younker's gettin' wise?" murmured Tip. "He ain't smart enough to know that fer him to go to his old man an' tell the whole yarn 'ud be cheapest in the run. The old man 'ud be mad at Rip, but the old man's a lawyer, an' 'ud know how to lay down the blackmail law to me!" Feeling certain that he was wholly alone by this time, Tip had spoken the words aloud or sufficiently so for him to be heard a few feet away by any lurker. Shivering a bit, for he was none too warmly clad, young Scammon turned, making his way up the street. Fully two minutes after Tip had gone his way Dick Prescott stepped out from behind the place where Tip had been standing. There was a queer and rather puzzled look on Dick's face. "So Fred's paying Tip money, and Tip knows it's blackmail?" muttered the sophomore. "That can mean just one thing then. When Tip held his tongue before and at his trial, last year, he was looking ahead to the time when he could extort money by threatening Fred. And now Tip's doing it. That must be the way he gets his living. Whew, but Ripley must be allowed a heap of spending money if he can stand that sort of drain!" How Dick came to be on hand at the time can be easily explained. Earlier in the evening he had been at "The Blade" office. Mr. Pollock had asked him to go out on a news story that could be obtained by calling upon a citizen at his home. The story would be longer than Dick usually succeeded in turning in. It looked attractive to a boy who wanted to earn money, so the sophomore eagerly accepted the assignment. As it happened, Dick had had to wait a long time at the house at which he called before the man he wanted to see returned home. Dick was on his way to "The Blade" office when he caught sight of Tip Scammon. The latter did not see or hear the sophomore approaching. So Dick halted, darting behind a tree. "Now, what's Tip doing down here, near the Ripley place?" wondered Prescott. "He must be waiting to see Fred. Then they must have an appointment. Dave always thought that Tip ambushed me with those brickbats at Fred Ripley's order. There may be something of that sort in the wind again. I guess I've got a right to listen." Looking about him, Prescott saw a chance to slip into a yard, get over a fence, and creep up rather close to Scammon, though still being hidden from that scoundrel. At last Prescott found himself well hidden in the yard behind Tip. So Dick heard the talk. Now, as he hurried back to "The Blade" office the young soph guessed shrewdly at the meaning of what he had heard. "Now, what had I better do about it?" Dick Prescott asked himself. "What's the fair and honorable thing to do---keep quiet? It would seem a bit sneaky to go and tell Lawyer Ripley. Shall I tell Fred? I wonder if I could make him understand how foolish and cowardly it is to go on paying for a blackmailer's silence? Yet it's ten to one that Fred wouldn't thank me. Oh, bother it, what had a fellow better do in a case like this?" A moment later, Dick laughed dryly. "I know one thing I could do. I could go to Fred, tell him what I know, and scare him so he'd fall down in his effort to become the crack pitcher of the nine! My, but he'd go all to pieces if he thought I knew and could tell on him!" Dick chuckled, then his face sobered, as he added: "Fred's safe from that _trick_, though. I couldn't stand a glimpse of my own face in the mirror, afterward, if I did such a low piece of business." Prescott was still revolving the whole thing in his mind when he reached "The Blade" office. He turned in the news story he bad been sent for. As he did so the news editor looked up to remark: "We have plenty of room to spare in the paper to-night, Prescott." "Yes? Well?" "Can't you give us a few paragraphs of real High School news? Something about the state of athletics there?" "Why, yes, of course," the young sophomore nodded. Returning to the desk where he had been sitting, Dick ran off a few paragraphs on the outlook of the coming High School baseball season. "Did you write that High School baseball stuff in this morning's paper, Dick?" asked Tom Reade, the next day. "Yes." "You said that the indications are that Ripley will be the crack pitcher this season, and that he is plainly going to be far ahead of all the other box candidates." "That's correct, isn't it?" challenged Dick. "It looks so, of course," Tom admitted. "But why did you give Ripley such a boost? He's no friend of yours, or ours." "Newspapers are published for the purpose of giving information," Dick explained. "If a newspaper's writers all wrote just to please themselves and their friends, how many people do you suppose would buy the daily papers? Fred Ripley is the most prominent box candidate we have. He towers away over the rest of us. That was why I so stated it in 'The Blade.'" "And I guess that's the only right way to do things when you're writing for the papers," agreed Darrin. "It's a pity you can't print some other things about Ripley that you know to be true," grumbled Hazelton. "True," agreed Dick, thoughtfully. "I'm only a green, amateur reporter, but I've already learned that a reporter soon knows more than he can print." Prescott was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, the night before, between Fred and Tip. After sleeping on the question for the night, Dick had decided that he would say nothing of the matter, for the present, either to the elder or the younger Ripley. "If Fred found out that I knew all about it, he'd be sure that I was biding my time," was what Dick had concluded. "He'd be sure that I was only waiting for the best chance to expose him. On the other hand, if I cautioned his father, there'd be an awful row at the Ripley home. Either way, Fred Ripley would go to pieces. He'd lose what little nerve he ever had. After that he'd be no good at pitching. He'd go plumb to pieces. That might leave me the chance to be Gridley's crack pitcher this year. Oh, I'd like to be the leading pitcher of the High School nine! But I don't want to win the honor in any way that I'm not positive is wholly square and honorable." Then, after a few moments more of thought: "Besides, I'm loyal to good old Gridley High School. I want to see our nine have the best pitcher it can get---no matter who he is!" By some it might be argued that Dick Prescott was under a moral obligation to go and caution Lawyer Ripley. But Dick hated talebearers. He acted up to the best promptings of his own best conscience, which is all any honorable man can do. CHAPTER XII TRYING OUT THE PITCHERS "Oh, you Rip!" "Good boy, Rip!" "You're the winning piece of leather, Rip!" "Get after him, Dick!" "Wait till you see Prescott!" "And don't you forget Dave Darrin, either!" Late in March, it was the biggest day of Spring out at the High School Athletic Field. This field, the fruit of the labors of the Alumni Association for many years, was a model one even in the best of High School towns. The field, some six acres in extent, lay well outside the city proper. It was a walled field, laid out for football, baseball, cricket and field and track sports. In order that even the High School girls might have a strong sense of ownership in it, the field also contained two croquet grounds, well laid out. Just now, the whole crowd was gathered at the sides of the diamond. Hundreds were perched up on one of the stands for spectators. Down on the diamond stood the members of the baseball squad. As far as the onlookers could see, every one of the forty-odd young men was in the pink of physical condition. The indoor training had been hard from the outset. Weeks of cage work had been gone through with in the gym. But from this day on, whenever it didn't rain too hard, the baseball training work was to take place on the field. Coach Luce now stepped out of the little building in which were the team dressing rooms. As he went across the diamond he was followed by lusty cheers from High School boys up on the spectators' seats. The girls clapped their hands, or waved handkerchiefs. A few already carried the gold and crimson banners of Gridley. Besides the High School young people, there were a few hundred older people, who had come out to see what the youngsters were doing. For this was the day on which the pitchers were to be tried out. Ripley was known to be the favorite in all the guessing. In fact, there wasn't any guessing. Some, however, believed that Dick, and possibly Dave, might be chosen as the relief pitchers. Dick himself looked mighty solemn, as he stood by, apparently seeing but little of what was going on. Beside him stood Dave. The other four chums were not far off. Another wild howl went up from the High School contingent when two more men were seen to leave the dressing room building and walk out toward Coach Luce. These were two members of the Athletic Committee, former students at Gridley High School. These two were to aid the coach in choosing the men for the school team. They would also name the members of the school's second team. "Now, we'll try you out on pitching, if you're ready," announced Mr. Luce, turning to a member of the junior class. The young fellow grinned half-sheepishly, but was game. He ran over to the box, after nodding to the catcher he had chosen. Luce took the bat and stood by the home plate. To-day the coach did not intend to strike at any of the balls, but he and the two members of the Athletic Committee would judge, and award marks to the candidates. "Oh, we don't want the dub! Trot out Rip!" came a roaring chorus. Coach Luce, however, from this time on, paid no heed to the shouts or demands of spectators. The candidate for box honors now displayed all he knew about pitching, though some nervousness doubtless marred his performance. "Now, run out Rip!" came the insistent chorus again, after this candidate had shown his curves and had gone back. But it was another member of the junior class who came to the box for the next trial. "Dead ball! Throw wild and cut it short!" came the advice from the seats. Then a sophomore was tried out. But the crowd was becoming highly impatient. "We want Rip! We demand Rip. Give us Rip or give us chloroform!" came the insistent clamor. "We'll come another day to see the dead ones, if you insist." Coach Luce looked over at Fred, and nodded. The tumultuous cheering lasted two full minutes, for Gridley was always as strong on fans as it wanted to be on players. Fred Ripley was flushed but proud. He tried to hold himself jauntily, with an air of indifference, as he stood with the ball clasped in both hands, awaiting the signal. Ripley felt that he could afford to be satisfied with himself. The advance consciousness of victory thrilled him. He had worked rather hard with Everett; and, though the great pitcher had not succeeded in bringing out all that he had hoped to do with the boy, yet Everett had praised him only yesterday. One reason why Fred had not absolutely suited his trainer was that the boy had broken his training pledge by taking up with coffee. For that reason his nerves were not in the best possible shape. Yet they didn't need to be in order to beat such awkward, rural pitchers as Prescott or Darrin. For a while Coach Luce waited for the cheering for Ripley to die down. Then he raised his bat as a signal. Fred sent in his favorite spit-ball. To all who understood the game, it was clear that the ball had not been well delivered. The crowd on the seats stopped cheering to look on in some concern. "Brace, Ripley! You can beat that," warned the coach, in a low tone. Fred did better the second time. The third ball was nearly up to his form; the fourth, wholly so. Now, Fred sent in two more spitballs, then changed to other styles. He was pitching famously, now. "That's all, unless you wish more, sir," announced Fred, finally, when the ball came back to him. "It's enough. Magnificently done," called Coach Luce, after a glance at the two members of the Athletic Committee. "Oh, you Rip!" "Good old Rip!" The cheering commenced again, swelling in volume. Coach Luce signaled to Dick Prescott, who, coolly, yet with a somewhat pallid face, came forward to the box. He removed the wrapping from a new ball and took his post. The cheering stopped now. Dick was extremely well liked in Gridley. Most of the spectators felt sorry for this poor young soph, who must make a showing after that phenomenon, Ripley. "The first two or three don't need to count, Prescott," called Luce. "Get yourself warmed up." Fred stood at the side, looking on with a sense of amusement which, for policy's sake, he strove to conceal. "Great Scott! The nerve of the fellow!" gasped Ripley, inwardly, as he saw Prescott moisten his fingers. "He's going to try the spit-ball after what I've shown!" The silence grew deeper, for most of the onlookers understood the significance of Dick's moistened fingers. Dick drove in, Tom Reade catching. That first spit-ball was not quite as good as some that Ripley had shown. But Fred's face went white. "Where did Prescott get that thing? He's been _stealing_ from the little he has seen me do." A shout of jubilation went up from a hundred throats now, for Dick had just spun his second spit-ball across the plate. It was equal to any that Ripley had shown. "Confound the upstart! He's getting close to me on that style!" gasped the astonished Ripley. Now, Dick held the ball for a few moments, rolling it over in his hands. An instant later, he unbent. Then he let drive. The ball went slowly toward the plate, with flat trajectory. "Wow!" came the sudden explosion. It was a _jump-ball_, going almost to the plate, then rising instead of falling. Three more of these Dick served, and now the cheering was the biggest of the afternoon. Fred Ripley's mouth was wide open, his breath coming jerkily. Three fine inshoots followed. The hundreds on the seats were standing up now. Then, to rest his arm, Dick, who was wholly collected, and as cool as a veteran under fire, served the spectators with a glimpse of an out-curve that was not quite like any that they had ever seen before. This out-curve had a suspicion of the jump-ball about it. Dick was pitching easily, now. He had gotten his warming and his nerve, and appeared to work without conscious strain. "Do you want more, sir?" called Dick, at last. "No," decided Coach Luce. "You've done enough, Prescott. Mr. Darrin!" Dave ran briskly to the box, opening the wrappings on a new ball as he stepped into the box. After the first two balls Dave's exhibition was swift, certain, fine. He had almost reached Dick with his performance. Ripley's bewildered astonishment was apparent in his face. "Thunder, I'd no idea they could do anything like that!" gasped Fred to himself. "They're very nearly as good as I am. How in blazes did they ever get hold of the wrinkles? They can't afford a man like Everett." "Any more candidates?" called Coach Luce. There weren't. No other fellow was going forward to show himself after the last three who had worked from the box. There was almost a dead silence, then, while Coach Luce and the two members of the Athletics Committee conferred in whispers. At last the coach stepped forward. "We have chosen the pitchers!" he shouted. Then, after a pause, Mr. Luce went on: "The pitchers for the regular school nine will be Prescott, Darrin, Ripley, in the order named." "Oh, you Dick!" "Bang-up Prescott!" "Reliable old Darrin!" "Ripley---ugh!" And now the fierce cheering drowned out all other cries. But Fred Ripley, his face purple with rage, darted forward before the judges. "I protest!" he cried. "Protests are useless," replied Mr. Luce. "The judges give you four points less than Darrin, and seven less than Prescott. You've had a fair show, Mr. Ripley." "I haven't. I'm better than either of them!" bawled Fred, hoarsely, for the cheering was still on and he had to make himself heard. "No use, Ripley," spoke up a member of the Athletics Committee. "You're third, and that's good enough, for we never before had such a pitching triumvirate." "Where did these fellows ever learn to pitch to beat me?" jeered Fred, angrily. "They had no such trainer. Until he went south with his own team, I was trained by-----" Fred paused suddenly. Perhaps he had better not tell too much, after all. The din from the seats had now died down. "Well, Ripley, who trained you?" asked a member of the Athletics Committee. Fred bit his lip, but Dick broke in quietly: "I can tell. Perhaps a little confession will be good for us all around. Ripley was trained by Everett over at Duxbridge. I found out that much, weeks ago." "You spy!" hissed Fred angrily, but Dick, not heeding his enemy, continued: "The way Ripley started out, the first showing he made, Darrin and I saw that we were left in the stable. Candidly, we were in despair of doing anything real in the box, after Ripley got through. But I suppose all you gentlemen have heard of Pop Gint?" "Gint! Old Pop?" demanded Coach Luce, a light glowing in his eyes. "Well, I should say so. Why, Pop Gint was the famous old trainer who taught Everett and a half dozen other of our best national pitchers all they first learned about style. Pop Gint is the best trainer of pitchers that ever was." "Pop Gint is an uncle of Mr. Pollock, editor of 'The Blade,'" Dick went on, smilingly. "Pop Gint has retired, and won't teach for money, any more. But Mr. Pollock coaxed his uncle to train Darrin and myself. Right faithfully the old gentleman did it, too. Why, Pop Gint, today, is as much of a boy-----" "Oh, shut up!" grated Fred, harshly, turning upon his rival. "Mr. Luce, I throw down the team as far as I'm concerned. I won't pitch as an inferior to these two boobies. Scratch my name off." "I'll give you a day or two, Mr. Ripley, to think that over," replied Mr. Luce, quietly. "Remember, Ripley, you must be a good sportsman, and you should also be loyal to your High School. In matters of loyalty one can't always act on spite or impulse." "Humph!" muttered Fred, stalking away. His keen disappointment was welling up inside. With the vent of speech the suffering of the arrogant boy had become greater. Now, Fred's whole desire was to get away by himself, where he could nurse his rage in secret. There were no more yells of "Oh, you Rip!" He had done some splendid pitching, and had made the team, for that matter, but he was not to be one of the season's stars. This latter fact, added to his deserved unpopularity, filled his spirit with gall as he hastened toward the dressing rooms. There he quickly got into his street clothes and as hastily quitted the athletic field. Therein Fred Ripley made a mistake, as he generally did in other things. In sport all can't win. It is more of an art to be a cheerful, game loser than to bow to the plaudits of the throng. "Mr. Prescott," demanded Coach Luce, "how long have you been working under Pop Gint's training?" "Between four and five weeks, sir." "And Darrin the same length of time?" "Yes, sir," nodded Dave. "Then, unless you two find something a whole lot better to do in life, you could do worse than to keep in mind the idea of trying for positions on the national teams when you're older." "I think we have something better in view, Mr. Luce," Dick answered smilingly. "Eh, Dave?" "Yes," nodded Darrin and speaking emphatically. "Athletics and sports are good for what they bring to a fellow in the way of health and training. But a fellow ought to use the benefits as a physical foundation in some other kind of life where he can be more useful." "I suppose you two, then, have it all mapped out as to what you're going to do in life?" "Not quite," Dick replied. "But I think I know what we'd like to do when we're through with our studies." There were other try-outs that afternoon, but the great interest was over. Gridley fans were satisfied that the High School had a pitching trio that it would be difficult to beat anywhere except on the professional diamond. "If anything _should_ happen to Prescott and Darrin just before any of _the big games_," muttered Ripley, darkly, to himself, "then I'd have my chance, after all! Can't I get my head to working and find a way to _make_ something happen?" CHAPTER XIII THE RIOT CALL AND OTHER LITTLE THINGS "To your seat, Mr. Bristow! You're acting like a rowdy!" Principal Cantwell uttered the order sharply. Fully half the student body had gathered in the big assembly room at the High School. It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room. The principal's voice was so loud that it carried through the room. Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening. Bristow had been skylarking a bit. Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the assembly room than good taste sanctioned. Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority. The boy wheeled about, glaring at the principal. "Go to your seat, sir!" thundered the principal, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage. Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat. Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying. "You mutinous young rascal, that won't do!" shot out from the principal's lips. In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender. "Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!" rasped out the angry principal. Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push. Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead. In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes. The principal was at once terrified. He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him. Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out: "_Coward_!" His face livid, the principal turned. "Who said that?" he demanded, at white heat. "_I_ did!" admitted Purcell, promptly. Abner Cantwell sprang at this second "offender." But Purcell threw himself quickly into an attitude of defence. "Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I'll knock you down!" "Good!" "That's the talk!" The excited High School boys came crowding about the principal and Purcell. Bristow was swept back by the surging throng. He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead. "Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office," commanded the principal, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him. "Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?" asked another voice. "Run Cantwell out! He isn't fit to be here!" yelled another voice. Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward. "Calmly, boys, calmly," called Drake. "Don't do anything you'll be sorry for afterwards." But those who were more hot headed were still pressing forward. It looked as though they were trying to get close enough to lay hands on the now trembling principal. Under the circumstances, Mr. Cantwell did the very worst thing he could have done. He pushed three or four boys aside and made a break across the assembly room. Once out in the corridor, the principal dove into his private office, turning the key after him. Secure, now, and his anger once more boiling up, Mr. Cantwell rang his telephone bell. Calling for the police station, he called for Chief Coy and reported that mutiny and violence had broken loose in the High School. "That seems almost incredible," replied Chief Coy. "But I'll come on the run with some of my men." Several of the fellows made a move to follow the principal out into the corridor. Dick Prescott swung the door shut and threw himself against it. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade rushed to his support. The other chums got to him as quickly as they could. "Nothing rash, fellows!" urged Dick. "Remember, we don't make the laws, or execute them. This business will be settled more to our satisfaction if we don't put ourselves in the wrong." "Pull that fellow Prescott away from the door!" called Fred Ripley, anxious to start any kind of trouble against Dick & Co. Submaster Drake, forcing his way through the throng, calming the hottest-headed ones, turned an accusing look on Fred. The latter saw it and slunk back into the crowd. Bristow, still holding his handkerchief to his head, darted out of the building. Submaster Morton and Luce, bearing the excitement, came up from class rooms on the ground floor. They entered by the same door through which Bristow had left. Over on the other side of the room, fearing that a violent riot was about to start, some of the girls began to scream. The women teachers present hurried among the girls, quieting them by reassuring words. "Now, young gentlemen," called Mr. Drake, "we'll consider all this rumpus done with. Discipline reigns and Gridley's good name must be preserved!" This brought a cheer from many, for Mr. Drake was genuinely respected by the boys as a good and fair-minded man. Such men as Drake, Morton or Luce could lead these warm-hearted boys anywhere. Stepping quickly back to the platform, Drake sounded the bell. In an instant there was an orderly movement toward the desks. At the second bell all were seated. "In the absence of the principal," began Mr. Drake, "I-----" A low-voiced laugh started in some quarters of the room. "Silence!" insisted Mr. Drake, with dignity. "School has opened. I-----" He was interrupted by a new note. Out in the yard sounded the clanging of a bell, the quick trot of horses' feet and the roll of wheels. The boys looked at one another in unbelieving astonishment. Then heavy steps sounded on the stairway. Outside Mr. Cantwell's voice could be heard: "I'll take you inside, chief!" In came the principal, his face now white from dread of what he had done, instead of showing the white-heat of passion. After him came Chief Coy and three policemen in uniform. For at least a full half minute Chief Coy stood glancing around the room, where every student was in his seat and all was orderly. The boys returned the chief's look with wondering eyes. Then Mr. Coy spoke: "Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?" Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering. "Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room. His three policemen followed. Then there came indeed an awkward silence. Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr. Cantwell found himself at some loss for words. But at last he began: "Young ladies and young gentlemen, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret the occurrences of this morning. Discipline is one of my greatest ideals, and this morning's mutiny-----" He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated: "This morning's mutiny-----" began the principal again. The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly. It was that gesture which saved the situation at that critical moment. The boys thought that if silence would please Mr. Drake, then he might have it. "Pardon me, sir," whispered Drake in Cantwell's ear. "I wouldn't harp on the word mutiny, sir. Express your regret for the injury unintentionally done Bristow." Mr. Cantwell wheeled abruptly. "Who is principal here, Mr. Drake?" "You are, sir." "Then be good enough to let me finish my remarks." This dialogue was spoken in an undertone, but the students guessed some inkling of its substance. The submaster subsided, but Mr. Cantwell couldn't seem to remember, just then, what he wanted to say. So he stood gazing about the room. In doing this he caught sight of the face of Purcell. "Mr. Purcell!" called the principal. That young man rose, standing by his seat. "Mr. Purcell, you made some threat to me a few minutes ago?" "Yes, sir." "What was that threat?" "I told you that, if you laid hands on me, I'd floor you." "Would you have done it?" "At the time, yes, sir. Or I'd have tried to do so." "That is all. The locker room monitor will go with you to the basement. You may go for the day. When you come to-morrow morning, I will let you know what I have decided in your case." Submaster Drake bit his lips. This was not the way to deal with a situation in which the principal had started the trouble. Mr. Drake wouldn't have handled the situation in this way, nor would Dr. Thornton, the former principal. But Purcell, with cheerfulness murmured, "Very good, sir," and left the room, while many approving glances followed him. Messrs. Morton and Luce shuffled rather uneasily in their seats. Mr. Cantwell began to gather an idea that he was making his own bad matter worse, so he changed, making an address in which he touched but lightly upon the incidents of the morning. He made an urgent plea for discipline at all times, and tried to impress upon the student body the need for absolute self-control. In view of his own hasty temper that last part of the speech nearly provoked an uproar of laughter. Only respect for Mr. Drake and the other submasters prevented that. The women teachers, or most of them, too, the boys were sure, sided with them secretly. The first recitation period of the morning was going by rapidly, but Mr. Cantwell didn't allow that to interfere with his remarks. At last, however, he called for the belated singing. This was in progress when the door opened. Mr. Eldridge, superintendent of schools, entered, followed by Bristow's father. That latter gentleman looked angry. "Mr. Cantwell, can you spare us a few moments in your office?" inquired Mr. Eldridge. There was no way out of it. The principal left with them. In a few minutes there was a call for Mr. Drake. Then two of the women teachers were sent for. Finally, Dick Prescott and three or four of the other boys were summoned. On the complaint of a very angry parent Superintendent Eldridge was holding a very thorough investigation. Many statements were asked for and listened to. "I think we have heard enough, haven't we, Mr. Eldridge?" asked the elder Bristow, at last. "Shall I state my view of the affair now?" "You may," nodded the superintendent. "It is plain enough to me," snorted Mr. Bristow, "that this principal hasn't self-control enough to be charged with teaching discipline to a lot of spirited boys. His example is bad for them---continually bad. However, that is for the Board of Education to determine. My son will not come to school to-day, but he will attend to-morrow. As the first step toward righting to-day's affair I shall expect Mr. Cantwell to address, before the whole student body, an ample and satisfactory apology to my son. I shall be present to hear that apology myself." "If it is offered," broke in Principal Cantwell, sardonically, but Superintendent Eldridge held up a hand to check him. "If you don't offer the apology, to-morrow morning, and do it properly," retorted Mr. Bristow, "I shall go to my lawyer and instruct him to get out a warrant charging you with felonious assault. That is all I have to say, sir. Mr. Eldridge, I thank you, sir, for your very prompt and kind help. Good morning, all!" "At the close of the session the principal wishes to see Mr. Prescott," read Mr. Cantwell from the platform just before school was dismissed that afternoon. Dick waited in some curiosity. "Mr. Prescott, you write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" asked Mr. Cantwell. "Sometimes, sir." "Then, Mr. Prescott, please understand that I forbid you to write anything for publication concerning this morning's happenings." Dick remained silent. "You will not, will you?" "That, Mr. Cantwell, is a matter that seems to rest between the editor and myself." "But I have forbidden it," insisted the principal, in surprise. "That is a matter, sir, about which you will have to see the editor. Here at school, Mr. Cantwell, I am under your orders. At 'The Blade' office I work under Mr. Pollock's instructions." The principal looked as though he were going to grow angry. On the whole, though, he felt that he had had enough of the consequences of his own wrath for one day. So he swallowed hard and replied: "Very good, then, Mr. Prescott. I shall hold you responsible for anything you publish that I may consider harmful to me." Dick did print an account of the trouble at school. He confined himself to a statement of the facts that he had observed with his own eyes. Editorially "The Blade" printed a comment to the effect that such scenes would have been impossible under the much-missed Dr. Thornton. Mr. Cantwell didn't have anything disagreeable to say to Dick Prescott the next morning. Purcell took up the burden of his studies again without comment. The principal did apologize effectively to young Bristow before the student body, while the elder Bristow stood grimly by. CHAPTER XIV THE STEAM OF THE BATSMAN All of Dick & Co. had made the High School nine, though not all as star players in their positions. Holmes had won out for left field, and Hazelton for shortstop. As far as the early outdoor practice showed, the latter was going to be the strongest man of the school in that important position. Dalzell and Reade became first and second basemen. During the rest of March practice proceeded briskly. Six days in every week the youngsters worked hard at the field in the afternoons. When it rained they put in their time at the gym. On the second of April Coach Luce called a meeting of the baseball squad at the gym. "We're a week, now, from our first game, gentlemen," announced the coach. "I want you all to be in flawless condition from now on. I will put a question to you, now, on your honor. Has any man broken training table?" No one spoke or stirred. Ripley, who had gotten over the worst of his sulks, was present, but he did not admit any of his many breaches of the training table diet that he was pledged to follow at home. "Has any man used tobacco since training began?" continued the coach. Again there was silence. "I am gratified to note that I can't get a response to either question," smiled Mr. Luce. "This assures me that every one of you has kept in the strictest training. It will show as soon as you begin to meet Gridley's opponents in the field. "Faithful observance of all training rules bespeaks a good state of discipline. In all sports, and in team sports especially, discipline is our very foundation stone. Every man must sacrifice himself and his feelings for the good of the team. Each one of you must forget, in all baseball matters, that he is an individual. He must think of himself only as a spoke in the wheel. "During the baseball season I want every man of you in bed by nine-thirty. On the night before a game turn in at eight-thirty. Make up your minds that there shall be no variation from this. In the mornings I want every man, when it isn't raining, to go out and jog along the road, in running shoes and sweaters, for twenty minutes without a break; for thirty minutes, instead, on any morning when you can spare the time. "Whenever you can do so, practice swift, short sprints. Many a nine, full of otherwise good men, loses a game or a season's record just because this important matter of speedy base running has been neglected. "Not only this, but I want every one of you to be careful about the method of sprinting. The man who runs flat-footedly is using up steam and endurance. Run balanced well forward on the balls of your feet. Throw your heels up; travel as though you were trying to kick the backs of your thighs. Breathe through the nose, always, in running, and master to the highest degree the trick of making a great air reservoir of your lungs. We have had considerable practice, both in jogging and in sprinting, but this afternoon I am going to sprint each man in turn, and I'm going to pick all his flaws of style or speed to small pieces. We will now adjourn to the field for that purpose. Remember, that a batsman has two very valuable assets---his hitting judgment and his running steam. Wagons are waiting outside, and we'll now make quick time to the field." Arriving there, Coach Luce led them at once to the dressing rooms. "Now, then, we want quick work!" he called after the sweaters and ball shoes had been hurriedly donned. "Now let us go over to the diamond; go to the home plate as I call the names. Darrin Ripley-Prescott-Reade-Purcell-----" And so on. The young men named made quick time to the plate. "You're up, Darrin. Run! Two bases only. Halt at second! Ripley, run! Reade, run! Not on your flat feet, Ripley. Up on your toes, man! Reade, more steam!" Then others were given the starting word. Coach did not run more men at a time than he could readily watch. "Prescott, throw your feet up behind better. You've been jogging, but that isn't the gait. Holmes, straighten back more---don't cramp your chest!" So the criticisms rang out. Luce was an authority on short sprinting. He had made good in that line in his own college days. "Jennison, you're not running with your arms! Forget 'em!" Jennison promptly let his arms hang motionless at his sides. "Come in, Jennison!" called coach. Jennison came in. "You mustn't work your arms like fly-wheels, nor like piston rods, either," explained Mr. Luce. "Keep your elbows in fairly close to your sides; fists loosely closed and forward, a little higher than your elbows. Now, all runners come in." Gathering the squad about him, and demanding close attention, Mr. Luce showed the pose of the body at the instant of starting. "Now, I'm going to run to first and second," continued the coach. "I want every man of you to watch closely and catch the idea. You note how I hold my body---sloping slightly forward, yet with every effort to avoid cramping the chest. Observe how I run on the forward part of the ball of the foot---not exactly on the toes, but close to it. See just how it is that I throw my feet up behind me. And be very particular to note that I keep my hands and arms in just this position all the way. Now, then, when you strike at a ball, and expect to hit it, have your lungs inflated ready for the first bound of the spurt. Now---watching, all of you?" After an instant Mr. Luce shouted, "Strike!" and was off like a flash. Many of the boys present had never seen coach really sprint before. As they watched during the amazingly few seconds a yell of delight went up from them. This was sprinting! "Did you all find time to observe?" smiled coach, as he came loping in from second base. "We all watched you," laughed Dick. "But the time was short." "You see the true principle of the sprint?" "Yes; but it would take any of us years to get the sprint down that fine," protested Darrin. "Don't be too sure of that," retorted coach. "Some of you will have doubled the style and steam of your sprint by the time you're running in the first game. Now, don't forget a word of what I've said about the importance of true sprinting. I've seen many a nine whose members had a fine battery, and all the fielders good men; yet, when they went to the bat and hit the leather, their sprinting was so poor that they lost game after game. From now on, the sprint's the thing! Yet don't overdo it by doing it all the time. Take plenty of rest and deep breathing between sprints. Usually, a two-bag sprint is all you need. Now, some more of you get out and try it." Rapidly coach called off the names of those he wanted to try out. Some of these young men did better than the starters, for they had learned from the criticisms, and from the showing of Luce's standard form. Presently the young men were standing about in various parts of the field, for none came in until called. "Ripley," said Mr. Luce, turning to that young man, "you have the build and the lines of a good sprinter." "Thank you, sir," nodded Fred. "And yet your performance falls off. Your lung capacity ought to be all right from your appearance. What is the trouble? Honestly, have you been smoking any cigarettes?" "Not one," Fred declared promptly. Mr. Luce lifted the boy's right hand, scanning it. "If I were going to make such a denial," remarked coach coolly, "I'd be sure to have a piece of pumice stone, and I'd use it often to take away those yellowish stains." The light-brownish stains were faint on Fred's first and second fingers. Yet, under careful scrutiny, they could be made out. Ripley colored uncomfortably, jerking his hand away. "Better cut out the paper pests," advised coach quietly. "Only one, once in a while," murmured the boy. "I won't have even that many after this." "I should hope not," replied Mr. Luce. "You're under training pledge, you know." All Fred meant by his promise was that he would use pumice stone painstakingly on his finger tips hereafter. Within the next few days, Dick and Darrin made about the best showing as to sprinting form, though many of the others did remarkably well. "Ripley isn't cutting out the cigarettes," decided Mr. Luce, watching the running of the lawyer's son. "He proves it by his lack of improvement. His respiration is all to the bad." Mr. Luce was shrewd enough to know that, in Fred Ripley, he had a liar to deal with, and that neither repeated warnings nor renewed promises were worth much. So he held his peace. In a few days more, all the members of the Athletics Committee who could attend went to the field. A practice match between the first and second teams had been ordered. Ripley consented to pitch for second, while Dick pitched for the school nine. The latter nine won by a score of eleven to two, but that had been expected. It was for another purpose that the members of the Athletics Committee were present. After the game, there was a brief conference between coach and the committee members. "It is time, now, to announce the appointment of captain," called coach, when he had again gathered the squad. "Purcell, of the junior class, will be captain of the nine. Prescott, of the sophomore class, will be second, or relief captain." Then the announcements were made for the second nine. And now the first game was close at hand. The opponent was to be Gardiner City High School. Gardiner possessed one of the strongest school nines in the state. Coach Luce would have preferred an easier opponent for the first regular game, but had to take the only match that he could get. "However, young gentlemen," he announced to the squad on the field, "the Gridley idea is that all opponents look alike to us. Your city and your school will demand that you win---not merely that you try to win!" "We'll win---no other way to do!" came the hearty promise. CHAPTER XV A DASTARD'S WORK IN THE DARK Thanks to the methods Dick & Co. had started the year before of raising funds for High School athletics through stirring appeal to the local pride of the wealthy residents of the city, the school nine had an abundant supply of money for all needs. Through the columns of "The Blade" Prescott warmed up local interest effectively. Tickets sold well ahead of the time for the meeting with Gardiner City High School. "Prescott, you've been picked to pitch for the Gardiner game," Coach Luce informed the sophomore. "We're going to have almost the hardest rub of the season with this nine, on account of its being our first game. Gardiner City has played two games already, and her men have their diamond nerve with them. Keep yourself in shape, Mr. Prescott. Don't take any even slight chance of getting out of condition." "You may be sure I won't," Dick replied, his eyes glowing. "You know, Mr. Luce, that, though I played some on second football team last fall, this is the first chance I've had to play on the regular team." "As the game is close at hand," continued the coach, "I'd even be careful not to train too much. You're in as fine condition, now, as you can be this season. Sometimes, just in keeping up training, a fellow has something happen to him that lays him up for a few days." "It won't happen to me, sir," Dick asserted. "I'm going to take care of myself as if I were glass, until the Gardiner game is over." "You won't get too nervous, will you?" "I may be a bit, before the game," Dick confessed, candidly. "But after the game starts?" "Once the game opens, I shall forget that there's any such fellow as Prescott, sir. I shall be just a part of Gridley, with nothing individual about me." "Good! I like to hear you talk that way," laughed Mr. Luce. "I hope you'll be able to keep up to it when you go to the diamond. Once the game opens, don't let yourself have a single careless moment. Any single point we can get away from Gardiner will have to be done by just watching for it. You saw them play last year?" "I did," Prescott nodded. "Gridley won, four to three, and until the last half of the last inning we had only one run. I thought nothing could save us that day." "Nothing did," replied the coach, "except the hard and fast can't-lose tradition of Gridley." "We're not going to lose this time, either," Dick declared. "I know that I'm going to strike out a string in every inning. If I go stale, you have Darrin to fall back on, and he's as baffling a pitcher as I can hope to be. And Ripley is a wonder." "He would be," nodded Mr. Luce, sadly, "if he were a better base runner at the same time." It seemed as though nothing else could be talked of in Gridley but the opening game. Just because it was the starter of the season the local military band, reinforced to thirty-five pieces, was to be on hand to give swing and life to the affair. "Are you going, Laura?" Dick asked, when he met Miss Bentley. "Am I going?" replied Laura, opening her eyes in amazement. "Why, Dick, do you think anything but pestilence or death could keep me away? Father is going to take Belle and myself. The seats are already bought." Prescott's own parents were to attend. Out of his newspaper money he had bought them grand stand seats, and some one else had been engaged to attend in the store while the game was on. "You'll have a great chance, Dick, old fellow, against a nine like Gardiner," said Dave Darrin. "And, do you know, I'm glad it's up to you to pitch? I'm afraid I'd be too rattled to pitch against a nine like Gardiner in the very first game of the season. All I have to do is to keep at the side and watch you." "See here, Dave Darrin," expostulated his chum, "you keep yourself in the best trim, and make up your mind that you may _have_ to be called before the game is over. What if my wrist goes lame during the game?" "Pooh! I don't believe it will, or _can_," Dave retorted. "You're in much too fine shape for that, Dick." "Other pitchers have often had to be retired before a game ended," Prescott rejoined, gravely. "And I don't believe that I am the greatest or the most enduring ever. Keep yourself up, Dave! Be ready for the call at any second." "Oh, I will, but it will be needless," Dave answered. Dalzell and Holmes were other members of the school nine squad who had been picked for this first game. Purcell was to catch, making perhaps, the strongest battery pair that Gridley High School had ever put in the field. Half of Dick & Co. were to make up a third of the nine in its first battle. "I'm getting a bit scared," muttered Dan, the Friday afternoon before the Saturday game. "Now, cut all that out," Dick advised. "If you don't I'll report you to the coach and captain." This was said with a grin, and Dick went on earnestly: "Dan, the scared soldier is always a mighty big drag in any battle. It takes two or three other good soldiers to look after him and hold him to duty." "I'll admit, for myself, that I wish the druggist knew of some sort of pill that would give me more confidence for this confounded old first game," muttered Greg Holmes. "I can tell you how to get the pill put up," Prescott hinted. "I wish you would, then." But Greg spoke dubiously. "Tell the druggist to use tragacanth paste to hold the pill together." "Yes?-----" followed Greg. "And tell the druggist to mix into each pill a pound of good old Yankee ginger," wound up Prescott. "Take four, an hour apart before the game to-morrow." "Then I'd never play left field," grinned Greg. "Yes, you would. You'd forget your nervousness. Try it, Greg." The three were walking up Main Street, when they encountered Laura Bentley and Belle Meade. "What are you going to do to-morrow?" asked Laura, looking at the trio, keenly. "Are you going to win for the glory and honor of good old Gridley?" "Dick is," smiled Greg. "Dan and I are going to sit at the side and use foot-warmers." "You two aren't losing heart, are you?" asked Belle, looking at Dick Prescott's companions with some scorn. "N-n-not if you girls are all going to take things as seriously as that," protested Greg. "Every Gridley High School girl expects the nine to win to-morrow," spoke Laura almost sternly. "Then we're going to win," affirmed Dan Dalzell. "On second thought, I'll sell my footwarmers at half the cost price." "That's the way to talk," laughed Belle. "Now, remember, boys---though Dick doesn't need to have his backbone stiffened---if you boys haven't pride enough in Gridley to carry you through anything, the Gridley High School girls are heart and soul in the game. If you lose the game to-morrow don't any of you ever show up again at a class dance!" The girls went away laughing, yet they meant what they said. Gridley girls were baseball fans and football rooters of the most intense sort. Dave wanted to be abed by half past eight that evening, as Coach Luce had requested; but about a quarter past eight, just as he was about to retire, his mother discovered that she needed coffee for the next morning's breakfast, so she sent him to the grocer's on the errand. Dick, while eating supper, thought of an item that he wanted to print in the next day's "Blade." Accordingly, he hurried to the newspaper office as soon as the meal was over. It was ten minutes past eight when Dick handed in his copy to the night editor. "Time enough," muttered the boy, as he reached the street. "A brisk jog homeward is just the thing before pulling off clothes and dropping in between the sheets." As Dick jogged along he remembered having noticed, on the way to the office, Tip Scammon in a new suit of clothes. "Tip's stock is coming up in the world," thought young Prescott. "But I wonder whether Tip earned that suit or stole it, or whether he has just succeeded in threatening more money out of Ripley. How foolish Fred is to stand for blackmail! I wonder if I ought to speak to him about it, or give his father a hint. I hate to be meddlesome. And, by ginger! Now I think of it, Tip looked rather curiously at me. He---oh!---_murder_!" The last exclamation was wrung from Dick Prescott by a most amazing happening. He was passing a building in the course of erection. It stood flush with the sidewalk, and the contractor had laid down a board walk over the sidewalk, and had covered it with a roofed staging. Just as Dick passed under this, still on a lope, a long pole was thrust quickly out from the blackness inside the building. Between Dick's moving legs went the pole. Bump! Down came Dick, on both hands and one knee. Then he rolled over sideways. Away back in the building the young pitcher heard fast-moving feet. In a flash Dick tried to get up. It took him more time than he had expected. He clutched at one of the upright beams for support. Half a dozen people had seen the fall. Stopping curiously, they soon turned, hurrying toward Prescott. Forgotten, in an instant, was the youngster's pain. His face went white with another throbbing realization. "The game to-morrow! This knee puts me out!" CHAPTER XVI THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT "Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!" Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself. "What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him. "Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?" "Yes. Trip over it?" "I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here." "Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?" "Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination. "What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd that was collecting. "Dick---you hurt?" It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation. "I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully. "Who?" spoke up one of the men. But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin. "We'll settle this thing all in our own good time." "Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want to see how well I can walk." The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously, to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg. "Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man in the crowd. Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as the machine came close to the curb. "Here's a doctor," called some one. "Which one?" asked Dick. "Bentley." "Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on your sound leg." Prescott was already doing this. Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation. "One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car," he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at." Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped the physician got in with him. Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott book store. "You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death." Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck, was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr. Bentley from the store. "I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully. "I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the game tomorrow." "That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely. The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door. Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flashing. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs. Into his own room Dick was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs. Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum. "Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud. "It isn't so very bad," smiled Dick. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway." "Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously. Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red. "Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee. "No," Dick answered, in each case. "We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth." "Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it." "I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously. Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated: "I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott." "I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit. "You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician. "Yes, sir." "That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?" "Yes, sir." "It would probably hurt a little less, now. No---don't try it," as Dick started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?" "Of course I do, doctor." "Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told." "I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases." Dr. Bentley pursed his lips. "There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott. The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently." "I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly. "You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything _should_ make the coach order me off the field," interposed Dick, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now." "If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott? You know---" here Dr. Bentley assumed an air of authority---" I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine. So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter." "I will---if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently. "I can't promise, but I'll do my best." "And, Dave," pressed Dick, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you _might_ have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully. So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of Dick & Co. in such matters. Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate. "It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words. Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement. "Tell Dick, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr. Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, _two_ of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I passed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell Dick to-night. But you can tell him in the morning." Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Saturday morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened. "How's Dick?" asked all the callers. "Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily. "Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?" "Um---I can't say about that." "If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence." Dave was on hand as early as he could be. Dick had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before. "You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?" Prescott pressed eagerly. "No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him." "Tip Scammon?" "Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?" "I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing. "Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion." Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching. "Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?" "Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley. "But how about the big problem---can he pitch to-day?" "That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there." "And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too." "Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly. "Not quite," went on Darrin, making a face. "When Fred was going into the house last night he tripped slightly---against a rope that had been stretched across the garden path between two stakes." "But Fred wasn't hurt?" "No; he says he tripped, but he recovered himself." "I'm afraid you don't believe that, Dave?" "I ought to, anyway," retorted Darrin dryly. "Fred is showing the rope." "A piece of rope is easy enough to get," mused Dick. "Yep; and a lie is easy enough for some fellows to tell. But some of the fellows are inclined to believe Rip, so they've started a yarn that Gardiner High School is up to tricks, and that some fellows have been sent over in advance to cripple our box men for to-day." "That's vile!" flushed Prescott indignantly, as he got up to make the circuit of the room. "The Gardiner fellows have always been good, fair sportsmen. They wouldn't be back of any tricks of that sort." "Well, Fred has managed to cover himself, anyway," returned Dave rather disgustedly. "He called his father and mother out to see the rope before he cut it away from the stakes. Oh, I guess a good many fellows will believe Ripley's yarn!" "I'm afraid you don't, Dave;" "Oh, yes; I'm easy," grinned Darrin. "Can you see two young ladies, Richard?" asked Mrs. Prescott, looking into the room. "Certainly, mother, if I get a chance. My vision is not impaired in the least," laughed Dick. Mrs. Prescott stood aside to admit Laura and Belle, then followed them into the room. "We came to make sure that Gridley is not to lose its great pitcher to-day," announced Laura. "Then your father must have told you that I'd do," cried Dick, eagerly. "Father?" pouted Miss Bentley. "You don't know him then. One can never get a word out of father about any of his patients. But he said we might call." The visit of the girls brightened up twenty minutes of the morning. "Of course," said Laura, as they rose to go, "you mustn't attempt to pitch if you really can't do it, or if it would hurt you for future games." "I'm afraid the coach won't let me pitch, unless your father says I can," murmured Dick, with a wry face. Few in Gridley who knew the state of affairs had any idea that Dick Prescott would be able to stand in the box against Gardiner. But the young pitcher boarded a trolley car, accompanied by Dave Darrin, and both reached the Athletic Field before two o'clock. Dr. Bentley was there soon after. In the Gridley dressing room, Dick's left leg was bared, while Coach Luce drew off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Under the physician's direction the coach administered a very thorough massage, following this with an alcohol rubbing. When it was all over Dick rose to exhibit the motions of that leg before the eyes of the doubtful physician. CHAPTER XVII WHEN THE HOME FANS QUIVERED "Is Prescott going to toss!" "They say not." "It's a shame." "And there's a suspicion," whispered one of the High School speakers, "that the other name of the shame is Fred Ripley." "He ought to be lynched!" "But he claims that an attempt was made against him, also." "Ripley never was strong on the truth." Though the gossip about Fred Ripley was not general, the anxiety over Pitcher Prescott was heard on all sides. "It'll be a sure hoodoo if Prescott can't pitch the season's first game," declared a man who seldom missed a High School game on the home diamond. Before three o'clock the grand stand was comfortably filled. The cheaper seats beyond held about as many spectators as they were built to hold. The attendance, that day, was nearly three thousand. Gardiner had sent a delegation of nearly one-tenth of this number. Before three o'clock the band began to play. Whenever the musicians launched into a popular baseball ditty the crowd joined with the words. "Prescott is going to pitch!" "No, he isn't." "The word has just been passed around. Besides, his name's down on the score card." "The score cards were printed yesterday." Finally, curiosity could stand it no longer. A committee left the grand stand to go toward the dressing rooms building. But a policeman waved them back. "None but players and officials allowed in there," declared the officer. "We want to find out whether Prescott is going to pitch," urged the spokesman. "I heard something about that," admitted the policeman. "What was it? Quick!" "Let me see. Oh! Prescott wants to pitch; the coach is half willing, but the doctor ain't certain." This was the best they could do, so the committee returned to their seats. But nothing was settled. At three-twenty, just as the band ceased playing, the compact bunch of Gardiner fans sent up the yell: "Here they come! Our fellows! The only ones!" Using their privilege as visiting team, the Gardiner players were now filing on to the field for a little warming-up practice. "Throw him down, McCluskey!" tooted the band, derisively. But the cheers from the wild Gardiner fans nearly drowned out the instrumental racket. Quickly the visitors had a practice ball in motion. Now the home fans waited breathlessly. At last the band played again. "See the Conquering Hero Comes!" Gridley High School, natty and clean looking in their gray and black uniforms, with black stockings, caps and belts, came out on the field. Instantly there was craning of necks to see if Prescott were among the players. "There he is!" yelled one of the High School fans. "There's our Dick! Wow!" Cheering went up from every Gridley seat. The bleachers contributed a bedlam of noise. "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" blared forth the band. Girls and women stood up, waving fans, handkerchiefs, banners. Another round of cheering started. Dick walked quietly, looking neither to right nor left. Yet the boy was wondering, in astonishment, if kings usually got such a welcome. By the time the cheering had ceased, Fred Ripley, also in uniform, strolled out and walked toward the sub bench. A hiss greeted Ripley. It was not loud, nor insistent, and presently died out. But Fred went as white as a sheet, then, with eyes cast downward, he dropped to his seat at the end of the sub bench. His chest heaved, for the greeting had unnerved him. "I wonder why I usually get that sort of thing, while that fellow Prescott has a band to play him in," muttered Fred. The bulk of the audience was now quiet, while the three hundred visiting fans roared out one of their school yells. Then followed a noisy whooping of the Gridley High School yell. Coach Luce had walked over to a post behind the sub bench. Umpire Foley, his mask dangling from his left hand, now summoned Purcell and the Gardiner captain. A coin spun up in the air. Gardiner's diamond chieftain won the toss, and chose first chance at the bat. Purcell's men scattered to their fielding posts, while the young captain of the home team fastened on his catcher's mask. The umpire took a ball from its package, inspected it, then tossed it to Dick Prescott, who stood in the box awaiting it. There was a moment's tense expectation, followed by the command that set all the real fans wild: "_Play ball_!" Gardiner High School had put up a husky young giant who stood beside the plate, a confident grin on his face as he swung the bat. Dick moistened his fingers. The batsman saw that, and guessed what was coming. He didn't guess quite low enough, however, for, though he stooped and swung the stick lower, the ball went under it by three inches. "Strike one!" called Mr. Foley, judicially. An imperceptible signal told Purcell what was coming next. Then it came---a jump ball. This time Gardiner's batsman aimed low enough but it proved to be a jump ball. "Strike two!" A howl of glee went up from all quarters, save from the Gardiner visitors. Again Dick signaled. His third was altogether different---a bewildering out-curve. Gardiner's batsman didn't offer, but Purcell caught the leather neatly. "Strike three, and out! One out!" announced the umpire. "Whoop!" The joy from the home fans was let loose. With a disgusted look, Gardiner's man slouched back to the players' bench. CHAPTER XVIII THE GRIT OF THE GRAND OLD GAME In that half of the inning it was one, two, three---down and out! Even Fred Ripley found himself gasping with admiration of Prescott's wonderfully true pitching. Yet the joy of the home fans was somewhat curbed when Gridley went to bat and her third man struck out after two of the nine had reached bases. So the first inning closed without score. Gardiner had found that Gridley was "good," and the latter realized that even young Prescott's pitching could not do it all. The first five innings went off quickly, neither side scoring. "It'll be a tie at dark," sighed some of the fans. "Oh, well, a tie doesn't score against Gridley," others added, consolingly. In the five innings Dick Prescott had to run twice. The first time he was left at first base. The second time he had reached second, and was cautiously stealing third, when Gridley's batsman, Captain Purcell, struck his side out on a foul hit. "How's your wrist holding up?" asked Purcell, in a low tone, as Dick came in. "It feels strong. "Do you think Darrin had better have the rest of the game?" "Not on account of my wrist." "But can you run the bases to the end?" "If it doesn't call for any more running than we've had," smiled Dick. Then he caught the ball, held it an instant, signaled, and let drive. It was the same Gardiner batsman whom Prescott had struck out at the opening of the game. This time the young giant got the range of the ball by sheer good guessing. Crack! It soared. Right field ran backward after the ball. Now the Gardiner fans were up and yelling like Comanches. "Leg it, Prendergast!" The runner touched first bag, then darted on for second. Right field was still after the ball. "Whoop! He's pulverized the second bag!" "Just look at third, old man, and come steaming home over the plate!" That runner had been well trained. He was close upon third base and going with unabated speed. He kicked the bag---then a warning cry told him that right field had the ball. A swift look over his shoulder, and Prendergast fell back upon third just before the ball dropped into the third baseman's hands. "Safe on third!" came the umpire's announcement. The ball arched over to Dick Prescott. Purcell signaled him to let the ball come in over the plate. Now the air was all a-tingle. The visitors had a run in sight. Dick felt the thrill, but steeled himself against any impulsiveness or loss of nerve. He signaled the drive, then let go. Three strikes and out, the ball all the while so closely under control that Prendergast fidgeted but did not dare steal far from third. Then came Dowdy to the bat. He was far and away the best batsman from Gardiner. Prendergast began to edge in. "Strike one!" from the umpire. Crack! The leather hung low, a little to the left of shortstop, who raced after it. Prendergast was going in at a tremendous clip. As shortstop reached the ball, he swooped down on it, stopped its rolling, and rising quickly, hurled it in across the plate. Purcell was waiting, and made a good catch. It looked close. Everyone eyed Umpire Foley. "Runner safe home," he decided. There was a gasp of disappointment, but the decision was fair. Prendergast had made good by a fraction of a second---and there was a man on first. "Oh, Dick! Oh, Prescott!" wailed the home fans. "We look to you." Dick's answer was to strike the next man out, with never a chance for the man on first to steal away from Dalzell and make second. Then a short fly filled first and second. Dick struck out a second man---then a third. But this was getting on Gridley's nerves. Despite Prescott's fine pitching, it began to look as though Gardiner High School was fitted for getting the only one or two runs that the game would witness. In the eighth, Gardiner got a second run, but that inning closed with Gridley as much "stumped" as ever. "Why play the ninth?" yelled one of the visitor fans. "Let's go and drink tea. Gridley boys are nice little fellows, but-----" "How's that wrist?" asked Captain Purcell, anxiously, as the players changed places to begin the ninth. Coach Luce had stepped close, too, and looked anxious. "Just a bit lame, of course," Dick admitted. "But I'm going to pull through." "You're sure about it?" Purcell asked. "Sure enough!" The first Gardiner man to bat went out on the third ball sent past him. Then a second. Now came Prendergast to the bat, blood in his eye. He glared grimly at young Prescott, as though to say: "Now, I'll take it out of you for making a comedian of me the first time I held the stick!" Dick felt, somehow, that Prendergast would make good. The first ball that Prescott put over the plate was a called strike. At the second serve--- Crack! and Prendergast was running. Dan Dalzell gauged the flight of that ball better than anyone else on the diamond. He side-stepped like a flash, falling back a couple of paces. Then pulling the leather down out of the air, he leaped back to first. He was holding the ball in his left hand when Prendergast, breathing fast, hopped at the bag. "Runner out!" called Umpire Foley. Prendergast stamped back, with a look of huge disgust. And now Gridley came in at the bat. "It's no use! We're whipped!" That was the comment everywhere as Gridley came in from the field prepared for a last effort. Gridley's first and second men went bad---the first struck out, and the second knocked a foul bit that was caught. "Greg, you've got to go to bat next," whispered Dick to Holmes, just a moment before. "Oh, _don't_ you strike out. Hit something drive it somewhere. Remember Gridley can't and won't lose! Get the Gridley spirit soaked into you instanter. Chase that leather _somewhere_!" Gardiner's pitcher, his face beaming, faced Holmes, whom he did not regard as one of the team's heavyweights in batting skill. Visiting fans were rising, preparing to leave the stand. "Strike one!" "There he goes!" "Strike two!" "It's all over." Crack! Greg was off like a colt. Running was in his line. He had swatted the ball somewhere over into left field, and he didn't care where it landed. Gardiner's left field was forced to pick up the leather. Greg didn't know that anyone had the ball. He didn't care; he had to make first, anyway. He kicked the bag, turning for the second lap. Then he saw the sphere coming through the air, and slid back. "Runner safe on first!" Gridley, with its nerve always on hand, felt that there was a ray of hope. The good, old, strong and fierce school yell went up. The soprano voices of the girls sounded high on the air. Now Dan Dalzell came up to the plate, bat in hand. Dan hadn't hit a thing during the afternoon, but he meant to do so, now. It was either that or the swan-song! "Strike one!---" a groan came from Gridley, a cheer from Gardiner. But Dan was not in the least confused. He was ready for the next ball. _Biff_! It was the pistol shot for Greg, who was off like a two-legged streak, with Dan, ninety feet behind but striving to catch up. The ball came to first only a quarter-second behind Dan's arrival. "Both runners safe!" "Oh, now, _Purcell_!" The man now hovering over the plate knew he simply _had_ to do something. He was captain of the nine. He had caught like a Pinkerton detective all afternoon, but now something was demanded of his brain and brawn. "Strike one!" called the umpire, with voice that grated. "Good-bye!" "Strike two!" came again the umpire's rasping tones. Even now Gridley fans wouldn't admit cold feet, but the chills were starting that way. Crack! "Whoop!" Then the battle-cry of Gridley rose frantically from all the seats---Purcell had made first base. "Prescott!" "It's yours!" "_Don't_ fall down!" Schimmelpodt, a wealthy old German contractor, rose from his seat, shouting hoarsely: "Bresgott I gif fifdy tollars by dot Athletic Committee bis you win der game vor Gridley!" The offer brought a laugh and a cheer. Schimmelpodt rarely threw away money. Dick, smiling confidently, stood bat in hand. Most other boys might have felt nervous with so much depending on them. But Dick was one of the kind who would put off growing nervous until the need of steady nerves was past. It was always impossible for him to admit defeat. The game stood two to nothing in favor of the Gardiner nine, but Gridley had bases full. Dick's help might not have been needed for all the uneasiness that he displayed. There was no pallor about his face, nor any flush. His hands grasped the willow easily, confidently. "Strike one!" Prescott had missed the ball, but it failed to rattle him. "Strike two!" The boy was still undaunted, though he had lost two chances out of the three. Again he tried for the ball. Swish! It was a foul hit, out sidewise. Gardiner's catcher darted nimbly in under the ball. Home fans groaned. As for Dick, he didn't turn his head to look. Catcher had the ball in his fingers, but fumbled it. It slipped. "Hard luck," muttered the standing Gardiner fans, waiting to give their final cheer of victory. Dick's next sight of the ball was when it sailed lazily over his head, into the hands of the man in the box. "I hope Dick is bracing," groaned one of Gridley's subs. "He isn't," retorted Dave Darrin. "He's just on the job, steady as iron, cool as a cucumber and confident as an American." Gardiner's pitcher measured his man critically, then signaled the next ball. It came, just as Dick, closely watching the pitcher, expected it to come, a swift, graceful out-curve. _Bang_! At least it sounded like a gunshot. Dick Prescott struck the ball with all his might. He struck with greatest force just barely below the center of the sphere. It was a fearful crack, aimed right and full of steam and speed. "_Wow_!" Three base-runners, at the first sound had started running for all they were worth. Dick's bat flew like a projectile itself, fortunately hitting no one, and Prescott was running like Greek of old on the Olympic field. One man in! The ball had gone past the furthest limits of outfield. Before it had touched the ground Dick Prescott touched first and started for second. Gardiner right and left fields were running a race with center field. The latter was the one to get it, but his two supporters simply couldn't stand still. Prescott kicked the second bag. Almost at the same instant the second man was in. Score tied! What about that ball? It was rolling on the ground, now, many yards ahead of the flying center-field. Dick was nearing third, the man ahead of him fast nearing the home plate. Centerfield had the ball in his hands, whirling as if on springs. Third man safe home---Dick Prescott turning the third bag and into the last leg of the diamond. Center-field threw with all his might, but the distance was long. Second base had to stoop for the ball. Even at that, it got past his hands. He wheeled, bolted after the ball, got it and made a throw to the catcher. Out of the corner of his eyes, young Prescott saw the arching ball descend, a good throw and a true one. Yet, ere it landed in the catcher's hand, Dick, by the fraction of a second, had sprinted desperately across the home plate. "Runner safe home!" "Whoo-oopee! Wow! wow! wow!" rang the chorus of thousands. "Four to two!" "What about Gridley, _now_?" "What about Dick Prescott?" Then words were lost in volleys of cheers. The Gardiner fans who had risen to cheer slipped dejectedly down from the stand. And Dick Prescott? While running he had given no thought to his knee. Now, as he dashed across the plate, and heard the umpire's decision, he tried to stop, but slipped and went down. He tried to rise, but found it would be better to sit where he was. The game was over. Gridley, having made the winning runs in the last half of the ninth, the rules of the game forbade any further attempts to pile up score. One of the first of the great crowd to leap over into the field and cross the diamond was Coach Luce. He ran straight to the young pitcher's side, kneeling close by him. "You've given your knee a fearful twist, Prescott. I could see it," said Luce sympathetically. "What do I care?" Dick called back, his face beaming. "The score's safe, isn't it?" Had it not been for the state of his knee Prescott would have been snatched up by a dozen hands and rushed across the field in triumph. But Mr. Luce waved them all back. Dick's father and mother came hurrying across the field to see what was wrong with their boy. "Let me lean on you as I get up, Mr. Luce," begged Dick, and the coach was only too quick to help the boy to his feet. Then, with the aid of Luce's arm, Dick was able to show his parents that he could walk without too much of a limp. "You did it for us, Dick, old boy!" greeted Captain Purcell, as soon as he could get close. "Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit." "It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!" The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm, the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!" "You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now," laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain, isn't it?" In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result. "Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his father at the evening meal. "Neither can I, sir," Fred answered. "Are you out of sorts?" "Never felt any better, sir." "Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have given you an appetite. "I didn't do anything this afternoon, except sit around in my ball togs," Fred grumbled. "I hope you'll have a few good games to pitch this season," his father went on. "You worked hard enough, and I spent money enough on the effort to prepare you." "You can't beat some people's luck---unless you do it with a club," grumbled Fred, absently. "Eh?" asked his father, looking up sharply from his plate. But the boy did not explain. Late that night, however, breaking training rules for the tenth time, Fred was out on the sly to meet Tip Scammon. The pair of them laid plans that aimed to stop Dick Prescott's career as High School pitcher. CHAPTER XIX SOME MEAN TRICKS LEFT OVER Mr. Schimmelpodt had offered that fifty dollars in a moment of undue excitement. For two or three days afterward he wondered if he couldn't find some way out of "spending" the money that would yet let him keep his self-respect. Finding, at last, that he could not, he wrote out the check and mailed it. He pinned the check to a half-sheet of paper on which he wrote, "Rah mit Prescott!" A few days later Mr. Schimmelpodt turned from Main Street into the side street on which Dick's parents kept their store and their home. "Ach! Und dere is de door vot that boy lives by," thought Mr. Schimmelpodt, just before he passed Dick's door. "Yen der game over was, und I saw dot boy go down---ach!" For Mr. Schimmelpodt had suited the action to the word. Out from under him his feet shot. But Mr. Schimmelpodt, being short and flabby of leg, with a bulky body above, came down as slowly as big bodies are supposed to move. It was rather a gradual tumble. Having so much fat on all portions of his body Mr. Schimmelpodt came down with more astonishment than jar. "Ach! Such a slipperyishness!" he grunted. "Hey, Bresgott---! look out!" The door had opened suddenly at this early hour in the morning. Dick, charged with doing a breakfast errand for his mother at the last moment, sprang down the steps and started to sprint away. At the first step on the sidewalk, however, Dick's landing foot shot out from under him. He tried to bring the other down in time to save himself. That, too, slipped. Dick waved his arms, wind-mill fashion in the quick effort to save himself. "Bresgott," observed the seated contractor, solemnly, "I bet you five tollars to den cents dot you-----" Here Schimmelpodt waited until Dick settled the question of the center of gravity by sprawling on the sidewalk. "---Dot you fall," finished the German, gravely. "I---Und I yin!" "Why, good morning, Mr. Schimmelpodt," Dick responded, as he started to get up. "What are you doing here." "Oh, choost vaiting to see bis you do the same thing," grunted the contractor. "It was great sport---not?" "Decidedly 'not,'" laughed Dick, stepping gingerly over a sidewalk that had been spread thinly with some sticky substance. "Can I help you up, Mr. Schimmelpodt?" The German, who knew his own weight, glanced at the boy's slight figure rather doubtfully. "Bresgott, how many horsepower are you alretty?" But Dick, standing carefully so that he would not slip again, displayed more strength than the contractor had expected. In another moment the German was on his feet, moving cautiously away, his eyes on the sidewalk. Yet he did not forget to mutter his thanks to the boy. As Dick now went on his way again, slipping around the corner and into a bakeshop, he noticed that his right wrist felt a bit queer. "Well, I haven't broken anything," he murmured, feeling of the wrist with his left hand. "But what on earth happened to the sidewalk." As he paused before his door on the way back, he looked carefully down at the sidewalk. Right before the door several flags in the walk appeared to be thinly coated with some colorless specimen of slime. "It looks as though it might be soft soap," pondered Prescott, examining the stuff more closely. "It'll be dry in a half an hour more, but I think I had better fix it." In the basement was a barrel of sand that was used for sanding the icy sidewalk in winter. As soon as Dick had run upstairs with the bread he went below, got a few handfuls of sand and fixed the sidewalk. At recess Dick noticed just enough about his wrist to make him speak about it to Submaster Luce. "Let me see it," demanded coach. "Hm!" he muttered. "Another peculiar accident, and only two days before our game with Chichester! See Dr. Bentley about your wrist at his office this afternoon. I'm beginning to think, Prescott, that it's a fortunate thing for you that the medical director is paid out of the fund. You'd bankrupt an ordinary citizen if you're going to keep on having these tumbles." Dr. Bentley's verdict was that, while the wrist was not in a condition that need bother men much in ordinary callings, yet, as a pitcher's wrist, it would need rest and care. "I've just got the tip that I'm to pitch in the Chichester game," said Dave, coming to his chum that afternoon. "Yes; Doe thinks I ought to look after this wrist---that it wouldn't stand extraordinary strain during the next few days. But, Dave, old fellow, watch out! Keep your eye on the sidewalks near your home. Don't prowl in lonely places after dark. Act as if you were made of glass until you get on the field at the Chichester game." Darrin glanced shrewdly at his friend, then nodded. "I'm on, Dick! Confound that fellow, Ripley. And he's as slick and slippery as an eel. I don't suppose there is any way that we can catch him?" "If I knew a way I'd use it," growled Prescott. "I'm sick of having this thing so onesided all the time. Ripley plans, and we pay the piper. The blackguard!" "Then you're sure Ripley is at the bottom of these accidents?" "The accidents are planned," retorted Dick. "Who else would care to plan them, except that disagreeable fellow?" "I'd like to get just proof enough to justify me in demanding that he stand up before me for twenty rounds," gritted Dave Darrin. Dave did take extraordinary care of himself, and was on hand to pitch at the game with Chichester. This game, like the first, was on the home grounds. It was a close game, won by Gridley, two to one. In some respects Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It was undying grit that won the battle---that and Dave Darrin's pitching. As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick Prescott as a pitcher. "Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend, "and the game is half won." "But how about Ripley?" "Ripley?" replied the coach. "He made a good showing in the tryouts, but we haven't had in the field yet. He will be, though, the next game. We play Brayton High School over at Brayton. It's one of the smaller games, and we're going to try Ripley there." Then the coach added, to himself: "Ripley is presentable enough, but I believe there's a big yellow streak in him somewhere. I wouldn't dare to put Fred into one of the big games requiring all the grit that Prescott or Darrin can show!" CHAPTER XX A TIN CAN FOR THE YELLOW DOG With Ripley in the box Gridley won its third game of the season, beating Brayton High School by a score of five to two. "It ought to have been a whitewash against a small-fry crowd like Brayton," Coach Luce confided to Captain Purcell. "What was our weak spot, Coach?" "Have you an opinion, Captain?" asked the coach. "Yes, but I'm afraid I'm wrong." "What is your idea?" "Why, it seemed to me, Mr. Luce, that Ripley went stiff at just the wrong times. Yet I hate to say that, and I am afraid I'm unfair, for Rip surely does throw in some wonderful balls." "You've struck my idea, anyway," responded Mr. Luce. "Please don't say anything about it to the other men. But, between ourselves, Captain, I think we'll do well to give Ripley few and unimportant chances this season. Most people can't see where real grit comes in, in baseball" "Yet you think the lack of grit, or stamina, is just what ails Rip?" asked Captain Purcell keenly. "You can judge, from what I've said," replied Coach Luce. "I'm glad then, Coach, for it shows I wasn't so far off the track in my own private judgment." Yet, to hear Fred Ripley tell about the game, it wasn't such a small affair. He judged his foemen by the fact that they had to contend with _him_. "Five to two is the safest margin we've had yet," he confided to those who listened to him at the High School. "More than that, we had Brayton tied down so that, at no time in the game, did they have any show to break the score against us. Now, if Luce and Purcell fix it up for me to pitch the real games of the season" "Oh, cut it out, Rip," advised one listener, good-naturedly. "Brayton is only a fishball team, anyway. Not a real, sturdy beef-eater in the lot." The season moved on briskly now. Dick pitched two games, and Darrin one in between Prescott's pair. Dick's first game was won by a score of one to nothing; his second game, the return date against Gardiner, was a tie. The game in which Darrin pitched was won by a score of three to two. Then came a game with a team not much above Brayton's standing. "Prescott and Darrin must be saved for some of the bigger games," decided Coach Luce. "Purcell, don't you think it will be safe to trust Ripley to pitch against Cedarville High School?" "Yes," nodded the captain of the nine. "I don't believe Cedarville could harm us, anyway, if we put left field or shortstop in the box." Fred Ripley was notified. At once Cedarville became, in his talk, one of the most formidable nines on the state's High School circuit. "But we'll skin 'em, you'll see," promised Fred, through the week. "Be at the game, and see what I can do when I'm feeling well. Cedarville has no chance." Ripley was in high spirits all through the week. All through that Saturday forenoon he moved about in a trance of exultation. Yet, underneath it all, he was somewhat seedy in a physical sense, for he had been out late the night before to meet Tip and hand over some money. Late that Saturday forenoon, Lawyer Ripley returned from a business trip. Soon after he returned home, and had seen a man in his library, he went in search of his wife. "Where's Fred?" demanded the lawyer. "He went out up the street, to get a good walk," replied Mrs. Ripley. "You know, my dear, he is to pitch for Gridley in one of the biggest games of the season this afternoon." "Hm!" said the lawyer. "Well, see here. Let Fred have his luncheon. Don't say a word until then. As soon as he is over with the meal, send him to me in the library. Don't give him any hint until he has finished eating." "Is---is anything wrong?" asked Mrs. Ripley, turning around quickly. "Just a few little questions I want to talk over with the boy," replied Mr. Ripley. It was shortly after one o'clock when Fred stepped into the library. This apartment was really in two rooms, separated by folding doors. In the front room Mr. Ripley had his desk, and did his writing. Most of his books were in the rear room. At the time when Fred entered the folding doors were closed. "You wished to see me, sir?" Fred asked, as he entered. "Yes," said his father, pointing to a chair; "take a seat." "I hope it isn't anything that will take much time," hinted Fred. "you know, sir, I've got to be at the field early this afternoon. I am to pitch in one of the biggest-----" "I'll try to be very brief," replied the lawyer, quietly. "Fred, as you know, whenever I find I have more money about me than I care to carry, I put it in the private safe upstairs. Your mother and I have a place where we hide the key to that old-fashioned safe. But, do you know, I have been missing some money from that safe of late? Of course, it would be sheer impudence in me to suspect your mother." "Of course it would," agreed Fred, with feigned heartiness. He was fighting inwardly to banish the pallor that he knew was creeping into his cheeks. "Have you any theory, Fred, that would help to account for the missing of these sums of money?" pursued the lawyer, one hand toying with a pencil. "Do you suspect any of the servants?" asked the boy, quickly. "We have had all our servants in the family for years," replied the lawyer, "and it would seem hard to suspect any of them." "Then whom can you suspect, sir?" "Fred, do you know, I have had a quiet little idea. I am well acquainted with the scrapes that young fellows sometimes get into. My experience as a lawyer has brought me much in contact with such cases. Now, it is a peculiar thing that young fellows often get into very bad scrapes indeed in pursuing their peculiar ideals of manliness. Fred, have you been getting into any scrapes? Have you found out where your mother and I hide the key to the safe? Have you been helping yourself to the money on the sly?" These last three questions Lawyer Ripley shot out with great suddenness, though without raising his voice. The effect upon young Ripley was electrical. He sprang to his feet, his face dramatically expressive of a mingling of intense astonishment and hurt pride. "Dad," he gasped, "how can you ask me such questions?" "Because I want the answer, and a truthful one," replied the lawyer, coolly. "Will you oblige me with the answer? Take your time, and think deliberately. If you have made any mistakes I want you to be fair and honorable with me. Now, what do you say, sir?" Fred's mind had been working like lightning. He had come to the conclusion that it would be safe to bluff his denial through to the end. "Father," he uttered, earnestly, in a voice into which he tried to throw intense earnestness and sincerity, "I give you my word of honor, as a Ripley, that I know nothing more about the missing money than you have just told me." "You are sure of that, Fred?" "Sure of it, sir? Why, I will take any oath that will satisfy-----" "We don't want any perjury here," cut in the lawyer, crisply, and touched a bell. The folding doors behind them flew open with a bang. As Fred started and whirled about he beheld a stranger advancing toward them, and that stranger was escorting---Tip Scammon. The stranger halted with his jailbird companion some five or six feet away. The stranger did not appear greatly concerned. Tip, however, looked utterly abashed, and unable to raise his gaze from the floor. "With this exhibit, young man," went on the lawyer, in a sorrowful tone, "I don't suppose it is necessary to go much further with the story. When I first began to miss small sums from the safe I thought I might merely have made a mistake about the sums that I had put away. Finally, I took to counting the money more carefully. Then I puzzled for a while. At last, I sent for this man, who is a detective. He has come and gone so quietly that probably you have not noticed him. This man has had a hiding place from which he could watch the safe. Early last evening you took the key and opened the safe---robbed it! You took four five-dollar bills, but they were marked. This man saw you meet Tip Scammon, saw you pass the money over, and heard a conversation that has filled me with amazement. So my son has been paying blackmail money for months!" Fred stood staggered, for a few moments. Then he wheeled fiercely on Scammon. "You scoundrel, you've been talking about me---telling lies about me," young Ripley uttered hoarsely. "I hain't told nothing about ye," retorted Tip stolidly. "But this rich man's cop (detective) nabbed me the first thing this morning. He took me up inter yer father's office, an' asked me whether I'd let _him_ explore my clothes, or whether I'd rather have a policeman called in. He 'splained that, if he had to call the poor man's cop, I'd have to be arrested for fair. So I let him go through my clothes. He found four five-spots on me, and told me I'd better wait an' see yer father. So I'm here, an' not particular a bit about having to go up to the penitentiary for another stretch." "It hasn't been necessary, Fred, to question Scammon very far," broke in the elder Ripley. "That'll do, now, Haight. Since Scammon volunteered to give the money back, and said he didn't know it had been stolen, you can turn him loose." The detective and Tip had no more than gone when Lawyer Ripley, his face flushed with shame, wheeled about on his son. "So you see, Fred, what your word of honor the word of a Ripley---is sometimes worth. You have been robbing me steadily. How much you have taken I do not know as I have not always counted or recorded money that I put in the safe." Fred's face had now taken on a defiant look. He saw that his father did not intend to be harsh, so the boy determined to brave it out. "Haven't you anything to say?" asked the lawyer, after a brief silence. "No," retorted Fred, sulkily. "Not after you've disgraced me by putting a private detective on my track. It was shameful." That brought the hot blood rushing to his father's face. "Shameful, was it, you young reprobate? Shameful to you, when you have been stealing for weeks, if not for months? It is you who are dead to the sense of shame. Your life, I fear, young man, cannot go on as it has been going. You are not fitted for a home of wealth and refinement. You have had too much money, too easy a time. I see that, now. Well, it shall all change! You shall have a different kind of home." Fred began to quake. He knew that his father, when in a mood like this, was not to be trifled with. "You---you don't mean jail?" gasped the boy with a yellow streak in him. "No; I don't; at least, not this time," retorted his father. "But, let me see. You spoke of an engagement to do something this afternoon. What was it?" "_I was_ to have pitched in the game against Cedarville High School." "Go on, then, and do it," replied his father. "I---I can't pitch, now. My nerves are too-----" "Go on and do what you're pledged to do!" thundered Lawyer Ripley, in a tone which Fred knew was not to be disregarded. So the boy started for the door. "And while you are gone," his father shot after him, "I will think out my plan for changing your life in such a way as to save whatever good may be in you, and to knock a lot of foolish, idle ideas out of your head!" Fred's cheeks were ashen, his legs shaking under him as he left the house. "I've never seen the guv'nor so worked up before---at least, not about me," thought the boy wretchedly. "Now, what does he mean to do? I can't turn him a hair's breadth, now, from whatever plan he may make. Why didn't I have more sense? Why didn't I own up, and 'throw myself on the mercy of the court'?" In his present mood the frightened boy knew he couldn't sit still in a street car. So he walked all the way to the Athletic Field. He was still shaking, still worried and pale when at length he arrived there. He walked into the dressing room. The rest of the nine and the subs were already on hand, many of them dressed. "You're late, Mr. Ripley," said Coach Luce, a look of annoyance on his face. Outside, the first of the fans on the seats were starting the rumpus that goes under the name of enthusiasm. "I---I know it. But---but---I---I'm sorry, Mr. Luce. I---I believe I'm going to be ill. I---I know I can't pitch to-day." So Coach Luce and Captain Purcell conferred briefly, and decided that Dave Darrin should pitch to-day. Darrin did pitch. He handled his tricky curves so well that puny Cedarville was beaten by the contemptuous score of seventeen to nothing. Meanwhile, Fred Ripley was wandering about Gridley, in a state of abject, hopeless cowardice. CHAPTER XXI DICK IS GENEROUS BECAUSE IT'S NATURAL "Say, will you look at Rip?" No wonder Harry Hazelton exploded with wonder as he turned to Dan Dalzell and Greg Holmes. In this warmer weather, the young men loitered in the school yard until the first bell. These three members of Dick & Co. were standing near the gateway when Fred Ripley turned the nearest corner and came on nervously, hurriedly, a hang-dog look in his face. What had caught Harry Hazelton's eye, and now made his comrades stare, was the new suit that Fred wore. Gone was all that young man's former elegance of attire. His stern father had just left the boy, after having taken him to a clothing store where Fred was tricked out in a coarse, ready-made suit that had cost just seven dollars and a half. A more manly boy would have made a better appearance in such clothes, but it was past Fred Ripley. And he was miserably conscious of the cheap-looking derby that rested on his head. Even his shoes were new and coarse. Ripley hurried by the chums, and across the yard, to be met at the door by Purcell, who stared at him in candid astonishment. "Oh, say, Rip!" demanded Purcell. "What's the bet?" "Shut up!" retorted Ripley, passing quickly inside. "Fine manners," grinned Purcell to a girl who had also paused, impelled by excusable curiosity. Dick, when he came along, heard the news from Hazelton and the others. "What can be the cause of it all?" asked Tom Reade, wonderingly. "Oh, some row with his father," decided Dick slowly. "When I was up on Main Street I saw them both going into Marsh's clothing store." "I asked poor old Rip what the bet was," chuckled Purcell as he joined the group. "Say, if you want to have fun at recess," proposed Dan Dalzell, "let's about twenty of us, one after the other, go up and ask Rip what the bet is, and how long it's for?" "Say," retorted Dick sternly, eyeing hapless Dan, "I believe, if you got into a fight and knocked a fellow down, you'd jump on him and keep hammering him." "Not much I wouldn't, old safety-valve," retorted Dan, reddening. "But I see that you're right, Dick. Rip has never been any friend of ours, and to jump him now, when he's evidently down at home, would be too mean for the principles of Dick & Co." "I'd rather give the poor fellow a helping hand up, if we could," pursued young Prescott musingly, "Purcell, do you think there'd be any use in trying that sort of thing?" "Why, I don't know," replied Captain Purcell, easy going and good hearted. "Barring a few snobbish airs, I always used to like Rip well enough. He was always pretty proud, but pride, in itself, is no bar to being a decent fellow. The only fellow who comes to harm with pride is the fellow who gets proud before he has done anything to be proud of. At least, that's the way it always hit me." "Ripley certainly looked hang-dog," commented Hazelton. "And he must feel mightily ashamed over something," continued Dick. "I wonder if his father has found out anything about Tip Scammon and certain happenings of last year. That might account for a lot. But what do you say, fellows? If Ripley has been a bit disagreeable and ugly, shall we try to make him feel that there's always a chance to turn around and be decent?" "Why, I'd believe in trying to point out the better road to Old Nick himself," replied Dave Darrin warmly. "Only, I don't believe in doing it in the preachy way---like some people do." "That's right," nodded Dick. "See here, Purcell, if Ripley is looking down in the mouth at recess, why don't you go up to him and talk baseball? Then call us over, after you've raised some point for discussion. And we'll tip two or three other fellows to join in, without, of course, getting a crowd." "I'll try it," nodded Purcell. "Though I can't guess how it will turn out. Of course, if Rip gives us the black scowl we'll have to conclude that no help is wanted." It was tried, however, at recess. Purcell went about it with the tact that often comes to the easy going and big hearted. Soon Purcell had Dick and Dave with Fred and himself. Then the other chums drifted up. Two or three other fellows came along. After some sulkiness at first Fred talked eagerly, if nervously. On the whole, he seemed grateful. When Dick reached home that day he felt staggered with astonishment. Waiting for him was a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the boy to be at the latter's office at half-past two. "I shall take it as a very great favor," the note ran on, "and, from what I know of you, I feel certain that you will be glad to aid me in a matter that is of vast importance to me." "What on earth is coming?" wondered Dick. But he made up his mind to comply with the request. Promptly to the minute Dick reached the street door of the office building. Here he encountered Dave Darrin and Dalzell. "You, too?" asked Dick. "It looks as though all of Dick & Co. had been summoned," replied Dave Darrin. On entering the lawyer's office they found their other three chums there ahead of them. Tip Scammon was there, also, looking far from downcast. Lawyer Ripley looked very grave. He looked, too, like a man who had a serious task to perform, and who meant to go about it courageously. "Young gentlemen, I thank you all," said the lawyer slowly. "I am pursuing a matter in which I feel certain that I need your help. There has been some evil connection between Scammon and my son. What it is Scammon has refused to tell me. I will first of all tell you what I _do_ know. I am telling you, of course, on the assumption that you are all young men of honor, and that you will treat a father's confidence as men of honor should do." The boys bowed, wondering what was coming. Lawyer Ripley thereupon plunged into a narration of the happenings of the day before, telling it all with a lawyer's exactness of statement. "And now I will ask you," wound up Mr. Ripley, "whether you can tell me anything about the hold that Scammon seems to have exercised over my son?" "That's an embarrassing question, sir," Dick replied, after there had been a long pause. "Do you know the nature of that hold?" "Yes, sir." "May I ask how you know?" "I overheard a conversation, one night, between your son and Tip Scammon." "What was the substance of that conversation?" pressed the lawyer. "I don't quite see how I can tell you, sir," Dick responded slowly and painfully. "I'm not a tale bearer. I don't want to come here and play the tittle-tattle on your son." "I respect your reluctance," nodded Lawyer Ripley. "But let me put it to you another way. I am the boy's father. I am responsible for his career in this world, as far as anyone but himself can be responsible. I am also seeking what is for the boy's best good. I cannot act intelligently unless I have exact facts. Both my son and Scammon are too stubborn to tell me anything. In the cause of justice, Prescott, will you answer me frankly?" "That word, 'justice,' has an ominous sound, sir," Prescott answered. "It is generally connected with the word punishment, instead of with the word mercy." "I suspect that my son has been your very bitter enemy, Prescott," said the lawyer keenly. "I suspect that he has plotted against you and all your chums. Would you now try to shield him from the consequences of such acts?" "Why, sir, I think any boy of seventeen is young enough to have another chance." "And I agree with you," cried the lawyer, a sudden new light shining in his eyes. "Now, will you be wholly frank with me if I promise you that my course toward my son will be one that will give him every chance to do better if he wants to?" "That's an odd bargain to have to make with a father," smiled Dick. "It _is_," admitted Lawyer Ripley, struck by the force of the remark. "You've scored a point there, Prescott. Well, then, since I _am_ the boy's father, and since I want to do him full justice on the side of mercy, if he'll have it---will you tell all of the truth that you know to that boy's father?" Dick glanced around at his chums. One after another they nodded. Then the High School pitcher unburdened himself. Tip Scammon sat up and took keen notice. When Dick had finished with all he knew, including the tripping with the pole, and the soft-soaping of the sidewalk before his home door, Tip was ready to talk. "I done 'em all," he admitted, "includin' the throwin' of the brickbats. The brickbats was on my own hook, but the pole and the soft soap was parts of the jobs me and Fred put up between us." "Why did you throw the brickbats on your own hook?" asked Lawyer Ripley sharply. "Why, you see, 'squire, 'twas just like this," returned Tip. "After I'd done it, if I had hurt Prescott, then I was goin' to go to your son an' scare 'im good an' proper by threatenin' to blab that he had hired me to use them brickbats. That'd been good fer all his spendin' money, wouldn't it?" "Yes, and for all he could steal, too," replied Lawyer Ripley. "I didn't know nothing about his stealin' money," retorted Tip, half virtuously. "I jest thought he had too much pocket money fer his own good, an' so I'd help him spend some of it. But, see here, lawyer, ye promised me that, if I did talk, nothin' I told yer should be used against myself." "I am prepared to keep that promise," replied Mr. Ripley coldly. The sound of a slight stir came from the doorway between the outer and inner office. There in the doorway, his face ghastly white, his whole body seeming devoid of strength, leaned Fred Ripley. "I had almost forgotten that I asked you to come here," said Mr. Ripley, as he looked up. "How long have you been here?" "Not very long, perhaps, but long enough to know that Dick Prescott and the rest have been doing all they can to make matters harder for me," Fred answered in a dispirited voice. "As it happens, they have been doing nothing of the sort," replied the lawyer crisply. "Come in here, Fred. I have had the whole story of your doings, but it was on a pledge that I would give you another chance to show whether there's any good in you. Fred, I can understand, now that you've always thought yourself better than most boys---above them. The truth is that you've a long way to go to get up to the level of ordinary, decent, good American boyhood. You may get there yet; I hope so. But come, sir, are you going to make a decent apology to Prescott and his friends for the contemptible things you've tried to do to them?" Somehow, Fred Ripley managed to mumble his way through an apology, though he kept his eyes on the floor all the while. Full of sympathy for the father who, if proud, was at least upright, Dick and his chums accepted that apology, offered their hands, then tip-toed out, leaving father and son together. CHAPTER XXII ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE SWIMMING POOL In the next few weeks, if Fred Ripley didn't improve greatly in popularity, he was at all events vastly quieter and more reserved in his manner. Tip Scammon had vanished, so far as common knowledge went. Mr. Ripley, feeling somewhat responsible for that scamp's wrong doing, in that Fred had put him up to his first serious wrong doing, had given Scammon some money and a start in another part of the country. That disappearance saved Scammon from a stern reckoning with Prescott's partners, who had not forgotten him. Fred was again a well-dressed boy, also a well-mannered one. He had very little to say, and he kept his snobbishness, if any remained, well concealed. Dick & Co., after the scene in the lawyer's office, if not exactly cordial with the unhappy junior, at all events remembered that they had agreed to "forget." Nor were Prescott and his chums priggish enough to take great credit to themselves for their behavior. They merely admitted among themselves that any fellow ought to have the show that was now accorded to the younger Ripley. Baseball had gone off with an hurrah this season, though there had been an enormous amount of hard work behind all the successes. Now, but one game remained. Out of fourteen played, so far, only one had resulted in a tie; the others had all been victories for Gridley. With the warm June weather commencement was looming near. One Wednesday morning there was a long and tedious amount of practice over the singing that was to be offered at the close of the school year. "Huh! I thought we'd never get through," snorted Prescott, as he raced out into the school yard. "And we were kept ten minutes over the usual time for recess." "Gee, but it's hot to-day," muttered Tom Reade, fanning himself with his straw hat. "Oh, what wouldn't I give, right now, for a good swim down at Foster's Pond!" muttered Purcell moodily. "Well, why can't we have it?" suggested Gint. "We couldn't get back by the time recess is over," replied Purcell. "The end of recess would be when we _did_ get back, wouldn't it!" asked a senior. "Let's go, anyway!" urged another boy, restlessly. As students were allowed to spend their recess quietly on the near-by streets, if they preferred, the girls generally deserted the yard. The spirit of mischievous mutiny was getting loose among the young men. Nor will anyone who remembers his own school days wonder much at that. In June, when the end of the school year is all but at hand, restraints become trebly irksome. Dick's own face was glowing. As much as any boy there he wanted a swim, just now, down in Foster's Pond. Oh, how he wanted it! "See here, fellows," Prescott called to some of the nearest ones. "And you especially, Charley Grady, for you're studying to be a lawyer." "What has a lawyer to do with the aching desire for a swim?" inquired Grady. "Well, post us a bit," begged Dick. "What was it the great Burke had to say about punishing a community?" "Why," responded Grady thoughtfully, "Burke laid down a theory that has since become a principle in law. It was to the effect that a community cannot be indicted." "All of us fellows---_all_ of us might be called a community, don't you think?" queried Dick. "Why---er---aha---hem!" responded Grady. "Oh, come, now, drop the extras," ordered Dick. "Time is short. Are we a community, in a sort of legal sense? Just plain yes or no." "Well, then, yes!" decided Grady. "Whoop!" ejaculated Dick, placing his straw hat back on his head and starting on a sprint out of the yard. His chums followed. Some of the fellows who were nearer the gate tried to reach it first. In an instant, the flight was general. "Come on, Rip! You're not going to hang back on the crowd, are you?" uttered one boy, reproachfully. "Don't spoil the community idea." So Fred Ripely tagged on at the rear of the flight. "What is it, boys---a fire?" called Laura Bentley. A dozen girls had drawn in, pressing against the wall, to let this whirlwind of boys go by. "Tell you when we get back," Purcell called. "Time presses now." It took the leaders only about four minutes to reach Foster's Pond. Even Ripley and the other tail-enders were on hand about a minute later. There was a fine grove here, fringed by thick bushes, and no houses near. In a jiffy the High School boys were disrobing. "And the fellow who 'chaws' anyone else's clothes, to-day," proposed Dick, "is to be thrown in and kept in, when he's dressed!" "Hear! hear!" Dick was one of the first to get stripped. He started on a run, glided out over a log that lay from the bank, and plunged headlong into one of the deepest pools. Then up he came, spouting water. "Come on, in, fellows! The water's _grand_!" he yelled. Splash! splash! The surface of the pond at that point was churned white. The bobbing heads made one think of huckleberries bobbing on a bowl of milk. Splash! splash! More were diving in. And now the fun and the frolic went swiftly to their height. "This is the real thing!" vented one ecstatic swimmer. "Down with 'do-re--mi-fa-sol!" "As long as we're all to be hanged together, what say if we don't go back at all to-day?" questioned Purcell. There were some affirmative shouts, but Dick, who had just stepped back on the bank for a moment shook his head. "Don't be hogs, fellows!" he urged. "Don't run a good thing into the ground. We'll have our swim, get well cooled off---and then we'd better go back looking as penitent as the circumstances seem to call for." "I guess it's the wise one talking," nodded Purcell, as he climbed to the bank preparatory to another dive. For at least twenty minutes the High School boys remained at their delightful sport. Then cries started here and there: "All out! All out!" Reluctantly the youngsters began to leave the water. "Now, don't let anyone lag," begged Purcell. "As we ran away together, we ought all to go back together." So dressing went on apace. Then the fellows began to look at each other, wonderingly. To be sure, they didn't stand so much in personal awe of the principal. But then Mr. Cantwell had the Board of Education behind him. There was Superintendent Eldridge, also, and back of it all, what parents might---oh, hang it, it began to look just a bit serious now. "Who are the heroes here?" called out one fellow. "Why?" demanded another. "Well, we need our assured brave ones to lead going back." "That's where the baseball squad comes in, then," nodded Purcell. "School nine and subs first, second team following. Then let the chilly-footed ones bring up the rear." "We can go back in column of fours," proposed Dick, as he fastened on his collar, "with no leaders or file-closers. Then it will be hard to guess at any ring-leaders." "That's the best idea yet," agreed Purcell. "Then, fellows, a block from the school, let the baseball squad form first, and then all of the rest of you fall in behind in column of fours, just as you happen along." "And keep good ranks, and march the best you know how," urged Dick. "Unyielding ranks may suggest the community idea to Prin." "Then we won't have to explain it," laughed Grady. "Oh, come, now," shouted another, "don't flatter yourselves that we're going to get out of some tall explaining." A block from the school the order was given to form fours. This was quickly done. Purcell, Dick, Darrin and Dan Dalzell composed the first four as the line turned into the yard. There at the main doorway the culprits beheld the principal. And that gentlemen certainly looked almost angry about something. The weather indications were for squalls in the High School. "Go to your seats in the assembly room," said the principal, coldly, as the head of the line neared him. As the boys wore no overcoats it was not necessary to file down to the locker rooms first. They marched into the hat room just off of the assembly room. And here they found Mr. Drake on duty. "No conversation here. Go directly to your seats," ordered Mr. Drake. The few girls who were not at classes looked up with eyes full of mischievous inquiry when the boys entered the big room. The principal and Mr. Drake took their seats on the platform. The late swimmers reached for their books, though most of them made but a pretense of study. Almost at once there was another diversion made by the girls who were returning from recitations. Then the bell was struck for the beginning of the next period. Out filed the sections. The boys began to feel that this ominous quiet boded them no good. Not until closing time did the principal make any reference to the affair. "The young ladies are dismissed for the day," he remarked. "The young gentlemen will remain." Clang! Then a dead silence fell over the room. It was broken, after a minute, by the principal, who asked: "Where were you, young gentlemen, when the end of recess bell rang this morning!" No one being addressed, no one answered. "Where were you, Mr. Purcell?" "Swimming at Foster's Pond, sir." "All of you?" "All of us, sir, I think." "Whose idea was it?" "As I remember, sir, the idea belonged to us all." "Who made the first proposal?" "That would be impossible to say, now, sir." "Do you remember anything about it?" "Yes, sir." "What was it?" "I believe the fellows voted that Mr. Grady, who is studying to be a lawyer, should represent us as counsel." "Ah! I shall be very glad, then, to hear from Judge Grady," the principal dryly remarked. "Judge" Grady bobbed up, smiling and confident---or he seemed so. As for the rest of the fellows, the principal's frigid coolness was beginning to get on their nerves. "Mr. Principal," began Grady, thrusting his right band in between his vest buttons, "the illustrious, perhaps immortal Burke, once elucidated a principle that has since become historic, authoritative and illuminating. Among American and English jurists alike, Burke's principle has been accepted as akin to the organic law and the idea is that a community cannot be indicted." It was a fine speech, for Grady had real genius in him, and this was the first chance he had ever had. The principal waited until the budding legal light had finished. Then Mr. Cantwell cleared his throat, to reply crisply: "While I will not venture to gainsay Burke, and he is not here to be cross-examined, I will say that the indictment of the community, in this instance, would mean the expulsion of all the young men in the High School. To that form of sentence I do not lean. A light form of punishment would be to prohibit absolutely the final baseball game of the school season. A sever form would be to withhold the diplomas of the young men of the graduating senior class. I think it likely that both forms of punishment will be administered, but I shall not announce my decision to-day. It will come later. The young men are dismissed." Clang! Dismay would have been a mild name for what the fellows felt when they found themselves outside the building. Of the principal, in a rage they were little afraid. But when the principal controlled his temper he was a man in authority and of dangerous power. After his own meal, and some scowling reflection, Mr. Cantwell set out to find his friend and backer in the Board of Education, Mr. Gadsby. That custodian of local education heard Mr. Cantwell through, after which he replied: "Er---um----ah---my dear Cantwell, you can't very well prohibit the game, or talk of withholding diplomas from the young men of the graduating class. Either course would make you tremendously unpopular. The people of Gridley would say that you were lacking in---era sense of humor." "Sense of humor?" raged the principal, getting up and pacing the floor. "Is it humorous to have a lot of young rascals running all over one's authority?" "Certainly not," responded Mr. Gadsby. "You should---er---preserve discipline." "How am I to preserve discipline, if I can't inflict punishments?" insisted Mr. Cantwell. "But you should---er---that is---my dear Cantwell, you should make the punishments merely fit the crimes." "In such an outrageous case as to-day's," fumed the principal, "what course would have been taken by the Dr. Thornton whom you are so fond of holding up to me as a man who knew how to handle boys?" "Dr. Thornton," responded Mr. Gadsby, "would have been ingenious in his punishment. How long were the boys out, over recess time?" "Twenty-five minutes." "Then," returned Mr. Gadsby, "I can quite see Dr. Thorton informing the young men that they would be expected to remain at least five times as long after school as they had been improperly away from it. That is---er---ah---he would have sent for his own dinner, and would have eaten it at his desk, with scores of hungry young men looking on while their own dinners went cold. At three o'clock---perhaps---Dr. Thornton would have dismissed the offenders. It would be many a day before the boys would try anything of that sort again on good old Thornton. But you, my dear Cantwell, I am afraid you have failed to make the boys respect you at all times. The power of enforcing respect is the basis of all discipline." "Then what shall I do with the young men this time?" "Since you have---er---missed your opportunity, you---er---can do nothing, now, but let it pass. Let them imagine, from day to day, that sentence is still suspended and hovering over them." Wily Dick Prescott had been to see Mr. Gadsby, just before the arrival of the principal. In his other capacity of reporter for "The Blade" the High School pitcher had said a few earnest words to his host. Mr. Gadsby, with his eye turned ever toward election day and the press, had been wholly willing to listen. CHAPTER XXIII THE AGONY OF THE LAST BIG GAME "Ya, ya, ya! Ye gotter do somethings!" This from Mr. Schimmelpodt. That gentleman was waving one of his short, fat arms wildly. It may as well be stated that from the smaller extremity of that arm, namely, his hand---a small crimson and gold banner attached to a stick cut circles in the air. "Go to it, Gridley!" "Get busy! You can't take a black eye at this end of the season." Gridley High School with a season's record of one tied game and a long tally of victories, seemed now in dire straits. Sides were changing for the last half of the ninth inning. Gridley had taken seven runs. Wayland High School, with six runs already to their credit, was now going to bat for the last inning unless the score should be tied. The perfect June day, just before commencement, had brought out a host. Wayland had sent nearly four hundred people. The total attendance was past four thousand paid admissions. Herr Schimmelpodt, who, since his first enthusiasm, had not missed a game, was now among the most concerned. The band was there, but silent. The leader knew that, in this state of affairs the spectators wanted to make the noise themselves. "Oh, you Dick!" "Strike 'em out as fast as they come up." "Save Gridley!" "Aw, let somebody have a game," roared a voice from the Wayland seats, "and we need this one!" "Prescott, remember the record!" "No defeats this year!" "Don't give us one, now!" Dick & Co. were in full force on the nine today. True, Dave Darrin sat only on the sub bench to-day, but he was ready to give relief at any moment if Gridley's beloved pitcher, Prescott, went under. Holmes was out in left field; Hazelton was the nimble shortstop; Dalzell pranced at the first bag on the diamond; Tom Reade was eternally vigilant on second base. Gridley's High School girls, devoted feminine fans as any in the world, were breathing soft and fast now. If only Dick, backed at need by the outfield, could keep Wayland from scoring further, then all was well. If Wayland should score even once in this inning, it would make a tie and call for a tenth inning. If Wayland scored twice---but that was too nerve-racking to contemplate. Then a hush fell. The umpire had called for play. Dick let drive with his most tantalizing spitball. The leather fell down gracefully under the Wayland's batsman's guess, and Purcell mitted the ball. "Strike one!" A hopeful cheer went up from Gridley seats, to be met with one word from Wayland fans: "Wait!" Dick served the second ball. Swat! There it went, arching up in the air, a fair hit. As fast as he could leg it went Holmes after it, and with good judgment. But the ball got there before Greg did. In a twinkling, the young left fielder had the ball up and in motion. Tom Reade caught it deftly at second, and wheeled toward first. But the runner saw his error in leaving first, and slid back in season. Turning back, with his lips close together, Dick tried a new batsman. Two strikes, and then the visitor sent out a little pop-over that touched ground and rolled ere Harry Hazelton could race in and get it, driving it on to first base. "Safe at first," called the umpire, and the other Waylander had reached second. "O-o-o-h!" "Don't let 'em have it, Dick---_don't_!" The wail that reached his ears was pathetic, but Prescott paid no heed. He was always all but deaf to remarks from the spectators. He knew what he was trying to do, and he was coming as close as a hard-worked pitcher could get to that idea at the fag-end of the game. The fatigue germ was hard at work in the young pitcher's wrist, but Dick nerved himself for better efforts. Despite him, however, a third batsman got away from him, and from Greg, and now the bases were full. "_O-o-oh, Dick_!" It was a wail, full of despair. Though he paid no direct heed to it the sorely pressed young pitcher put up his left hand to wipe the old sweat out of his eyes. His heart was pounding with the strain of it. Dick Prescott, born soldier, would have died for victory, _just_ then. At least, that was what he felt. The Wayland man who now stood over the plate looked like a grinning monkey as he took the pitcher's measure. "Go to it, Dickson---kill the ball!" roared the visiting fans. "Just a little two-bagger---that's all!" Dick felt something fluttering inside. In himself he felt the whole Gridley honor and fame revolving during that moment. Then he resolutely choked down the feeling. The umpire was signaling impatiently for him to deliver. Dick essayed a jump ball. With a broadening grin Dickson of Wayland reached for it vigorously. He struck it, but feebly. Another of those short-winded, high-arched pops went up in air. There was no hope or chance for Hazelton to get to the spot in time---and Wayland's man away from third was steaming in while Purcell made the home plate at a bound. Dick raced---raced for all he was worth, though his heart felt as if steam had shut down. Across the grass raced Prescott, as though he believed he could make history in fifths of seconds. In his speed he went too far. The ball was due to come down behind him. There was no time to think. Running at full speed as he was, Pitcher Dick rose in the air. It looked like an incredible leap---but he made it. His hands pulled the slow-moving popball down out of the air. Barely did Dick's feet touch the ground when he simply reached over and dropped the ball at Purcell. The captain of the Gridley nine dropped to one knee, hands low, but he took the leather in---took it just the bare part of a second before the Waylander from third got there. For an instant the dazed crowd held its breath just long enough to hear the umpire announce. "Striker out! Out at home plate. Two out!" Then the tumult broke loose. For an instant or two Dick stood dizzy just where he had landed on his feet. Umpire Davidson came bounding over. "Do you want to call for a relief pitcher, Prescott?" "No---Wayland pitched all through with one man!" Back to the box marched Dick Prescott, but he took his time about it. He had need of a clear head and steadier nerves and muscles, for Wayland had a man again at third, and another dancing away from second. There was plenty of chance yet to lose. "Prescott ought to call you out," whispered Fred Ripley to Dave. "And I'd get out there on the dead run, just as you would, Rip. But you know how Dick feels. Wayland went through on one man, and Dick's going to do it if he lives through the next few minutes!" While that momentary dizziness lasted, something happened that caused the young pitcher to flush with humiliation. Sandwiched in between two strikes were called balls enough to send the new batsman to first, and again the bases were full. One more "bad break" of this kind and Wayland would receive the tie run as a present. And then one more---it would be the High School pitcher handing the only lost game of the season as a gift to the visitors! Dick braced himself supremely for the next man at bat. "Strike one!" It wasn't the batter's fault. A very imp had sat on the spitball that Prescott bowled in. "Strike two!" The batsman was sweating nervously, but he couldn't help it. Dick Prescott had fairly forced himself into the form of the first inning. But it couldn't last. Gink! It was only a little crack at the ball, struck rather downward. A grounding ball struck the grit and rolled out toward right infield. There was no shortstop here. The instant that Prescott took in the direction he was on the run. There was no time to get there ahead of the rolling leather. It was Dick's left foot that stopped it, but in the same fraction of a second he bent and swooped it up---wheeled. Wayland's man from third base looked three fourths of the way in. Captain Purcell, half frantic, was doubled up at the home plate. Into that throw Dick put all the steam he had left in. The leather gone from his hand, he waited. His heart seemed to stop. To half the eyes that looked on, ball and runner seemed to reach the home plate at the same instant. The umpire, crouching, squinting, had the best view of all. It was an age before Dick, with the mists before his eyes, heard the faraway words for which thousands waited breathlessly: "Out at home---three out!" Three disheartened base runners turned and slouched dispiritedly toward the dressing rooms. "You could have hit that ball a better swipe," growled Wayland's captain to the last man at bat. The victim of the rebuke didn't answer. He knew that he had faced a pitcher wholly rejuvenated by sheer grit and nerve force. At its loudest the band was blaring forth "At the Old Ball Game," and thousands were following with the words. Wayland fans were strolling away in dejection, but Gridley folks stood up to watch and cheer. The whole nine had done its duty in fine shape, but Dick Prescott had made himself the idol of the Gridley diamond. When the band stopped, the cheers welled forth. The lion's share was for Prescott, but Darrin was not forgotten. Even Ripley, who had pitched three of the minor games, came in for some notice. Dick? With the strain and suspense gone he felt limp and weak for a few minutes. Under the cold shower he revived somewhat. Yet, when he started homeward, he found that he ached all over. With the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his right wrist was a huge boil. At the gateway Schimmelpodt, that true devotee of sport, waited. As the young High School pitcher came forth Herr Schimmelpodt rested a fat hand on the boy's shoulder, whispering in his ear: "Ach! But I know vere is dere a _real_ jointed fishpole. It was two dollar, but now it stands itself by, marked to one-nineteen. In der morning, Bresgott, it shall be yours. Und listen!" Dick looked up into the blinking eyes. "Dot fishpole for der summer use is goot fine! Und venever you see me going by bis my vagon, don't you be slow to holler und ask me for a ride!" CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION Commencement Day! For a large percentage of High School boys and girls, the end of the sophomore year marks the end of their schooling. This was true at Gridley as elsewhere. When the crowd came forth from commencement exercises at the Opera House on this bright, warm June afternoon, there were not a few of the sophomores who were saying good-bye to the classic halls of instruction. Not so, however, with Dick & Co. They were bound all the way through the course, and hoped to take up with college or other academic training when once good old Gridley High School must be left behind. "What are you going to do this summer, Prescott?" asked Dr. Bentley, gripping the lad's arm, as Dick stood on the sidewalk chatting with Dave Darrin. "Work, mostly, doctor. I'm getting near the age when fellow should try to bear some of the expense of keeping himself." "What will you work at?" "Why, reporting for 'The Blade.' I believe I can capture a good many stray dollars this summer." "Good enough," murmured Dr. Bentley, approvingly. "But are you going to have any spare time?" "A little, I hope---just about enough for some rest." "Then I'll tell you where you can take that rest," went on the medical man. "My family are going into camp for the summer, in three days. They'll be over at the lake range, on a piece of ground that I've bought there. You can get over once in a while, and spend a night or two, can't you? Mrs. Bentley charged me to ask you and Darrin," added the physician. "Belle Meade is going to spend the summer in camp with Laura." Both boys were prompt with their thanks. "Confound it," muttered Dr. Bentley, "I'm forgetting two thirds of my message at that. The invitation includes all of Dick & Co. Now remember you'll all be looked for from time to time, and most heartily welcome." Both boys were most hearty in their thanks. This took care of whatever spare time they might have, for Dave, too, was to be busy a good deal of the time. He had work as an extra clerk at the express office. Then the two girl chums came along. Dick and Dave strolled along with Laura and Belle. The other partners of Dick & Co. were soon to be seen, their narrow-brimmed straw hats close to bobbing picture hats. "Your father gave us a message, Laura," Dick murmured to the girl beside him. "And you're going to accept it?" asked the girl quickly. "At any chance to be honestly away from work," Dick promised fervently. "Yet at my age a fellow must keep something of an eye toward business, too, Laura." "Yes," she answered slowly, glancing covertly at the bronzed young face and the strong, lithe body. "You're nearing manhood, Dick." "Just about as rapidly as you're growing into womanhood, Laura," answered the boy. Dave and Belle were chatting, too, but what they said wouldn't interest very staid old people. Gridley was prouder than ever of its athletic teams. The great record in baseball, with Dick & Co. in the team, was something worth talking about. Lest there be some who may think that a season of baseball with no defeats is an all but impossible record, the chronicler hastens to add that there are, through the length and breadth of these United States, several High School teams every year that make such a showing. Yet, in baseball, as in everything else, the record is reached only by nines like the Gridley crowd, where the stiffest training, the best coaches and the best individual nerve and grit among the players are to be found. Did Fred Ripley truly make good? What else happened? These and various other burning questions must now be answered in the chronicle of the time to which they belonged. So the reader is referred to the next volume in this series, which is to be published at once under the caption: "_The High School Left End; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron_." At the same time, no interested reader will allow himself to overlook the second volume in the "_High School Boys' Vacation Series_," which runs parallel with this present series. All the wonderful summer vacation adventures that followed the sophomore year of Prescott and his chums will be found in the volume published under the title, "_The High School Boys' In Summer Camp; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven_." It is a thrilling story that no follower of the fortunes of these lads can afford to overlook. THE END 
39291	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Characters enclosed by curly braces are superscripted (example: iii{d}) BOY LABOUR AND APPRENTICESHIP * * * * * SOME PRESS OPINIONS Times.--"The problem already felt acutely in London and in large towns has now appeared even in the country town and village, and to those who still doubt its extent or seriousness we commend this most instructive work." Morning Post.--"An important book on an important subject." Daily News.--"Mr. Bray's book is as full of counsel as of instruction, and it should be in the hands of every student of one of the most serious of social problems." * * * * * BOY LABOUR AND APPRENTICESHIP by REGINALD A. BRAY L.C.C. Author of "The Town Child" Second Impression London Constable & Co. Ltd. 1912 PREFACE We are beginning to realize clearly that all is not well with the youth of this country. From all sides complaints of neglect, and the evils of neglect, are thronging in. Boys as they leave school are casting off the shackles of parental control, and, with no intervening period of youth, are assuming the full independence of the adult. The old apprenticeship system is falling into disuse, and methods of industrial training are at once unsatisfactory and, for the majority, difficult to obtain. Boys in increasing numbers are entering occupations where they learn nothing and forget all they have previously learned, and in which they can see no prospects of employment when manhood is reached. As a consequence, there is a general drift into the army of unskilled labour, and later into the ranks of the unemployed. All expert opinion is unanimous in voicing these complaints. The Report of the Poor Law Commission, Majority and Minority alike, with its volumes of special inquiries and evidence, is one long testimony to the gravity of the evils which are the consequence of neglected youth. Further, we are coming to understand that the period of adolescence forms a critical epoch in the development of the lad. "The forces of sin and those of virtue never struggle so hotly for possession of the youthful soul." [1] And the boy too often is left to fight out this struggle without assistance, and even without advice. The conditions of modern life are increasingly hard on youth. "Never has youth," says Mr. Stanley Hall, the greatest living authority on adolescence, "been exposed to such dangers of both perversion and arrest as in our land and day. Increasing urban life, with its temptations, prematurities, sedentary occupations, and passive stimuli, just when an active objective life is most needed; early emancipation and a lessening sense for both duty and discipline; the haste to know and do all befitting man's estate before its time; the mad rush for sudden wealth, and the reckless fashions set by its gilded youth----" all in increasing degree imperil the passage to manhood. And, lastly, we are compelled to confess that an evil which is at once a grave and a growing evil is one which demands immediate attention. It is not a problem that can be laid on the shelf for that convenient season which never arrives, when legislators have nothing else to think about. There is urgent need for reform in the near future, unless we would see a further degeneration of the youth of the country. The object of this volume is altogether practical--to show what reforms are necessary to prevent the growth of the evil by laying the foundation of a new and true apprenticeship system. But to achieve this object it is necessary first to explain how the problem was dealt with in days gone by, when life was more stable and industrial conditions less complex; and, secondly, to understand in detail the characteristic features of the question as it presents itself to-day. Only with the experience of the past and the present to guide us can we face the future with any hope of controlling its destinies. As "she" is mentioned nowhere else in the volume, it seems desirable to say a word here about the girl. This book is, indeed, concerned with boys alone, but, with a few changes in details, all that is written about conditions, and all that is recommended in the way of reforms, is equally applicable in her case also. I have endeavoured, even at the risk of being termed unduly dogmatic, to make my proposals for reform as definite as possible. I have done so in the cause of clearness. But if I fail to carry my readers with me all the way, I shall be well content if only I have succeeded in starting them on a pilgrimage in quest of the new apprenticeship system. REGINALD A. BRAY. ADDINGTON SQUARE, CAMBERWELL, S.E. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE v CHAPTER I THE ESSENTIALS OF APPRENTICESHIP 1 CHAPTER II THE OLD APPRENTICESHIP 4 I. The Age of the Gilds 4 II. The Statute of Apprentices 11 III. The Industrial Revolution 20 CHAPTER III THE AGE OF RECONSTRUCTION 26 CHAPTER IV THE GUARDIANSHIP OF THE STATE 36 I. State Supervision 36 § 1. State Regulation 37 (_a_) Prohibition of Employment 41 (_b_) Limitation of Hours 43 (_c_) Protection of Health 52 § 2. State Enterprise 59 II. State Training 62 (_a_) The Elementary School 63 (_b_) The Continuation School 65 III. State Provision of an Opening 70 CHAPTER V APPRENTICESHIP OF TO-DAY 75 I. The Contribution of the State 76 § 1. State Regulation 76 § 2. State Enterprise 83 § 3. Summary 88 II. The Contribution of Philanthropy 89 III. The Contribution of the Home 92 § 1. The Boy of School Age 96 § 2. The Boy after School Days 100 IV. The Contribution of the Workshop 103 § 1. London 104 (_a_) The Employment of School-Children 105 (_b_) The Entry to a Trade 113 (_c_) The Passage to Manhood 142 (_d_) Summary 149 § 2. Other Towns 151 (_a_) The Employment of School-Children 151 (_b_) The Entry to a Trade 155 (_c_) The Passage to Manhood 160 § 3. Rural Districts 161 V. The Break-up of Apprenticeship 165 CHAPTER VI THE NEW APPRENTICESHIP 176 I. Supervision 191 (_a_) The Raising of the School Age 192 (_b_) The Prohibition of Child Labour 195 (_c_) The New Half-Time System 197 (_d_) The Parents' Point of View 202 II. Training 207 III. The Provision of an Opening 221 IV. General Conclusions 231 LIST OF AUTHORITIES 241 INDEX 245 BOY LABOUR AND APPRENTICESHIP CHAPTER I THE ESSENTIALS OF APPRENTICESHIP Originally the term "apprenticeship" was employed to signify not merely the practical training in the mysteries of a trade, but also that wider training of character and intelligence on which depends the real efficiency of the craftsman. Apprenticeship was regarded as a preparation for life, and not only as a preparation for the workshop. It is in this sense that the word is used throughout the present volume. In a volume concerned with any branch of social reform, and consequently likely to arouse differences of opinion, it is always desirable to start on good terms with the reader. This can best be done by beginning with assumptions the truth of which no one is likely to call in question. In dealing with the problem of boy labour and apprenticeship, it is not difficult to venture on certain statements which will receive the unqualified approval of all. An apprenticeship system worthy of the name must satisfy three conditions. First, it must provide for the adequate supervision of boys until they reach at least the age of eighteen. Before that age a lad is not fit to be his own master, and should remain at least to some extent under the control of elder persons. Such supervision must have respect both to his conduct and to his physical development. Secondly, an apprenticeship system must offer full opportunities of training, both general and special--the training of the citizen and the training of the worker. And, lastly, it must lead forward to some opening in the ranks of adult labour, for which definite preparation has been made, and in which good character may find reasonable prospects of permanent employment. Supervision, training, the provision of a suitable opening--these must be regarded as the three essentials of an apprenticeship system. How they may be assured is, no doubt, a problem which invites controversy; that they ought to be assured will be allowed by all. Further, it is perhaps allowable to assume that an apprenticeship system must not be regarded merely as a means of entering a skilled trade. We must not think of it as an organization reserved for a comparatively small section of the community: all must be brought within the sphere of its influence. All boys alike need supervision; all boys alike require some training; all boys alike should see before them, as manhood approaches, the prospects of an opening in some form of occupation where diligence and aptitude may receive its due reward. And all alike must one day play their part in the complex life of the State. We want some to be skilled workers; we want all to be intelligent and well-conducted citizens. Apprenticeship, then, using the word in its widest sense, must be universal. Here again, it is hoped, the reader may express his agreement. In what follows an attempt is made to examine the old apprenticeship system, to criticize apprenticeship as it exists to-day, and so to lead on to proposals which will pave the way for the coming of the new and real apprenticeship system of to-morrow. Throughout, the industrial organization will be judged by bringing it to the test of the principles just laid down. An apprenticeship system must be universal; it must make proper provision for three essentials--supervision, training, opening. Where these are wanting, in whole or in part, the youth of the nation must, in a more or less degree, suffer irreparable loss. CHAPTER II THE OLD APPRENTICESHIP Prior to the nineteenth century and the beginning of factory legislation the conditions of boy labour were determined in and through the industrial organization of the times. Of this organization, so far as the youthful worker was concerned, the indentured apprenticeship system formed the most characteristic feature. The history of the apprenticeship system falls into three periods. In the first the gilds were the predominant factor; in the second the State, by prescribing a seven years' apprenticeship, insured the continuance of the system; in the third the industrial revolution and the triumph of _laissez-faire_ ushered in the age of decay and dissolution. I. THE AGE OF THE GILDS. During the Early and Middle Ages the gilds constituted the central feature of the industrial organization. The merchant gilds began to come into existence in the second half of the eleventh century.[2] They were societies formed for the purpose of obtaining the exclusive privilege of carrying on trades. Later they became either identified with the municipal body, or a specialized department of that authority. The craft gilds appeared about a century later, and were associations of artisans engaged in a particular industry. It is not necessary here to enter on a discussion of the complex relations between these two kinds of gilds. The subject is obscure, but, so far as concerns the regulation of boy labour, the general facts are unquestioned. Either by obtaining a royal charter of their own or by using the authority of the municipality, the gilds were enabled to prescribe, down to the most minute details, the conditions under which the trades of the district were carried on. The control was essentially of a local character, varying from place to place; it was, moreover, a control with, for all practical purposes, the full force of the law at its back. "The towns and even the villages had their gilds, and it is certain that these gilds were the agencies by which the common interests of labour were protected." [3] The gild organization included three classes of person--the apprentice, the journeyman, and the master. _The Apprentice._--The apprentice paid the master a premium, and was indentured to him for a period of years, usually seven. He lived in his master's house, and received from him, in addition to board and clothing, wages on a low and rising scale. The master engaged to teach him his trade, and the boy promised to serve his master honestly and obediently. The following is a typical example of a fifteenth-century indenture:[4] "This indenture made the xviii of September the year of the reign of King Edward the iiiith the xxth between John Gare of Saint Mary Cray in the county of Kent, cordwainer on that oon partie and Walter Byse, son of John Byse sumtyme of Wimelton, in the same county, fuller on that other partie, Witnesseth that the saide Walter hath covenanted with the saide John Gare for the time of vii yeres, and that the saide John Gare shall find the saide Walter mete and drink and clothing during the saide time as to the saide Walter shall be according. Also the saide John Gare shall teche the saide Walter his craft, as he may and can, and also the saide John Gare shall give him the first yere of the said vii yeres iii{d} in money and the second yere vi{d} and so after the rate of iii{d} to an yere, and the last yere of the saide vii yeres the saide John Gare shall give unto the said Walter x shillings of money. And the saide Walter shall will and truly keep his occupacyon and do such things as the saide John shall bid him do, as unto the saide Walter shall be lawful and lefull, and the saide Walter shall be none ale goer neyther to no rebeld nor sporte during the saide vii yeres without the licence of the saide John. In witness whereof the parties aforesaide chaungeably have put their seales this daye and yere abovesaide." _The Journeyman._--At the expiration of the identureship the apprentice became a journeyman. The change of status, beyond bringing with it a rise in wages, made no great difference to the youth. He usually continued to work for his master, and not infrequently remained a lodger in his house. To some extent the master was still responsible for the good conduct of his journeymen. Various regulations forbade the master to entice away the journeymen of others and the journeymen to combine against the masters. _The Master._--By a somewhat similar process of growth and without any sudden break in social status, the journeyman became a master. Between journeyman and master there were no class distinctions. Both worked at their craft; and, in an age preceding the era of capitalistic production on a large scale, the need of capital to start business on his own account presented no difficulties which could not easily be overcome by any intelligent journeyman. Period of apprenticeship, hours and conditions of work, wages and premiums, were all rigidly determined by the rules of the gild. Through its officers the gild visited the workshops, inspected the articles in process of manufacture, satisfied themselves as to their quality, prescribed methods of production, were empowered to confiscate tools not sanctioned by the regulations, and settled all disputes between the three classes of persons concerned. Masters, journeymen, and apprentices alike benefited by an organization which was created and controlled in their common interests; while the general public were well served in the system of expert inspection which guaranteed the quality of the goods supplied. The gild, in short, was "the representation of the interests, not of one class alone, but of the three distinct and somewhat antagonistic elements of modern society--the capitalist _entrepreneur_, the manual worker, and the consumer at large." [5] From the point of view of the boy's training the system presented unique advantages. To the age of twenty-one, and sometimes twenty-four, he was under control. Living in the same house as his master, that control was paternal in character, inspired by a living and individual interest in his welfare. He received a thorough training in the trade to which he was indentured. Finally, when apprenticeship was over, he found ready-made for himself an opening that led upwards from the journeyman to the small master. Under this system there was no boy his own master from an early age, no master irresponsible for the conduct of his boys outside the workshops, and no blind alley of boy employment that closed with boyhood and ended in the sink of unskilled labour. It its best days the gilds represented something more than a privileged trade organization. The close connection between the gilds and the municipality guarded the interests of the public. "The city authorities looked to the wardens of each craft to keep the men under their charge in order; and thus for every public scandal, or underhand attempt to cheat, someone was responsible, and the responsibility could, generally speaking, be brought home to the right person." [6] Further, there was no sharp barrier between trade and trade. It is true that no one could enter a trade without being apprenticed, but the person who had served his seven years' apprenticeship in any one trade became free to follow all trades within the city.[7] The gild system represented therefore something very different from the individualist methods of modern times. There was in a real sense, at any rate in each town, a trade organization under no inconsiderable amount of collective control. But the organization of the gild was suited only to the conditions of a more or less primitive society. For a country rising rapidly to a front place in the commercial world it was ill adapted. Increasing trade brought wealth and a desire for wealth; and with wealth came power to those who possessed it. The richer members of the gild gained the upper hand in the administration of its affairs and oppressed the poorer.[8] The gild was no longer an association of equals; and the weaker went to the wall. Competition turned the methods of production in the direction of cheapness rather than good quality; and the supervisory functions of the gild disappeared. In general the whole system, rigid and inelastic, became a heavy drag on the industrial organization. The members had paid for their privileges in money and a long apprenticeship, and bitterly resented the appearance of intruders not hall-marked by the gild. With shortsighted policy, the gilds limited admissions by exacting high entrance-fees, and strove to secure the maximum of benefits for the smallest possible number. No longer an association of equals, united by common interests and a common outlook; no longer a guarantee of excellence in matters of craftmanship; no longer the guardian of the interests of the general public, but a narrow sect claiming exclusive privileges--the gilds, rent by strife and envy within, and regarded with open hostility by those outside, drifted slowly towards that inevitable end which awaits those who seek to sacrifice the needs of all on the altar of the selfish desires of the few. "In the sixteenth century," says Dr. Cunningham, "the gilds had in many cases so entirely lost their original character that they had not only ceased to serve useful purposes, but their ill-judged interference drove workmen to leave the towns and establish themselves in villages where the gilds had no jurisdiction." [9] They received their death-blow in the year 1547, through the legislation directed against the property of the semi-religious bodies. With the decay of the gilds and their final dissolution passed the ancient system which had for centuries regulated the conditions of boy labour. So far as the boy was concerned the system was founded on three principles: It recognized his need for prolonged control and supervision, and made provision for the need by securing for him, through his master, an interest at once individual and paternal. It recognized the need for a thorough training in the mysteries of the craft; and it recognized the need that, at the close of this training, the lad should find opening out for him a career for which he had been specially prepared. And it made provision for these needs by its scheme of inspection and control carried on by those responsible for the common interests of the trade. In short, the gild organization, in its earlier and flourishing days, may justly be regarded as satisfying the conditions of a true apprenticeship system. II. THE STATUTE OF APPRENTICES. If the gild system was dead, the principles for which it stood and made provision continued to be as important as ever. Nor under the industrial conditions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did there appear to be any practical difficulty in the way of enforcement. The small master remained, and with him remained the possibility of an effective apprenticeship system. Regulated by custom or by the municipal authority, apprenticeship lost nothing of its old vitality. Indeed, with the increase of trade and the increasing profits derived from trade, it became more popular than ever. None the less, signs are not wanting that people were conscious of faults in the industrial organization. Into the statute book of the period creep frequent allusions to intruders who had entered the trade other than through the door of apprenticeship. There was nothing new in these complaints; they existed even in the best days of the gilds. "We seem at a very early time," says Mrs. Green, "to detect behind the gild system a growing class of 'uncovenanted labour,' which the policy of the employers constantly tended to foster, their aim being on the one hand to limit the number of privileged serving-men, and on the other to increase the supply of uncovenanted labour." [10] But with the decay of the supervisory functions of the gild these complaints became more frequent. The condition of this "uncovenanted labour" has always been the unsolved problem in any apprenticeship system. If uncovenanted labour is allowed to enter a trade on the same terms as those who have served an apprenticeship, the latter have clearly a grievance. They have paid for their privilege in premium and long service at low wages, and not unnaturally demand some assured recompense in return. If, on the other hand, uncovenanted labour is rigidly excluded, there is no method of rapidly increasing the supply of workers in times of expanding trade. From this dilemma there is but one way of escape. All boys, irrespective of the trades they follow, must pass through a system of apprenticeship before they are permitted to earn the wages of a man. Two conditions are necessary to success. First, all boys without exception must serve an apprenticeship; secondly, having served this apprenticeship, they must not in their employment be restricted to the trade to which they have been indentured. As already shown, the gilds, at any rate in certain districts, allowed a person who had served an apprenticeship in one trade to be free of all the trades of the town. The gilds satisfied the second condition, and in their earlier days, when they included the majority of the population, they satisfied to a large extent the second condition as well. To satisfy the first condition was clearly, as will appear later, the intention of the Statute of Apprentices. But apart from the problem of uncovenanted labour, the disappearance of the controlling influence of the gilds left many anomalies. Here apprenticeship was regulated by custom, here by charter, and there left undetermined. In one place a certain period of service was exacted, in another place a different period. Finally, in the minds of the leaders of the day there was firmly fixed the belief that, as trade was becoming the life-blood of the nation, there was need of a general and consolidating Act giving the force of law to what was often only a floating custom applicable in a certain district. In the reign of Elizabeth these growing feelings of discontent found voice in an Act which marks an epoch in industrial legislation. It is usually known as the Statute of Artificers and Apprentices. After reciting the confusion that existed in previous legislation, the preamble continues: "So if the substance of as many of the said Laws as are meet to be continued shall be digested and reduced into one sole law and Statute, and in the same an uniform Order prescribed and limited concerning the Wages and other Orders for Apprentices, Servants and Labourers, there is good hope that it will come to pass, that the same law (being duly executed) should banish Idleness, advance Husbandry, and yield unto the hired person, both in the time of Scarcity and in the time of Plenty, a conventient Proportion of Wages." [11] We are here concerned with the Act only so far as it affects the conditions of boy labour. The principal regulations are the following: "No person shall retain a servant in their services (_i.e._, in employment for which apprenticeship was required) under one whole Year." [12] Husbandmen may take apprentices "from the age of 10 until 21 at least," or till twenty-four by agreement.[13] Householders in towns may "have and retain the son of any Freeman not occupying Husbandry nor being a Labourer ... to serve and be bound as an Apprentice, after the Custom and Order of the City of London, for seven years at the least so as the Term and years of such Apprentice do not expire or determine after such Apprentice shall be of the Age of twenty-four Years at the least." [14] "None may use any manual occupacyon unless he hath been apprenticed to the same as above." [15] "If a person be required by any Householder to be an Apprentice and refuse he may be brought before a justice of the peace who is empourred to commit him unto Ward, there to remain until he be contented, and will be bounden to serve as an Apprentice should serve." [16] The Elizabethan Poor Law gave additional powers with regard to the compulsory apprenticing of those likely to fall into evil ways, and made it lawful for churchwardens and overseers "to bind any such children as aforesaid to be Apprentices, when they shall see convenient, till such Man child shall come to the age of four-and-twenty yeares." [17] Taken together, these two Acts gave to public authorities large powers of control over the growing boy. They did not, indeed, provide that everyone should be apprenticed, but in the majority of occupations no one could be employed unless he had served his time. Nor did they allow a person who had been apprenticed to one trade to work at another. But they applied the system of compulsory apprenticeship to all parts of the country, and they made provision for the proper care, by way of apprenticeship, of neglected children. People of the time were clearly of one mind in their desire to supervise, through the State, the training of the youth. "Contemporary opinion held that it was neither good for society nor trade that the young man should enjoy any independence. 'Until a man grows unto the age of xxiii yeares he for the moste parte, thoughe not alwayes, is wilde, withoute Judgment, and not of sufficient experience to govern himself. Nor (many tymes) grown unto the full or perfect knowledge of the arte or occupation that he professed.'" [18] As to the general effect of the far-reaching Statute of Apprentices, it is not possible to do better than quote Dr. Cunningham: "A proof of the wisdom of the measure seems to lie in the fact that we have no complaints as to these restrictions in the Act or proposals for amending the clauses, but that, on the contrary, there was, on more than one occasion, a demand that it should be rigorously enforced, so that the industrial system of the country should be really reduced to order." [19] For more than two centuries, without amendment, the Act remained in force; and while it lasted it provided at least the possibility for the adequate training and supervision of the youth of the country. These two centuries constitute the second stage in the history of boy labour regulation. From a superficial point of view there appears no essential difference between this period and the preceding. In the first apprenticeship was enforced through the action of the gilds, in the second by special legislative enactment. In either case apprenticeship was, for all practical purposes, compulsory; but here the similarity ends. Under the régime of the gilds apprenticeship was enforced, but in addition its conditions were determined by a careful system of regulation. The gild, an association representing the three classes concerned--masters, journeymen, apprentices--supervised the industrial organization in the interests of all alike. In the best days of the gilds the trade, as a whole, inspected the workshops; the trade, as a whole, watched over the training of the youth; the trade, as a whole, so fixed the number of those entering, that at the conclusion of the apprenticeship there was room in the ranks of the skilled artisan for those who had learned their craft. During the disintegration of the gilds, this second factor gradually disappeared. The Statute of Apprentices did indeed make apprenticeship compulsory, but provided no efficient system of regulation. Measures were frequently advocated and occasionally embodied in Acts for determining the proportion of apprentices to journeymen, but never proved effective. We see gradually emerging the struggle between the conflicting interests of those engaged in production. A seven years' apprenticeship, enforced by law, gave the employers a source of cheap labour, and we begin to hear complaints that the number of apprentices was unduly multiplied and that boys were taking the place of men. To what extent this practice prevailed it is not easy to ascertain; but there is no question that, at any rate among one class of apprentice--the pauper apprentice--abuses were grave and frequent. The whole story of the pauper apprentice forms an ugly episode in the industrial history of the period. The Statute Book is punctuated with frequent allusion to his unfortunate lot, coupled with proposals for reform, for the most part ineffective. As already mentioned, the overseers had large powers of compulsorily apprenticing the children of the poor. A sum was paid to the employer, the lad handed over, and no steps taken to guard his well-being or guarantee his training. It was inevitable that under conditions such as these abuses should occur. The employer found himself provided with a continual supply of lads, bound to serve him until the age of twenty-one, or sometimes twenty-four; he was not troubled by visits of inspectors; he could use them as he pleased. The luckless apprentices were herded together in overcrowded and insanitary dwellings; they were overworked and underfed; they learned no trade, and were regarded as a cheap form of unskilled labour. If they misbehaved themselves the justices of the peace would punish them; if they ran away the law would see to it that they were returned to their masters; if they complained of ill-treatment there was no one to substantiate the charge. Whole trades seemed to have flourished by exploiting the parish apprentices; and not infrequently the overseer, himself an employer, made a comfortable profit out of their misfortunes.[20] In his "History of the Poor Law" Sir G. Nicholls summarizes the legislation on the subject.[21] With the rapid increase in the number of paupers at the close of the eighteenth century these evils multiplied, and to an increasing extent engaged the public attention. If one class of apprentice was thus exploited, it is difficult to resist the conclusion that, in a less degree, others suffered in a similar way. Compulsory apprenticeship, without effective regulation, brought with it the danger of compulsory servitude. The State was conscious of the danger, and duties of supervision were laid on the justices of the peace. The State was likewise conscious of the value of apprenticeship, and gave much attention to the subject. A Commission of Charles I. dealt with the problem, while an Act of James I. was concerned with the misuse of apprenticeship charities, which led to children being brought up in idleness, "to their utter overthrow and the great prejudice of the commonwealth." [22] But legislation proved incapable of preventing evils which increased rapidly as the years went by. From the standpoint of the boy the second period, whose characteristic was compulsion without supervision, was distinctly inferior to the first, when the gilds regulated the affairs of the trade for the common good. But if the apprenticeship system was weakening and abuses on the increase, an effective training was always possible. The small master still remained, there was still the call for the all-round craftsman, and the huge changes in methods of production, that were destined to appear later, still lay in the mists of the future. III. THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION. It was the invention of the steam-engine and the consequent introduction of machinery that ushered in the period of the industrial revolution. In the trades affected the consequences were immediate, profound, and disastrous for boys, journeymen, and small masters alike. "On the whole, machinery rendered it possible in many departments of industry to substitute unskilled for skilled labour." [23] In branches of certain trades boys took the place of men. "Under the new conditions (of calico-printing) boys could be employed in what had been hitherto the work of men; so that, in the introduction of machinery, complaints began to be made by the journeymen as to the undue multiplication of apprentices. There was one shop in Lancashire where fifty-five apprentices had been working at one time and only two journeymen; it was obvious that under such circumstances the man who had served his time had very little hope of obtaining employment." [24] A system of compulsory apprenticeship, under such conditions, was exploited for the benefit of the employer, and led inevitably to the injury of the boy. The latter was bound and could not escape, while the former could readily find an excuse for discharging an apprentice. Further, with the growing division of labour and the separation of boys' work from men's work, training became less easy. The boy was kept to a single operation, and when his time was up found no further call for his services. The position of the workmen in the trade appeared desperate. Owing to the competition of boys and the decrease in the demand for his skill, wages were rapidly falling, and at the same time the price of corn was rising by leaps and bounds. The small master, unable to compete with the cheapness of the machine-made goods, fared as badly as the journeyman. Both appealed to Parliament for redress, "usually demanding the prohibition of the new machines, the enforcement of a seven years' apprenticeship, or the maintenance of the old limitation of the number of boys to be taught by each employer." [25] But appeals of this kind fell on deaf ears. The spirit of the age was against interference, and opposition to all form of regulation was rapidly growing. The Statute of Apprentices was disliked by the large employers, and an eager agitation began for its repeal. Though obsolescent, it was still sufficiently alive to be troublesome. A seven years' apprenticeship, it was argued, was unnecessarily long; weaving, for example, could be learnt in two or three years. A Commission was appointed to consider the question, and the large employers pointed out "that the new processes could be learnt in a few months instead of seven years; and that the restriction of the old master craftsman to two or three apprentices apiece was out of the question with the new buyers of labour on a large scale." [26] In the House of Commons "Mr. Sergeant Onslow urged the repeal of the Act, and remarked that 'the reign of Elizabeth was not one in which sound principles of commerce were known.' The true principles of commerce (said another M.P.) appeared at that time to be misunderstood, and the Act in question proved the truth of this assertion. The persons most competent to form regulations with respect to trade were the master manufacturer, whose interest it was to have goods of the best fabric, and no legislative enactment could ever effect so much in producing that result as the merely leaving things to their own courses and operations." [27] The skilled craftsmen, on the other hand, petitioned in favour of compulsory apprenticeship. But in the growing enthusiasm for the theory whose sole tenet lay in the belief that the haven of prosperity lay in the mid-ocean of uncontrolled liberty, all pleas in favour of regulation were treated with contempt. The famous Chalmers, speaking of the Statute of Apprentices, declared that "this law, so far as it requires apprenticeship, ought to be repealed, because its tendency is to abolish and to prevent competition among workmen." [28] In the year 1814 the Statute of Apprentices was repealed;[29] and with its repeal the State washed its hands of all responsibility for the well-being of the youth of the land. Henceforth things were to be left "to their own courses and operations." It is no doubt true that there remained the "Health and Morals of Apprentices Act," passed in 1802; this Act prescribed certain conditions as to hours of work and sanitation. But the Act in itself was utterly "ineffective," [30] and for all practical purposes employers were unfettered in their use or misuse of children. There remained one more blow to be struck before the condition of the boy touched the lowest level of misery reached in the whole history of this country; and it was soon struck with that relentless vigour which marked the actions of the reformer in those times. After the repeal of the Statute of Apprentices there was for the lad no sort of legal guarantee of training, no kind of State supervision over his conduct; he could work how and when it pleased him or his parents. But the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 made it necessary for him to work how and when it pleased his employer, and took from him all possibility of effective choice. This Act abolished the allowance system in aid of wages. Salutary and even necessary as some reform of the kind was, in the particular way in which it was carried out it fell with crushing force on the unfortunate children. Hitherto parents could receive so much per child out of the rates; from henceforth this was to be illegal. Wages indeed rose, but rose slowly and in patches. The earnings of the child were required to make existence even possible for the family. A foreign and impartial student of English affairs has made this truth abundantly clear: "Even granted that the labourer himself now needed no allowance, what had he in place of the allowance for his family and the out-of-work relief? Something in place of these he must have, for even labourers' families must live.... What was the way out? The labourer must sell more labour power; and since his own was already sold, he must put that of his family upon the market. This was how the problem of the married man was solved.... We have already seen that the expansion of the gang system took place mainly after 1834; it appears that the exploitation of child-labour and women's labour is the main characteristic of the period between the Poor Law and the Education Acts. When Dr. Kay was examined before the Lords' Committee on the Poor Law Amendment Act, he described the astonishment of travellers at the number of women and children working in the fields, and traced their increased employment to the Poor Law. In his own words: 'The extent of employment for women and children has most wonderfully increased since the Poor Law came into operation. It has had that effect by rendering it necessary that the children should be so employed in order to adjust the wages to the wants of the family....' And a country clergyman gave expression to similar views in 1843: 'By these allowances their children were not then obliged, as now, to work for their subsistence. Their time was at their own disposal; and then they were sent more regularly to the schools. But since the new Poor Law this has been reversed.'" [31] Those persons who nowadays talk genially of the ease with which the new Poor Law was enforced, would do well to remember that the ease was purchased at the high price of the physical and moral deterioration of the children. Chalmers had got his way, there was now free competition among the workmen; and free competition among the workmen meant then, as it has always meant since, the unregulated slavery of the weak. With the repeal of the Statute of Apprentices and the passing of the Poor Law Amendment Act, the old apprenticeship system came to an end. No longer capable of being controlled in the common interests of the trade and the community, no longer capable of being enforced by statutory enactment, the apprenticeship system in its ancient form, though it might linger among certain industries, was destined slowly to disappear. We may regret its disappearance, as the vanishing of a fragment of an old-world life; but repinings are idle unless directed toward the search for some substitute adequate to the needs of the present. CHAPTER III THE AGE OF RECONSTRUCTION The last chapter closed on the darkest scene in the long history of child labour in this country. Of the three factors essential to a true apprenticeship, not one was found or its need even recognized in the wild riot of the industrial revolution. Of public or organized supervision of the youth of the land there was not a trace. The controlling influence of the gild system had long since disappeared; the powers of regulation that lay in the Statute of Apprentices and the Elizabethan Poor Law had been withdrawn; free and unrestricted traffic in the use of children was the watchword of the age. Babies of four and five years worked alongside the adult and for the same number of hours; there were persons of intelligence who saw in this gain extracted from infants not the least of the triumphs of the day. Children's lives were often a mere alternation of two kinds of darkness--the darkness of night giving place to the darkness of the mine. Boys and girls were hired out in troops to a taskmaster, herded in barns regardless of the claims of health and decency, and driven in gangs into the fields of the farmer. Whether in the mine or the factory or on the farm, the present profits of the employer, and not the future welfare of the race, were alone considered. Industrial training throughout the new manufacturing districts was treated with open contempt. A person, the masters urged, could learn the trade in a few months; while as for the provision of an opening that would lead from the work of the youth to the work of the adult, it was not to be imagined that a subject of this complexity should receive attention at a time when the narrow circuit of the prosperous factory set a limit to the horizon of men's thoughts. In short, over the whole field of industry the desire for immediate success dominated the larger, but more remote, interests of the future. What was most significant of the times was not the flood of misery that swept over the country so much as the spirit of complacent satisfaction with which it was regarded. That the industrial revolution was in the cause of progress, the reform of the Poor Law essential, and the decay of the old apprenticeship system inevitable, men of intelligence could not fail to recognize; but they might also have recognized that the profound transformation of the whole social and industrial structure involved could not take place without widespread suffering and demoralization. Men of the day did see these things, but saw them with unconcern. Progress involved change, and change demanded its toll of pain; but it was not the duty of the State to ease the passage or to yield to the outcry of what they looked on as the silly sentimentalist. The general view of contemporary opinion finds itself reflected in the Whig and Radical journals. In 1819 the _Edinburgh Review_ declared: "After all, we must own that it was quite right to throw out the Bill for prohibiting the sweeping of chimneys by boys--because humanity is a modern invention; and there are many chimneys in old houses that cannot possibly be swept in any other manner;" while the Radical paper, the _Gorgon_, was also inclined to sneer at the House of Commons for "its ostentatious display of humanity in dealing with trivialities like the slave trade, climbing-boys, and the condition of children in factories." [32] The above represents the orthodox opinion of the time. The age was the age of the triumph of the individualist. His was the gospel that inspired the economist; his were the maxims which guided the legislator; his were the principles that were realized in the practice of the manufacturer. For one brief moment in the history of the world's progress the individualist was supreme; and then the world reeled back in horror from the hell of sin and misery he had created. Even in the early days there were not wanting voices to protest against the theory that in the balance-sheet of the trader was to be found the final test of national righteousness. As far back as the year 1801 Mr. Justice Grose, in sentencing an employer for overworking and maltreating an apprentice, declared: "Should the manufacturers insist that without these children they could not advantageously follow their trade, and the overseers say that without such opportunity they could not get rid of these children, he should say to the one, that trade must not for the thirst of lucre be followed, but at once, for the sake of society, be abandoned; and to the other, it is a crime to put out these children, who have no friend to see justice done, to incur deformity and promote consumption or other disease. This obviously leads to their destruction--not to their support." [33] And in the year 1802 was passed the "Health and Morals of Apprentices Act," an Act important not for its results, which were insignificant, but as a protest against the gospel of individualism, and as the first of the long series of Factory Acts which heralded the dawn of a new age. This new age, which reaches down to the present time, and of which the end is not yet, was an age of reconstruction. It represented an attempt, unconscious for the most part, to reinstate in a changed form the principles which underlay the old apprenticeship system. It is true that throughout the whole period indentured apprenticeship was in process of gradual decay, and is now become almost a negligible factor in the industrial world; but it is no less true that from its ruins was slowly rising an organization destined to prove a fitting and even a superior substitute. The final stage of development lies still in the future; the adjustments required to meet the complex needs of modern industry are innumerable; and we are only beginning to see the outlines of a new apprenticeship system towards which we have been drifting for nearly a century. To tell in detail the history of these long years of slow progress would be foreign to the purpose of this book; but certain characteristics, which mark the process of change, are sufficiently germane to the discussions of to-day to justify consideration. In the first place, the forces which repeatedly faced and beat down the resistance of those who stood for unregulated industry were not the forces of economic analysis; few forces that make for great changes are the product of such unimpassioned reason. Factory and kindred legislation were throughout the triumph of sentiment, and not the victory of logic. During the course of the nineteenth century men became slowly more sensitive to the fact of suffering, less tolerant of its continued existence. The Liberal essayist was historically correct when he said contemptuously that humanity was a modern invention. In earlier days little heed was paid to the physical well-being of the individual journeyman or apprentice. If the gilds forbade the carrying on of a craft by night, it was because the dim gloom of ancient illuminants meant bad work, and not because protracted toil made unhealthy workmen. When the State concerned itself with hours of employment, it was to prescribe a minimum, and not to fix a maximum; to keep a man busy, and therefore out of mischief, was deemed more important than to allow him leisure for thought or recreation. In this new sentiment of humanity lay the motive power which drove Parliament on to spasmodic acts of factory legislation. The sentiment was at once a source of weakness and a source of strength. It was a source of weakness because sentiment is essentially local in its sphere of influence. It does not search out the objects on which its favours are lavished; they must be brought by others to its very doors and repeatedly thrust over the threshold till entrance is forced. It lacks the breadth, the insight, and the calm of that imaginative reason which is now slowly taking its place. In the case of suffering, for example, it troubles itself not at all about the more remote causes of suffering or the more remote sufferer, but surges round some particular sufferer or some particular grievance, existing here and now.[34] Sentiment, at any rate the British type of sentiment, is not touched by abstractions; visions of humanity in the throes of travail leave it unmoved; appeals to the ultimate principles of justice fail to produce even a throb of sympathetic interest; it is only the concrete--the oppressed child or the widowed mother--that lets loose the flood. For the more profound solution of social problems such sentiment is useless, but for the attack of specific evils, especially where the opposition is well organized, it displays amazing stubbornness and resource. Its strength lies in its unreason; argument is of no avail; here are certain cases of suffering it will not tolerate; a remedy must be found and Parliament must find it; there will be no peace until something is done. It was in this way that regulation of child labour began, and indeed has continued down to the present time. The result is patchy, and the removal of evils partial and unsystematic. There has been, for example, no serious attempt made to set up a minimum standard of conditions under which alone children shall be employed; least of all has the State endeavoured to formulate a new apprenticeship system, adapted to the needs of modern industry. Much indeed has been done in both directions; but much more remains for the future to carry through before we can hope to read in the efficiency of the race the sign-mark of our success. The first characteristic, then, of the age of reconstruction is to be found in the predominating influence of sentiment. The second characteristic is seen in the triumph of the idealist over the combined forces of the doctrinaire and the practical man. Every proposal for regulating child labour was fought on the same lines; there were the same arguments and the same replies. The individualist urged that State interference was in itself an evil, that, though the consequences might be delayed and the immediate effect even beneficial, you might rest assured that in the long-run your sin would find you out. The wealthy citizen declared that if boys might not climb his chimneys, his chimneys must go unswept; the manufacturer predicted certain ruin to his trade if he were forbidden to use children as seemed best to him; while all united in urging that if the children were not at work they would be doing something worse, and pointed out the obvious cruelty of depriving half-starved parents of the scanty earnings of their half-starved offspring. To all these and similar objections the idealist, with his clearer vision of the reality of things, and firm in his faith that the prosperity of a people could never be the final outcome of allowing an obvious wrong, made response. He sympathized with the individualist for the dreary pessimism of a creed which could see the future alone coloured with hope if heralded by the sobs of suffering children. The wealthy citizen he bade roughly burn his house and build another sooner than sacrifice the lives of boys to the needs of his chimneys. While as for the manufacturer, he told him, as Mr. Justice Grose had told him earlier, that, if his engines needed children as fuel, his was a trade the country was best rid of. To those employers who pleaded the small wages of the parents he suggested the grim and crude and obvious remedy of paying those parents more. And the idealist, with the sentiment of the British public to back him, won the day. But if sentiment gave the idealist his victory, it was the future that brought him a full justification. His sin after many years is yet seeking him; the wealthy citizen found other and innocent means of cleansing his chimneys; the manufacturer placidly adapted himself to the new conditions, and his trade flourished exceedingly; the wages of parents rose rapidly, and what small measure of health and happiness that has come to the children of the poor during the last century has come to them through the defeat and the defiance of the individualist. A hundred years have rolled by, and yet to all new regulation the same old objections are raised by the individualist. But his day is gone, and with his day he also is going. A few, indeed, are left, interesting survivals of the early Victorian age. But for the great majority of the population regulation has no fears; they welcome and invite it. And, further, not only are they willing to forbid unsatisfactory conditions of employment, they are also ready to spend public money to secure a proper environment and a suitable training for children. What they will not tolerate is the continued existence of unnecessary suffering; and they are coming more and more to realize that a vast mass of the suffering of to-day is unnecessary. Principles, even though openly professed, will not look suffering in the face and pass on.[35] Humanity is no longer a modern invention, it has become the guiding spirit of the age. Thus we can face the morning of the twentieth century in a spirit of hope. We may look for more consistent support and less strenuous opposition than in the past. We may in consequence think out and introduce schemes of a more far-reaching character. Empirical patching will give place to reconstruction on a large scale. In other words, the sentiment of the nineteenth century, wayward and uncertain in its method of action, and at its best troubling itself about a remedy for actual suffering, will be superseded by the imaginative reason of the twentieth, which looks rather to prevention than to cure. CHAPTER IV THE GUARDIANSHIP OF THE STATE The age of reconstruction is not complete, and for the moment we are left with the products of sentiment as revealed in the tangled and piecemeal legislation respecting boy labour. Before making new proposals, it is desirable to survey the existing laws on the subject, in order to discover to what extent the State acts as the guardian of the child by making provision for the three essential factors of a true apprenticeship system--supervision, training, opening. The present chapter will be concerned with a description of the statutory machinery; in the next the value of the machinery will be tested by examining its results in actual experience. I. STATE SUPERVISION. Supervision is the first essential of an apprenticeship system. A boy must remain under adequate control, as regards his conduct and physical development, until the age of eighteen is reached; before then he is too young to be allowed safely to become his own master. What part does the State, as guardian, play in this work of supervision? This volume is concerned with the answer to the question only so far as that answer has a direct bearing on the general problem of boy labour. A statement, for example, of the criminal law, of the law relating to public health, or of the poor law, lies outside its scope. The guardianship of the State, in respect of supervision, is of two kinds. On the one hand the State appears as the guardian of the boy by restricting his employment, or by forbidding it under certain specified unfavourable conditions--State regulation; on the other hand--as, for example, in its system of education--it assumes a more active rôle, and itself provides for the boy some of the discipline and training he requires--State enterprise. § 1. STATE REGULATION. The State, by regulation, may protect the boy in three ways-- 1. _Prohibition._--The State may protect the boy by forbidding his employment below a certain age or in certain classes of industry. 2. _Limitation of Hours._--The State may protect the boy by fixing a limit to the number of hours during which he may be employed. 3. _Health and Safety._--The State may protect the boy by enforcing certain regulations as regards sanitation in the workshop or the proper guarding of machinery, or may require a medical certificate to show that the boy is physically fit for the occupation in which he is engaged. We shall best understand the measure of protection afforded the boy by the State by classifying the statutory regulations under these three headings rather than by taking the individual Acts and analyzing them separately. The principal Acts concerned are the following: The Factory and Workshop Act, 1901. Metalliferous Mines Regulation Act, 1872. Coal Mines Regulation Act, 1887. Mines (Prohibition of Child Labour Underground) Act, 1900. The Shop Hours Act, 1892. The Employment of Children Act, 1903. The Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act, 1894. Children Act, 1908. And the various Acts relating to compulsory attendance at school-- Elementary Education Act, 1876. Elementary Education Act, 1880. Elementary Education (School Attendance) Act, 1893. And the Act amending this last Act, 1899. To make what follows clearer, and to avoid repetition, it is desirable to add a few remarks about two of these Acts. The Factory and Workshop Act is concerned with the conditions of employment in premises "wherein labour is exercised by way of trade or for purposes of gain in or incidental to any of the following purposes--namely: "(i.) The making of an article or part of any article; or "(ii.) The altering, repairing, ornamenting, or finishing of any article; or "(iii.) The adapting for sale of an article." [36] Premises in which such operations are carried on are divided into these four classes: 1. _Textile factories_, where mechanical power is used in connection with the manufacture of cotton, wool, hair, silk, flax, hemp, jute, or other like material; 2. _Non-textile factories_, where mechanical power is used in connection with the manufacture of articles other than those included in (1), and, in addition, certain industries, such as "print works," or lucifer-match works, whether mechanical power is or is not employed;[37] 3. _Workshops_ where articles are manufactured without the aid of mechanical power; and-- 4. _Domestic workshops or factories_, where a private house or room is, by reason of the work carried on there, a factory or a workshop, where mechanical power is not used, and in which the only persons employed are members of the same family dwelling there.[37] The Act also has a limited reference to laundries, docks, buildings in course of construction and repair, and railways.[39] Certain definitions are important in the interpretation of the regulations. The expression "child" means a person under the age of fourteen, who is not exempt from attendance at school.[40] The expression "young person" means a person who has ceased to be a child, and is under the age of eighteen.[41] These expressions will be used with this significance in the remainder of this chapter, unless the contrary is stated. The authority for the enforcement of the Factory and Workshop Act is in general the Home Office, acting through its inspectors. In certain cases, which will be mentioned later, the duty of enforcement is imposed on one or other of the locally elected bodies. The regulations comprised in the Employment of Children Act are in part of general application, in part dependent on by-laws made by the local authority, and approved by the Home Secretary. The local authority, for the enforcement of the Act and for the making of by-laws, is, in the case of London, exclusive of the City, for which the Common Council is the authority, the London County Council; in the case of a municipal borough with a population according to the census of 1901 of over 10,000, the Borough Council; in the case of any other urban district with a population of over 20,000, the District Council; in the case of the remainder of England and Wales, the County Council.[42] These are the chief Acts through which are regulated the conditions of boy labour. Each in a more or less degree is concerned with prohibition, limitation of hours, and health regulations. It now remains to examine the extent of the protection provided. _(a) Prohibition of Employment._ There is no law forbidding children below a certain age to work for wages. In default of local by-laws, it is still legal to employ children of any age, however young, in a large number of occupations. Prohibition takes the form of forbidding the employment of children in certain trades regarded as specially dangerous to health or demoralizing to character. 1. It is illegal to employ children or young persons "in the part of a factory or workshop in which there is carried on the process of silvering mirrors by the mercurial process or the process of making white lead." [43] And the Secretary of State has power to extend this prohibition to other dangerous trades.[44] 2. It is illegal to employ underground in any mine boys under the age of thirteen,[45] and no boy under the age of twelve may be employed above-ground in connection with any mine.[46] 3. A child may not be employed "in the part of a factory or workshop in which there is carried on any grinding in the metal trade, or the dipping of lucifer-matches." [47] 4. A child under the age of eleven may not be employed in street-trading--_i.e._, in "the hawking of newspapers, matches, flowers, and other articles, playing, singing, or performing for profit, shoe-blacking, or any like occupation carried on in streets or public places." [48] 5. In theatres and shows, children under seven may not be employed at all, and children under eleven can only be employed on a licence granted by a magistrate.[49] Omitting ways of earning money, as by begging, which cannot properly be regarded as forms of employment, and ancient Acts, such as the Chimney Sweepers Act of 1840, which prohibited the apprenticing of children under the age of sixteen to the trade of the sweep, or the Agricultural Gangs Act, 1867, which forbade the employment of children under eight in an agricultural gang--Acts which have now little practical importance--the regulations outlined above comprise the whole of the regulations which prohibit throughout the country the employment of boys in certain forms of occupation. For any extension of prohibition we must look to the by-laws which may, but need not, be made by local authorities under the provisions of the Employment of Children Act. Under this Act the local authority may make by-laws prescribing for all children below the age which employment is illegal, and may prohibit absolutely, or may permit, subject to conditions, the employment of children under the age of fourteen in any specified occupation.[50] The by-laws may likewise prohibit or allow, under conditions, "street trading" by persons under the age of sixteen.[51] But in either case the by-laws, before becoming operative, must be confirmed, after an inquiry is held, by the Home Secretary.[52] As an example of prohibition through by-laws made under this Act, the case of London outside the City may be cited. The by-laws of the London County Council forbid the employment of all children under the age of eleven, the employment of children under the age of fourteen as "lather boys" in barbers' shops, and the employment of boys under the age of sixteen in "street trading," unless they wear on the arm a badge provided by the Council. _(b) Limitation of Hours._ There is no law limiting for all children or for all young persons the number of hours which may be worked. It is still legal in the majority of occupations to employ young persons, and in default of by-laws school-children on days when the schools are closed, for a number of hours restricted only by the length of the day. As with prohibition, so the matter stands with the limitation of hours. Glaring evils, just because they glared, have from time to time been dealt with by legislation; other evils no less serious have been ignored merely because they have not chanced to attract attention. The result of this piecemeal legislation and enactment by by-laws is a chaos of intricate regulations, applicable to persons of different age and different sex, varying from trade to trade and from place to place. I am, fortunately, concerned here only with the male sex, and shall begin with the boy young person, and then proceed to the boy child. _The Young Person._--Far the most important, because the most detailed and the most comprehensive, of the Acts dealing with the limitation of hours is the Factory and Workshops Act. Under this Act the hours of employment are restricted by specifying the hours during which alone employment may be carried on. No employment is allowed on Sundays except in the case of Jewish factories closed on Saturday, or of certain industries specially sanctioned for the purpose by the Home Secretary. In textile factories,[53] the period of employment for young persons is from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., or from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., with two hours for meals, and on Saturdays from 6 a.m. to 11.30 a.m., with half an hour for meals.[54] In non-textile factories and workshops the chief difference lies in the fact that the interval for meals is half an hour shorter, while on Saturdays employment is permitted between 6 a.m. and 2 p.m., with half an hour for meals.[55] In domestic factories and workshops the hours of employment are from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., with four and a half hours for meals, and on Saturdays from 6 a.m. to 4 p.m., with two and a half hours for meals.[56] Overtime is in general prohibited.[57] Employment inside and outside a factory or workshop in the business of the factory or workshop is prohibited, except during the recognized period, on any day on which the young person is employed inside the factory or workshop both before and after the dinner-hour.[58] Thus the maximum number of hours in a week, including meal-times, during which a young person may be employed is, in textile factories, 65-1/2; in non-textile factories and workshops, 68; in domestic factories and workshops, 85; or, excluding meal-times, the hours in the three classes are 55, 60, and 60 respectively. The Act applies only to those employed in factories and workshops. It has limited application to certain other trades, but the application is unimportant in connection with boy labour. To the regulations quoted there are numerous exceptions, and the Home Secretary has large discretionary powers.[59] A young person may not be employed "in or about a shop" for a longer period than seventy-four hours, including meal-times, in any one week. Further, an employer may not knowingly employ a young person who has already on the same day been employed in a factory or workshop, if such employment makes the total number of hours worked more than the full time a young person is permitted to work in a factory or workshop.[60] By-laws may be made limiting the hours of employment of young persons under the age of sixteen engaged in "street trading." [61] The by-laws of the London County Council forbid the employment of such persons "before 7 a.m. or after 9 p.m., or for more than eight hours in any day, when employed under the immediate direction and supervision of an adult person having charge of a street stall or barrow; before 7 a.m. or after 8 p.m. when employed in any other form of street trading." With the exception of the regulations outlined above, there is no limit to the number of hours during which young persons may legally be employed. _Children._--The most important Acts regulating the hours of employment for children are the Acts which enforce attendance at school. They limit hours, not by fixing a maximum number of hours during which children may be employed, but by pursuing the far more effective plan of seeing that the children are in school, and therefore not in the workshop, during part of the day. Taken together, these Acts provide that children shall be at school, and consequently not at work, at all times when the schools are opened until the age of twelve is reached. There is one exception to this regulation: children may, under a special by-law of the local education authority, be employed in agriculture at the age of eleven, provided that they attend school 250 times a year up to the age of thirteen. This exception is of small importance, as "the number of children who are exempt under this special by-law seems to be very small, not exceeding apparently 400 in the whole country." [62] Between the ages of twelve and fourteen attendance is compulsory, subject to a complex scheme of partial or total exemptions, depending on the by-laws of the local education authority. It rests, for instance, with each local education authority to decide "whether, as regards children between twelve and fourteen, they will grant full-time or half-time exemption, or both, and upon what conditions of attendance or attainments, always subject, of course, to the fact that the by-laws must be approved by the Board of Education, and must not clash with any Act regulating the employment of children." [63] For all practical purposes, it is possible for the local education authority, if they think fit, to insist on such a standard of attainment to be reached before exemption is allowed that, with a few exceptions, relatively insignificant, children are compelled to attend school until the age of fourteen. It is important to remember that these Acts limit the employment of children only during times when the schools are opened. As a general rule, the hours of attendance are between 9 and 12 in the morning, and between 2 and 4.30 in the afternoon; while the schools are open on five days a week during some forty-four weeks in the year. During holidays, and on Saturdays and Sundays, so far as these Acts are concerned, there is no limit to the numbers of hours a child may work. A further limit is put on the hours children may work by the Employment of Children Act, 1903. A child under fourteen may not be employed between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m. This provision is subject to variation by local by-laws.[64] Local by-laws may prescribe for children under fourteen: (_a_) The hours between which employment is illegal; (_b_) the number of daily and weekly hours beyond which employment is illegal; and (_c_) may permit, subject to conditions, the employment of children in any specified occupation.[65] Under this Act the by-laws of the London County Council provide that a child liable to attend school shall not be employed on days when the school is open for more than three and a half hours a day, nor-- (_a_) Between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.; (_b_) Before 6.30 a.m. or after 9 p.m.; and on days when the school is not open-- (_a_) Before 6.30 a.m. or after 9 p.m.; (_b_) For more than eight hours in any one day. On Sundays a child shall not be employed except between the hours of 7 a.m. and 1 p.m. for a period not exceeding three hours. A child liable to attend school shall not be employed for more than twenty hours in any week when the school is open on more than two days, or for more than thirty hours in any week when the school is open on two days only or less. Additional limitations are imposed on the number of hours during which children may be employed by the Factory and Workshop Act. A child between "twelve and thirteen, who has reached the standard for total or partial exemption under the Elementary Education Acts, and consequently may be employed, must still, if employed in a factory or workshop, attend school in accordance with the requirements of the Factory Act. So must a child of thirteen who has not obtained a certificate entitling him to be employed as a young person." [66] The famous half-time system is not, as sometimes supposed, a special privilege allowed to workshops and factories. It is permissible in all forms of occupation in a practically unrestricted shape. In factories and workshops the conditions are subject to definite regulations. It is, however, only in factories and workshops, and, indeed, only in certain trades among these, that the half-time system has much practical importance. The general regulations, subject, however, to certain variations, are as follows:[67] Employment must be either in morning and afternoon sets, or on alternate days The morning set begins at 6 a.m. or 7 a.m., and ends-- (_a_) At one o'clock in the afternoon; or (_b_) If the dinner-hour begins before one o'clock, at the beginning of dinner-time; or (_c_) If the dinner-time does not begin before 2 p.m. at noon. The afternoon set begins either-- (_a_) At 1 p.m. (_b_) At any later hour at which the dinner-time terminates; or (_c_) If the dinner-hour does not begin before 2 p.m., and the morning set ends at noon, at noon-- and ends at 6 p.m. or 7 p.m. On Saturdays the period of employment is the same as for young persons--6 a.m. to 11.30 a.m.--but a child shall not be employed on two successive Saturdays, nor on Saturday in any week if on any other days in the same week his period of employment has exceeded five and a half hours. A child must not be employed in two successive periods of seven days in the morning set, nor in two successive periods of seven days in an afternoon set. On the alternate day system, the period of employment is the same as for a young person--_i.e._, from 6 a.m. or 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. or 7 p.m., with two hours for meals; and on Saturdays from 6 a.m. to 11.30 a.m., with half an hour for meals. Under this system a child may not be employed on two successive days, nor on the same day in two successive weeks. Under all the systems a child may not be employed continuously for more than four and a half hours without an interval of half an hour for meals.[68] Nor must a child be employed on any one day on the business of the factory or workshops both inside and outside the factory or workshop.[69] This system of regulation refers to textile factories, but these include the vast majority of half-timers. The regulations with regard to non-textile factories and workshops are less rigorous; and in the case of domestic workshops and factories there is additional relaxation of the rules. The parent or guardian of the half-timer is responsible for the child's attendance at school. As an additional precaution against truancy, the employer may not employ the child unless each Monday the child has obtained from the school a certificate of attendance during the past week.[70] If we take into account the hours worked in the factory and the hours spent in school, we shall find that the half-timer's week of strenuous effort is a long and a weary one. "Taking one week with another, the employment of the half-timer is for twenty-eight and a quarter hours a week in a textile factory, and thirty in a non-textile factory or workshop; and as he is in school for thirteen or fourteen hours, his total week in school and factory is from forty to forty-four hours." [71] In view of proposals made later, I have thought desirable to insert in detail the half-time regulations, in order to show how, in the actual carrying out of industrial operations, a half-time system can be put into effect. _(c) Protection of Health._ There is no law prescribing in all cases the conditions as to buildings, sanitary arrangements, and safety, under which alone children and young persons may be employed. There is no law requiring in all cases a medical certificate from children and young persons to show that they are physically suited for the employment in which they are engaged. It is no doubt true that the buildings in which juveniles are employed come, in respect of sanitation, drainage, and water-supply, under the general Public Health Acts. It is no doubt a fact that local building by-laws occasionally insist on means of escape in case of fire in premises where more than a certain number of persons are employed. It is likewise part of the law of the land that, if a lad in the course of his work meets with a fatal accident, twelve just men and a coroner must sit on the dead body and investigate the cause. But, apart from such regulations, which are not confined to the employment of juveniles, or, indeed, to employment generally, it is only in special forms of occupation that there are required additional precautions designed to protect the health and safety of the workers. Elaborate rules prescribe the conditions which must be observed in the management of a railway or a mine. The Shop Hours Act requires that seats should be provided for shop assistants. Such Acts have in practice only a limited application in the case of children and young persons, who do not to any large extent come into the classes affected. Here, as in regard to the regulation of hours, the chief Act of importance is the Factory and Workshop Act. This Act makes careful provision, so far as premises are concerned, for the health of the workers, juveniles and adults alike. Whether the provisions are in practice always enforced is a matter open to some doubt. In the case of factories,[72] the outside walls, ceilings, passages, and staircases must be painted every seven years, and washed every fourteen months; and in general the premises must be kept clean and free from effluvia, and the floors properly drained. Ventilation must be adequate, and all gases, dust, and other impurities generated in the course of work rendered, so far as is practicable, innocuous to health. In certain cases the inspector may insist on the provision of ventilating fans. Overcrowding is prevented by requiring a minimum space in each room of 250 cubic feet for each person, or during overtime of 400 cubic feet. A reasonable temperature must be maintained in each room in which any person is employed. There must be sufficient and suitable supply of sanitary conveniences. In textile factories a limit is set on the amount of atmospheric humidity. In certain dangerous or poisonous trades additional precautions are required. The Secretary of State has large powers of imposing additional regulations on the one hand, and of granting exemptions on the other. The authority for enforcing the regulations in factories is the inspector acting through the Home Office. The regulations applicable to workshops do not differ very materially from those imposed on factories, but the enforcing authority is different. The authority in the case of workshops is the district or the borough council--_i.e._, the public health authority. The medical officer of health and the inspector of nuisances have for this purpose the power of factory inspectors. A breach of the law on the subject is declared to be a nuisance, and may be dealt with summarily under the Public Health Acts. The district or borough council are compelled to keep a register of the workshops within their area; and the medical officer of health is required to report annually to the council on the administration of the Factory Acts in the workshops and workplaces in the district. A copy of this report must be sent to the Secretary of State, who remains the supreme authority, and in certain cases of default may authorize a factory inspector to take the necessary steps for enforcing these provisions, and recover the expenses from the defaulting council. An attempt is also made to regulate the sanitary conditions under which out-workers are employed. Where provisions are made by the Secretary of State, the employers concerned are made responsible for the condition of the places in which his out-workers carry on work. The employer must keep lists of out-workers. The district council, in cases where the place is injurious to the health of the out-workers, may take steps to have the evil remedied or the employment stopped. The Act requires machinery to be properly fenced, and special precautions to be taken in cleaning machinery in motion. Children may not clean any part of machinery in motion, or any place under such machinery other than a overhead gearing. Children and young persons may not be allowed to work between the fixed and traversing parts of a self-acting machine while the machine is in motion. When there occurs in a factory or workshop any accident which either (_a_) causes loss of life to a person employed in the factory or workshop, or (_b_) causes to a person employed in the factory or workshop such bodily injury as to prevent him on any one of the three working days after the occurrence of the accident from being employed for five hours on his ordinary work, written notice shall forthwith be sent to the inspector for the district. In the case of new factories erected since January 1, 1892, and of new workshops erected since January 1, 1896, in which more than forty persons are employed, a certificate must be obtained from the local authority for building by-laws, stating that reasonable provision for escape has been made in case of fire. With regard to older factories and workshops, the local authority must satisfy itself that reasonable means of escape are provided. From these regulations it will be seen that precautions guarding the health of boys are taken in the case of factories and workshops. There are rules, there is an enforcing and inspecting authority, and there is required a report in all cases of serious accident. But, with one exception, no steps are taken to test the adequacy of the precautions by a periodic medical examination of children and young persons, or to prevent the employment of certain individuals who are physically unfit for the work. The exception is important, and observes attention, because it indicates a possible line of reform. "In a factory a young person under the age of sixteen, or a child, must not be employed ... unless the occupier of the factory has obtained a certificate, in the prescribed form, of the fitness of the young person or child for employment in that factory. When a child becomes a young person, a fresh certificate of fitness must be obtained." [73] A certifying surgeon is appointed for each district. "He must certify that the person named in the certificate is of the age therein specified, and has been personally examined by him, and is not incapacitated by disease or bodily infirmity for working daily for the time allowed by law in the factory." [74] "The certificate may be qualified by conditions as to the work on which a child or young person is fit to be employed," and the employer must observe such conditions.[75] The surgeon has power to examine any process in which the child or young person is employed.[76] A factory inspector who is of opinion that any young person or child is unsuited on the ground of health for the employment on which he is engaged may order his dismissal, unless the certifying surgeon, after examination, shall again certify him as fit.[77] This provision only applies to young persons under the age of sixteen, and to children. It does not, moreover, apply to workshops. In the case of workshops, the employer may obtain, if he thinks fit, a certificate from the certifying surgeon.[78] The Secretary of State has, however, power to extend the regulation to certain classes of workshops, if he considers the extension desirable.[79] In these cases, and these cases alone, is it necessary to call in the doctor to certify the physical fitness of the boy for the employment in which he is engaged. But under the Employment of Children Act, 1903, taken in conjunction with the Education (Administrative Provisions) Act, 1907, it is possible to extend considerably the system of medical tests. Under the first of these Acts, which applies to children under the age of fourteen-- "Sect. 3 (4). A child shall not be employed to lift, carry, or move anything so heavy as to be likely to cause injury to the child. "(5) A child shall not be employed in any occupation likely to be injurious to his life, limb, health, or education, regard being had to his physical condition. "(6) If the local authority send a certificate to the employer saying that certain employment will injure the child, the certificate shall be admissible as evidence in any subsequent proceedings against the employer in respect of the employment of the child." If the child has left school--and under certain conditions a child can leave school at the age of twelve--it is not easy to see how the local authority can enforce these provisions. But with children attending school, whole or part time, circumstances are different. Medical inspection of school-children is now compulsory, and it is within the power of the education authority to inspect any such children.[80] They are therefore at liberty to examine any children known to be at work, and any certificate of "unfitness" sent to an employer would probably be effective. Further, under the Employment of Children Act, Sects. 1 and 2, a local authority may make by-laws permitting, subject to conditions, the employment of children under the age of fourteen in any specified occupation; and in the case of "street trading" the age is extended to sixteen. It would be possible therefore, subject to the approval of the Secretary of State, to make by-laws requiring a medical certificate of fitness in certain forms of occupation in which children under the age of fourteen are engaged. § 2. STATE ENTERPRISE. In the preceding sections the State has played a passive part in the supervision of the boy. It has contented itself with giving orders to others, and with taking some more or less inadequate steps to see that its commands are obeyed, but has directly done nothing itself. We are now to see the State assuming duties of its own, and appearing as the active guardian of the child. Individual or voluntary effort having failed, it has been driven, at first reluctantly, but later with increasing readiness, to fill the gap. The State has now made itself directly responsible for providing schools for the children of the nation. The schools play an important part in the supervision of character. Attendance at school may be either compulsory or voluntary. The law of compulsory attendance has already been stated.[81] As a rule children must attend school till they reach the age of twelve, and under local by-laws can in general be retained till they reach the age of fourteen. In certain cases, important from the point of view of discipline, the period of compulsory attendance can be prolonged. Children under fourteen found begging, or wandering without home, or under the care of a criminal or drunken guardian, or in general living in surroundings likely to lead to crime, may be brought before a magistrate and sent to an industrial school.[82] Here they are boarded and lodged, and may be kept there up to the age of sixteen, after which time the managers of the school have duties of supervision for a further period of two years, with power of recall if desirable. Children who are truants or are convicted of criminal offences can be treated in the same way. For the majority of boys State guardianship is confined to the years of compulsory attendance. But a considerable number continue their education in various ways, and so remain under some sort of supervision. Children may remain at the elementary school till the close of the school year in which they attain the age of fifteen. The education authority has power to provide and aid secondary and trade schools, and to make these institutions accessible by means of scholarships; and secondary schools, if in receipt of grants from the Board of Education, must in general reserve a quarter of the places for pupils whose parents cannot afford to pay fees. The education authority has power to provide evening continuation classes for those who desire to avail themselves of the opportunities thus afforded. Those who choose to attend these places of higher education continue in some degree under the supervision of the State. But the supervision of the State through its schools is not confined to the supervision of conduct. The education authority now exercises important duties in connection with the health of the children in the elementary schools. It is now obligatory on every education authority to inspect medically all children on their admission to school, and at such other times as may be prescribed by the Board of Education.[83] In their original memorandum to education authorities the Board of Education required these inspections--on admission to school, and at the ages of seven and ten.[84] These regulations have not at present been enforced, but the London County Council has now adopted a scheme which practically embodies them. The local education authority is empowered, with the consent of the Board of Education, to make arrangement for attending to the health of the children.[85] Medical inspection is compulsory, medical treatment optional. Further, the local education authority may draw on the rates to feed school-children, whether their parents are destitute or not, provided it is satisfied that the children, for lack of food, are unable to profit by the instruction given.[86] Finally, the local education authority may receive into its day industrial schools children at the request of their parents, who must pay towards the expense such sum as may be fixed by the Secretary of State.[87] It will be seen that, acting through the local education authorities, the State has now assumed large duties in connection with the supervision of children. To submit to the discipline of the schools the vast majority of the children of the county; to examine medically all children in these schools; to feed the necessitous children, and to treat medically the ailing children in the elementary schools; to remove and provide for until the age of sixteen unfortunate children exposed to an unfavourable environment--these are powers which constitute no small measure of State enterprise. II. STATE TRAINING. Training that shall fit a boy for a trade is of two kinds, general and special. The first must develop those mental qualities of alertness, intelligence, and adaptability required in all forms of occupation; the second must give definite instruction in the principles and practice of some particular industry or branch of industries. For the first provision is made in the elementary school system, with its powers of compelling attendance. For the second we must look to the various types of continuation school. Here, under existing conditions, the State can only offer facilities; it cannot enforce attendance.[88] Since the passing of the Education Act, 1902 and 1903, progress has been marked in both directions. The old "voluntary" schools, whose rolls contained the names of half the scholars in the country, and whose limited funds constituted an impassable barrier to all advance, are now maintained out of the rates; and the gap between non-provided and council schools is closing up. The breaking up of the small School Boards and the establishment of larger authorities controlling all forms of education have made for efficiency, while the merging of educational matters in the general municipal work is insuring that practical criticism of his schemes which the educationalist always resents but always requires. _(a) The Elementary School._ It is obvious that, with the variety of children every school contains and their tender age, no definite trade training can be given in the elementary school. On the other hand, we have advanced far beyond the old educational ideal of providing a common and uniform type of instruction in the common school. Types of school are being multiplied to meet the needs of different kinds of pupils. Provision has long since been supplied for the mentally and physically defective, and serious attempts are now being made to break up and classify that huge group which includes the so-called normal child. In addition to the varying types of elementary school which are in process of being adapted to the differing needs of the locality, and the different classes of child, we have, under the elementary school system, what is known as the "higher elementary school." Originally a school specializing in science and of little value, it is tending to become, under the more recent regulations of the Board of Education, a school where a definite bias, either in the direction of commerce or industry, is given to the curriculum. It is true that the number of schools called "higher elementary" shows little signs of increase.[89] This is due to the rigid and inflexible rules of the Board of Education, which seem expressly designed to kill, and not to encourage, the experiment. But while the name is being dropped, the thing is being preserved and multiplied. London, for example, has recently adopted a scheme for the development of sixty of these types of school, to be called "central schools." The curriculum of each school is determined after taking into account the industrial needs of the neighbourhood in which it is placed. The education given is general in character, but the selection of subjects has special reference to some profession or group of trades. Broadly speaking, there are two general types of school, the commercial and the industrial. The industrial type is already subdivided into the woodwork and the engineering type, and further subdivisions will gradually be formed. In these schools no attempt will be made to teach a trade, but such subjects are included in the curriculum as will be found useful in the trade. In the woodwork type, for example, in addition to a considerable amount of time devoted to practical instruction in woodwork, special attention is given to the kinds of arithmetic and drawing required by the intelligent carpenter. An elaborate scheme for picking out between the ages of eleven and twelve the children suitable for these different kinds of school has been drawn up. A four years' course of instruction is provided for. In order to induce the poorer parents to allow their children to remain beyond the age of compulsory attendance, the education committee offers bursaries, thereby exercising that negative form of compulsion technically known as a bribe. Other education authorities are establishing schools with similar aims. The experiments are recent, and mark an important and new development. Two advantages are anticipated. First, the variety in the types of school and the careful selection of scholars will promote intelligence by providing that particular kind of educational nutriment best adapted for encouraging the growth of a particular order of mind. Secondly, by guiding the interests of boys in the direction of various occupations, it is hoped that on leaving school these interests will lead the boys to enter those occupations for which to some extent they have been prepared, and in which they are most likely to succeed. The elementary schools, as a body, will thus become a kind of sorting-house for the different trades, and be freed from that charge, to some extent justified, of catering only for the lower ranks of the clerical profession. _(b) The Continuation School._ It is becoming year by year more generally recognized that a system of education which comes to an end somewhere about the age of fourteen is incomplete and profoundly unsatisfactory. Without attendance at a continuation school of some kind, a boy rapidly loses much of the effect of his previous education, and at the same time is deprived of all opportunity of enjoying the advantages of a more specialized training. To meet this need a complex system of continuation school has grown up. It lacks, however, the element of compulsion, except that negative form already alluded to--the bribe of a scholarship. Looking at the machinery as a whole, it may be admitted that the State does afford considerable opportunity to those anxious to continue their general education, or to obtain some specific form of technical instruction. Whether sufficient use is made of this opportunity is a question that must be answered in the following chapter. But taking the machinery as a whole, and as it exists under the best education authorities, the machinery does touch to some extent the principal trades and professions.[90] 1. Provision is gradually being made for those likely to succeed in the higher branches of industry and commerce. The number of secondary schools is being increased, their quality improved, and their types varied. Technical institutes providing day and evening classes of an advanced character are being rapidly multiplied. University instruction, aided out of public funds, is becoming more plentiful and efficient, and, whether during the day or in the evening, is year by year offering larger opportunities to students. Progress is especially marked in the faculties of economics and technology. Scholarship systems, more or less incomplete, make access to these institutions possible for the poorer classes of the community. The trend of development seems to suggest that a system of organization, calculated to provide training for the highest positions in the industrial and commercial world, is developing along the following lines: Between the ages of eleven and twelve the brightest children will be transferred from the elementary to the secondary school. The secondary school will provide a course of instruction extending to the age of eighteen. Broadly speaking, there will be three types of secondary school, the first giving a general and literary education, the second specializing in commerce, and the third in some branch of science and technology. At the age of eighteen the suitable students will be removed to the University, where they will receive a three or four years' course of instruction suitable to the profession they are intending to enter. It is probable that at the age of fourteen there will be an additional, though smaller, transfer of children from the elementary schools, in order that provision may be made for those who have slipped through the meshes of the scholarship net at the first casting. Scholarships with liberal maintenance grants will make readily accessible to all who are fit the advantages of a prolonged education. Evening classes, leading even to a degree, will remain for those who, for one reason or another, have failed to obtain in their earlier years the advanced instruction they now require. An organization of this kind is not at present found anywhere in its complete form, but it is sufficiently complete in certain directions to be considered here, where we are concerned with attainments, and not reserved for a later chapter, where we shall be examining new paths of progress. 2. For those likely later to fill the position of foreman, or to become the best kind of artisan, the day trade school is provided. The boys enter the trade school on leaving the elementary school about the age of fourteen or fifteen, and go through a two and sometimes a three years' course of instruction. These schools continue the education of the boy, with special reference to the trade concerned, and at the same time devote a large amount of time to supplying an all-round training in the various skilled operations the trade requires. They are essentially practical in character, and this practical character is often assured by a committee of employers, who visit the school and criticize the methods of instruction. 3. For those already apprenticed to, or engaged in, the trade two forms of instruction are provided. The most satisfactory are the classes attended during the day. Attendance at such times can only be secured by inducing the employers to allow their lads time off during working hours. In some cases the element of compulsion is introduced by the employers, who make attendance at such classes a condition of employment. The other form of instruction is provided during the evening at a technical institute. In either case the instruction is of a practical nature, and designed to supplement the training of the workshop. 4. For those who have entered, or desire to enter, the lower walks of commerce, or the civil or municipal service, there is the evening school of a commercial type, usually held in the building of an elementary school. 5. Of the boys who, engaged in unskilled work during the day, are anxious to continue their general education or to improve their position, the evening school again supplies the need. Some practical work is done in the woodwork or metal centres, but the limited equipment of the elementary school stands in the way of any advanced technical instruction. If we omit the commercial classes, already mentioned, attendance at an evening school often means little more than attendance once a week at a class where instruction is given in a single subject, and not infrequently the recreative element is predominant. Recently, and with considerable success, the "course" system has been introduced. Here the students, instead of being present at a single class once a week, attend on several evenings during the week, and go through a course of instruction in several subjects connected together and leading up to some definite goal. If to these various types of continuation school we add the large number of lectures on numerous subjects, we shall see that the State through its schools supplies a considerable amount of technical instruction. It would be false to say that the boys receive all the training that they need, but it would not be beyond the mark to assert that in the case of many education authorities they are afforded all, and not infrequently more than all, the opportunities for which they ask. It is the demand, and not the supply, that is deficient. III. STATE PROVISION OF AN OPENING. Until the year 1910 the provision of openings in suitable occupations was not considered among the duties of the State. It is true that here and there, usually in co-operation with voluntary associations, an education committee made some attempt to place out in trades the boys about to leave school. But any expenditure in this direction was illegal, and under no circumstances was it possible to do anything for those who had already left school. But in the year 1910 the State, without premeditation, has found itself committed to the duty of finding openings for children and juveniles. The revolution was upon us before we had seen the signs of its approach. This assumption of a new duty was the unforeseen result of the establishment of Labour Exchanges. The Act of 1909 thought nothing, said nothing, about juveniles. It was passed as a measure intended to deal with the problem of adult unemployment. Now, there is no problem of unemployment in connection with boys and youths; the demand of employers for this kind of labour appears insatiable. Nevertheless, no sooner were Labour Exchanges opened, than the question of juveniles came to the front. Employers asked for juveniles, and the managers of the local Labour Exchange, eager to meet the wishes of the employer, searched for and found juveniles. Enthusiastic about his work, and prompted by the laudable desire to show large returns of vacancies filled, it did not occur to him that the problem of the juvenile and the problem of the adult had little in common. He was not permitted to remain long in this condition of primitive ignorance. Questions were asked in the House, letters were written to the papers, deputations waited on the President of the Board of Trade, all complaining that the Labour Exchange was becoming an engine for the exploitation of boy labour. In the case of adults, no bargain as to conditions was struck with the employer; the man had to make his own terms. But the boy could not make his own terms, and public opinion had for some years been uneasy about the increasing employment of boys in occupations restricted to boys, and leading to no permanent situation when the years of manhood were reached. Returns showed that it was largely into situations of this character that lads were being thrust by the Labour Exchange. The Board of Trade rapidly realized the evil, and set itself to work to repair the unforeseen mistake. It wisely decided to grapple seriously with the problem, and did not, as it might well have done, restrict the Labour Exchange to adults. It determined to appoint Advisory Committees to deal with juveniles. In London the following machinery is in process of being established: There is a Central Advisory Committee, consisting of six members nominated by the Board of Trade, six by the London County Council, and six by the committee of employers and trade unionists, who advise the Board of Trade on questions of adult employment. The duty of this Central Committee is to advise the Board of Trade as to the appointment of the local Advisory Committees, which will be formed to control the juvenile department in connection with each of the London Labour Exchanges. It will also be the duty of the Central Advisory Committee to advise generally on questions affecting the employment of juveniles. Though the duties of this committee are nominally advisory, its work will in practice become administrative in character. Here then is an organization which in course of time will probably have to deal with the problem of finding suitable occupations for the child and juvenile population of London. Similar bodies are being formed in other towns. As will appear later, this is one of the most important social questions of the day. How these committees will do their work only the future can show. But if the Board of Trade act liberally in matters of expenditure, there is no cause for despondency, and we may well hope that, by the purest of accidents, we are on the threshold of a new era in the history of industrial organization. Chance is not always blind, and some of its wild castings hit the mark. Such, in broad outline, have been the achievements of the State during the age of reconstruction, so far as concerns the problem of boy labour and apprenticeship. Guided by sentiment, partial and limited in the sphere of its operations, the State has yet drifted far from the moorings of _laissez-faire_, and is destined to drift farther as the years go by. How far the intricate machinery, slowly pieced together during the last three-quarters of a century, is successful when judged by results, what are its more serious defects, and what should be the lines of future advance, before the establishment of a real apprenticeship system, it will be the object of the following chapters to explain. But one truth should now be abundantly clear: of the three essential factors of that system, not one has been altogether neglected by the State, and in certain departments its guardianship has been widely extended. In the department of supervision it has, through its schools, created an organization to watch over and to control the conduct of all its children; it has recently recognized through the same agency its duty to provide for them at least the elements of physical well-being; and through numerous Acts it has endeavoured to insure for the boy worker a minimum standard--low, indeed, but still real--of proper conditions of employment. In the department of training it has covered the land with a network of educational institutions, which offer to all the possibilities of nearly every kind of instruction. While, as regards the provision of an opening, it has realized the urgency of the problem, and has taken the first steps to supply the deficiency. These are all, in spite of many shortcomings, solid achievements, hopeful in the present, and more hopeful for the promise they bring of a larger measure of State guardianship in the years that are to come. CHAPTER V APPRENTICESHIP OF TO-DAY A true apprenticeship system, as already explained, must satisfy three conditions: It must guarantee the adequate supervision of the youth of the country as regards physical and moral development until the age of eighteen at least is reached; it must supply means of effective training, both general and specialized; and, finally, it must provide to those about to cross the threshold of manhood an opening in some form of occupation for which definite preparation has been given. The efficiency of the industrial organization of to-day must be judged by the extent to which these three conditions are satisfied. To what extent does the apprenticeship of to-day satisfy the conditions of a true apprenticeship system? To answer this question we must look far beyond the narrow limits of indentured apprenticeship as it still exists. It touches only a fringe, and a vanishing fringe, of the problem. Life for the youth has grown more complex since the passing of the old organization of the gilds; its success or failure is the outcome of the interplay of numerous forces. Four factors contribute, in a more or less degree, to the result. There is the contribution of the State--the last chapter was concerned with the description of the machinery which has slowly been set up during the age of reconstruction--we have yet to test its influence in the actual working; there is the contribution of philanthropic enterprise, as represented in the religious bodies, the clubs, the apprenticeship associations, and skilled employment committees; there is the contribution of the home, with its discipline and training; and, finally, there is the contribution of the workshop, using this term to include all forms of occupation, with the methods of entry and the organization for securing a supply of labour. Only when we have taken into account the effects of these four factors can we pass judgment on the apprenticeship of to-day. I. THE CONTRIBUTION OF THE STATE. In estimating the contribution of the State towards apprenticeship of to-day, it will be convenient, as in the last chapter, to trace the effect of this influence in two sections, the one devoted to a survey of the results of State regulation, and the other to an examination of the achievements of State enterprise. § 1. STATE REGULATION. In its scheme of regulation the State has aimed, broadly speaking, at securing three results. It has endeavoured to prevent boys from being overworked or wrongly worked; it has sought to guard them from being engaged in demoralizing forms of employment; and it has striven to secure satisfactory conditions within the walls of the workshop. The third task presents the fewest difficulties. Medical science is sufficiently advanced to prescribe the conditions as to ventilation, heating, sanitation, and cubic contents essential to the health of the boys. The sad catalogue of accidents is sufficiently long to show where danger, through inadequately guarded machinery, is probable. To enforce the necessary regulations is comparatively easy. There must be a suitable number of inspectors, and these inspectors must be specially trained for their work. Neither condition is at present fulfilled. The staff of inspectors is much too small, and the inspectors themselves frequently lack the requisite technical qualifications. In the work of guarding boys from being engaged in occupations demoralizing to character, the State has only recently taken the first steps. The Employment of Children Act prohibits street trading under certain conditions. As will appear later in this chapter, there are a large number of occupations where regulation is much required. Indeed, it is a comparatively new idea that the nature of the employment of the boy may have a profound influence on the well-being of the man. In the department of regulation the most elaborate machinery has grown up around the attempts of the State to prevent boys from being overworked or wrongly worked. The difficulties in the way of success have been two. There has been the difficulty in getting the necessary law passed. In this respect it is enough to mention that the "half-time" system, in spite of practically universal condemnation, is still permitted, to show the almost insurmountable obstacles presented by vested interests. There is next the difficulty of enforcing the law. It is often urged that it is idle to place on the statute-book laws which can easily be evaded. Too much weight must not, however, be given to this argument. There is a moral effect in the passing of every law. The fact that the State has condemned certain modes of action is an important factor in the formation of public opinion. Many people realize for the first time that the evils which are the result of conduct hitherto regarded as harmless, because not regarded at all, are sufficiently serious to call for State interference. The law may not have its full effect; it will without doubt have some effect. The question of enforcement is, however, of vital importance, and it is well to consider the limits of the power of enforcement. The best method of restricting the hours of employment is to see that the boy is somewhere else during part of the working day. The half-time system, which insured that the boy should spend half his time in school, was established, not primarily with a view to his education, but to prevent him from being overworked. It has, moreover, from its point of view, been completely successful, and has in practice been enforced without difficulty. The various laws relating to compulsory attendance at school have exercised an influence more potent in the work of limiting the hours of employment than all the other elaborate regulations on the subject. If we see to it that a boy is in school, he cannot at the same time be found in the factory. The machinery for enforcing attendance now runs without difficulty, and its action is uniform and comprehensive. The next method of restricting employment is the method of prohibition. Here, again, enforcement presents no serious difficulty. If we forbid children under a certain age to work for wages or to take part in certain forms of occupation, it is enough to find them so engaged at any one moment to secure a conviction. The third method, which seeks to prevent boys from being overworked by setting a limit on the number of hours during which they may be employed, is almost impossible to carry out. The Shop Hours Act is frequently infringed, and only the most rigid system of inspection can get evidence of cases of infringement. Yet even here detection is comparatively easy. A watch can be kept on the number of hours during which a shop is open, and if this exceed the legal limit we have a fair presumption that the shop assistants are over-employed. But in the case of children we cannot draw this conclusion. We are supposing their hours are more limited than in the case of the adults, and the mere fact that the shop is open during a longer period affords no proof that the child is there all the day on all days of the week. To enforce regulations of this kind we must set a watch on the individual child, and on a large scale this is impracticable. In judging of the results of State regulation, as described in the preceding chapter, we may assume that the regulations are enforced--or at any rate are enforceable--where employment is prohibited, or where attendance at school is required, but that regulations which entail the counting of hours have little effect in preventing overwork except by the indirect method of forming public opinion. Further, when we are seeking a path of reform, we must take the road of prohibition or alternative attendance at school. Leaving general considerations, and coming to details, it may be said that, so far as children under the age of fourteen are concerned, the system of State regulation, though a little cumbersome, covers a considerable part of the field, provided always that local education authorities make full use of the powers conferred by the Education Acts, the School Attendance Acts, the Children Act, and the Employment of Children Act, and provided also that the Board of Education and the Home Office render full and cordial support. Unfortunately, these provisos are very far from being fulfilled. More than 58 per cent. of the population, for example, live in districts where the attendance by-laws allow of conditional exemption at the age of twelve. It is true that in nearly half the cases a fairly high standard of attainment is required from the children, but with the remainder no higher standard is required than that reached by the normal child at the age of twelve.[91] Or, again, in connection with the Employment of Children Act, out of seventy-four county boroughs, fifty have made by-laws in reference to street trading, but large towns, like Leeds, Nottingham, or Salford, have made none. Out of 191 smaller boroughs and urban districts, only forty-one have made by-laws; and out of the sixty-two administrative counties, other than London and Middlesex, only one.[92] It may fairly be assumed that, where no by-laws relating to street trading exist, little is done to enforce the other provisions of the Act. As regards young persons, if we exclude the Acts relating to mines, which affect a comparatively small number of lads, the Shop Hours Act, with its mild provisions of seats for assistants and a maximum week of seventy-four hours, the only Act which can be said to exert a large measure of supervision is the Factory and Workshop Act. Assuming that the system of regulation there found is adequate, and adequately enforced--both assumptions far from being fulfilled in practice--there remain the young persons who do not come within its provisions. The number of these is very large. In the next chapter figures are given relating to the occupations of London children on leaving school and between the ages of fifteen and twenty. A study of these tables will show that not more than at most a third of the young persons are brought within the scope of the Factory and Workshop Act. A large proportion of the lads engaged in the building trades, and practically the whole of those employed in shops, in transport, in commerce, and in general labour, are excluded. In their case there is no State supervision to regulate the conditions of their work. Coming to concrete examples, the van-boy may in all kinds of weather spend a dozen hours a day lolling on the tail of a cart, idle for much of his time, and for the remainder holding the horses outside a public-house, or lifting weights too heavy for his strength. The errand-boy, none too well clad or shod, may, delivering parcels and messages, trudge through the cold and rain over long leagues of streets during long stretches of the week. The office-boy may be cooped up in a dark and ill-ventilated office during most of the hours of daylight. The shop-boy may stand ten, twelve, or on Saturdays fifteen hours of the twenty-four in the street or in the shop, with one eye on the goods and the other on a penny novelette. And there is no public authority to say whether the conditions of his employment are satisfactory, no power to have him medically inspected, no possible guarantee to insure that when he passes the threshold of early manhood the vigour and the brightness of youth shall not have given way to the feeble health and the torpor of old age. Unquestionably, we owe much to sentiment for the evils it has denounced and remedied, but we owe also to the régime of sentiment the fact that some two-thirds of the young persons in the country are engaged in occupations carried on without regulation and unvisited by any inspector of the State. § 2. STATE ENTERPRISE. The most signal example of State enterprise in the realm of boy labour is to be found in that huge organization of schools, elementary and continuation, which now cover the country, and whose efficiency is rapidly increasing. The organization has already been described; it remains to summarize briefly its principal effects. First, the boys attend school with astonishing regularity. An average percentage of attendances during the year of ninety-five, and even more, is become common. Truancy is rare, and growing rarer. The truant schools are being gradually emptied, and several have been closed. This result is no doubt in part due to the increased fine for non-attendance, and the pressure thus placed on the parent. But excellent attendance implies much more than the elimination of the truant; it means that, after making allowance for absences due to illness and other sufficient causes, the boy attends school with perfect regularity and punctuality at all times when the schools are opened. Now, this ideal is in the case of the vast majority of boys attained. The result must be attributed to the influence of the teachers over the boy. Prosecution of the parent may cure gross irregularity, but perfect attendance can only be secured by enlisting the co-operation of the boy. The first effect of the school, then, is seen in the almost unqualified regularity and punctuality of the attendance. If we reflect on the home conditions of many of the boys, we shall be compelled to pay a high tribute of praise to the work of the teacher. The second achievement lies in the admirable order maintained within the walls of the school. Ready obedience is the rule, and not the exception. This is in general not the result of a system of harsh discipline--corporal punishment is decreasing at once in severity and in frequency--it is due to the personal influence of the teacher. In the third place, a spirit of industry and active attention pervades the work of the school. In discussing with the authorities of secondary schools the career of the children who have won scholarships from the elementary schools, I have more than once been told that the chief characteristic of these scholars lies in their patient and strenuous diligence. In this respect they serve as an admirable example to the fee-paying pupils. It is true that the scholars are picked children, but ability and diligence are, as experience shows, by no means inseparable companions. Here, again, we see the effect of the school. Finally, the schools are institutions which make for character in the best sense of the word. The moral training is gradually freeing itself from the "do and don't" of the home, and is beginning to reach the higher level of morality where the command is "to be this, not that." A standard of school honour is being sought for, and sometimes attained. To take a single example. In what is perhaps the poorest school in all London, set in the most squalid and vice-haunted region, it has been made a matter of honour with the boys who are receiving school dinners to come to the headmaster as soon as the home circumstances temporarily improve and say: "I don't want a dinner this morning, because father has got a day's work." Habits of regularity, obedience, and industry, and the cultivation of a sense of honour--these are the chief results of State supervision carried out by means of the schools. Two questions require an answer: Do these qualities, found within the precincts of the school, overflow and affect the conduct of the boys outside the school? Do they last when school-days are over, and the boys gone out to work? With regard to the first, there is good reason to believe that they do overflow. The school training does influence the conduct of the boys outside. No one who has watched a zealous headmaster replace an ancient and inefficient teacher of the old type can fail to have observed a striking change in the behaviour of the boys as seen in the street and in the home. With regard to the second question, we must reply that undoubtedly in many cases the qualities gradually disappear. When we come, as we shall do shortly, to the survey of the conditions of boy labour, we shall not be surprised at this unfortunate truth. It would be difficult to imagine any form of training that would be permanent when all discipline is relaxed or entirely discontinued at the most critical period of the development of the boy. The elementary school is now made responsible for the supervision of the health of the children. Medical inspection of all children is now compulsory, while medical treatment is made legal. The education authority may also draw on the rates to provide meals for necessitous children. It is too soon to estimate the effect of these new powers, but if they are used with wise generosity they should exercise a profound influence on the health of the rising generation. But however beneficent may be the influence of the elementary school, it comes to an end abruptly at the age of fourteen, and often a year or two earlier. Up to the age of leaving school, the boy is carefully guarded by the State, and then, with no transitional stage, he becomes a man, and, so far as the State is concerned, all control is withdrawn. Two or three per cent., with the help of scholarships, may pass annually to the secondary school, where State supervision is continued. Not more than 30 per cent. of those who leave the elementary school attend an evening school,[93] and even if they do there is no medical inspection in such places, and little effective discipline is possible for boys attending evening school on two or three nights a week. The remaining two-thirds disappear from the sight of the State, which henceforth renounces all responsibility for their supervision. We have next to regard the schools as training-grounds for the workmen of the future. We ought not to look to the elementary schools to provide any definite preparation for a trade. Unfortunately, through no fault of their own, and because of the industrial development of the day, the schools are turning out in thousands lads completely equipped for a certain class of occupation. We have already seen that the most signal triumph of the schools is to be found in the habits of regularity, intelligence, and obedience, which they impress on the boys. Now, these qualities are essential to success in all walks of life; but for one form of employment alone are they all that is required. This form of employment includes those occupations in which boys and boys only are engaged, and where the boys are discharged as soon as they become men. The messenger-boy, the shop-boy, the van-boy, and even the boy who attends to some machine which monotonously performs a single operation--the boy who comes into one of these classes need take with him nothing but the three recommendations of regularity, obedience, and intelligence. We shall trace later the disastrous effects of these forms of employment. It is not without significance that the rapid increase in the number of boys so engaged has synchronized with the rapid improvement in the system of elementary education. It is something of a tragedy that the most signal triumph of the schools should be, perhaps, the cause of their most signal failure. Definite training must be looked for in the continuation school. It is unnecessary to add much to what has been said in the last chapter; the State offers opportunity, but with its existing powers can do little more. Speaking generally, for the child of comparatively well-to-do parents, for the clever child, for the child of unusual energy and physical vigour, these opportunities can be enjoyed; but for the remainder--and that the great majority--they are useless, because beyond the reach of ordinary endeavour. Of State enterprise in the provision of an opening it is too early to speak; the juvenile branch of the Labour Exchange is only creeping into existence. In the next chapter an attempt will be made to explain how best can be realized the possibilities which lie latent in these institutions. § 3. SUMMARY. We are now in a position to summarize the achievements and the defects of the contribution of the State towards the creation of a true apprenticeship system. Its machinery of regulation has removed the worst abuses of child labour, and in certain departments of industry protects, with some degree of success, the health of the young persons engaged. Its enterprise in the field of education is providing supervision over the health and conduct of the boy till he reaches the age of fourteen, while for the young person it offers opportunities of longer supervision and technical training. If much has been done, much more remains undone. Regulation still leaves rampant many of the evils of child labour. Some two-thirds of the boys as they leave school enter occupations where regulation hardly exists. State enterprise for all practical purposes exerts no supervision over lads between the ages of fourteen and eighteen--the most important epoch of their lives. Technical training, and even the continuance of general education, are possible only for a favoured few, and for the present there is no State provision of an opening. These are grave defects, and apprenticeship of to-day stands condemned unless it can be shown that one or other of the remaining factors supply what the State has failed to give. II. THE CONTRIBUTION OF PHILANTHROPY. The second of the general forces, as distinguished from the individual and special influences of the home and the workshop, which may make some contribution towards the apprenticeship of to-day must be sought among the varied religious and philanthropic associations. While we could not expect from these bodies any assistance in the work of technical training, we might hope to find in their midst conditions which make for the better supervision and control of the lads who have left school. Beginning with the more distinctly religious associations, we find among them practical unanimity of opinion. One and all confess sadly that they are unable to keep in touch with the boys after they have gone out to work. For the tens of thousands of schoolboys who attend Sunday-school there are only hundreds of lads on the roll of Bible-classes. The sudden change from the status of schoolboy to the status of wage-earner, which for the majority severed all connection with the education authority, has even more decisively brought to an end the supervision of church and chapel. The miscellaneous associations represented by clubs, lads' brigades, boy scouts, and the like, have all been called into existence for the express purpose of exerting some measure of control over that transition period of life which separates the boy from the man. How many lads between the ages of fourteen and eighteen come within the sphere of influence it is not possible to say with any exactness. The Twentieth Century League estimated in 1903 that in London about 27,780 boys were connected with institutions of this character, and we shall see later that there are in London about 120,000 boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. It would be no less difficult to weigh the value of the work done. Existing as they do on a voluntary basis, and free from all element of compulsion, such supervision as they exert must take the form of tactful guidance. Their success or failure depends less on the machinery and more on the personal qualities of the manager. The wide and admirable influence of the best clubs is the triumph, not of the system, but of the exceptional individual. Exceptional individuals are, it must be remembered, exceptional, and an organization which depends on their presence is necessarily limited in the extent of its operations. We cannot therefore look to these associations to meet adequately the call for supervision. Of recent years numerous associations have been formed with the object of providing suitable openings for boys. There are two sides to their work. On the one hand, situations are found, terms made with employers as to wages and training, and steps taken to see that these terms are carried out. On the other hand, periodic visits are paid to the boy in his home, advice given as to attendance at evening schools, and friendly relations established between boy and visitor. In general, these bodies are concerned with placing out lads in skilled trades, though here and there some attempts have been made to attack the better parts of the unskilled labour market. Work of this character entails the expenditure of much time and money, and requires for the negotiation with employers considerable technical qualifications. Experience has shown that a staff of volunteers cannot alone perform the necessary duties, and paid officers have been appointed. The cost necessarily limits the expansion of the organization. Out of the 30,000 boys who annually leave the elementary schools of London, it is probable that not more than 2 per cent. come under the influence of these associations. On the other hand, if the sphere of their operations is limited, within that sphere it has achieved very considerable success. They have been pioneers in a new movement, have fully justified their existence, and must now look to the State to continue on a larger scale, but on the same general lines, the work that they have begun. Unlike most volunteers, these employment committees welcome this transfer, and are now readily placing their services at the disposal of the Board of Trade through its juvenile Labour Exchange. This brief survey of the contribution of philanthropic enterprise to the apprenticeship of to-day reveals one obvious conclusion: the associations only touch a fringe of the problem, and in no way exert any comprehensive measure of control over the lads between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. Their number, their variety, and their enthusiasm, indicate the urgent need of supervision rather than supervision successfully achieved. We cannot look to them to supplement in any large degree the defects in the scheme of State guardianship, or the more grave defects which will appear when the conditions of home and workshop have been passed in review. III. THE CONTRIBUTION OF THE HOME. What contribution does the home make to the solution of the apprenticeship question? We cannot, indeed, expect to find within the walls of the home provision made for the general education of the boy, or the specialized training of the youth; but it is not unnatural to look to the parent to exercise supervision over his children till manhood is reached, and likewise to offer to the boy leaving school advice and material assistance in the selection of a trade. We are still inclined to regard the family as the one relic of the patriarchal system that has retained a vigorous vitality through all the ages; we are still apt to see in the home a small world, edged off from the large world outside, self-centred, self-ruled, and enjoying all the advantages of a benevolent despotism. To what extent is this general assumption justified by the results of actual experience? The question is of profound importance, and has not received the attention it deserves from those who have written on boy labour. If we can take it for granted that in the normal home we have the means of controlling the boy and the growing lad up till the age of eighteen, we have a solid foundation on which to rest the new apprenticeship. Abnormal homes may need attention; but if the problem of supervision is solved for the majority, if there is an authority to which the boy submits himself as a matter of course, to add training and to organize openings are tasks which should present no serious difficulty. Can we look to the home to provide this fundamental basis of a true apprenticeship system? To answer this question we must study the homes themselves. A few years ago I devoted a large amount of time to the collection of material touching the character of family life in towns. The results were published in an essay entitled "The Boy and the Family." [94] I may perhaps be allowed to summarize the conclusions there established. Home varies from home; each may be said to have its own individuality, but each has much in common. To give definiteness to the problem, I endeavoured to class the homes under three types. In the main, type number one referred to the inhabitants of one and two room tenements; type number two embraced the families possessing three rooms; while the third type included those persons fortunate enough to rent more than three rooms. The size of the home proved a rough, though the best attainable, method of classifying the characteristics of the inmates. Supervision has been interpreted to mean two things--supervision of health and supervision of conduct. So far as the supervision of health is concerned, it is probable that very few of the parents belonging to the three types possess the necessary knowledge to carry out this duty. Among all classes of the community ignorance on matters affecting the hygiene of the home is almost universal. But even if knowledge were present, the resources at the disposal of large numbers would prove inadequate to make that knowledge effective. With type number one overcrowding is the rule; with type number two it is common; and only in the third type do we reach conditions of housing favourable to health. The experience derived from medical inspection of school-children and the administration of the Provision of Meals Act has revealed the deplorable condition of large numbers of children when left to the unaided care of their parents. The returns of necessitous children fed, which are published weekly in the minutes of the London County Council, showed that during the winter of 1909-10 at the time of most acute distress, about 9 per cent. of the children in the schools were receiving meals. A careful inquiry, the most elaborate of its kind, made into the home circumstances of the necessitous children in certain schools showed that the number of children actually fed was probably below, and certainly not above, the number who required meals. The same inquiry, with its lurid pictures of squalor and distress, proved how small was the prospect of health for many of those children, even though they were fed at school. It may be regarded as a conclusive demonstration of the call for more searching regulation on the part of the State.[95] It is probable, however, that the need for food is far larger than that represented by the number of children actually fed. Several inquiries, such as those carried out by Mr. Charles Booth in London, and Mr. Rowntree in York, indicate that the effective income of nearly a third of the population is too small to supply in adequate quantity even the bare necessities of existence. Medical inspection is now revealing the number of children suffering from definite ailments, and urgently requiring medical treatment, which they have hitherto been unable, in a large proportion of cases, to obtain. It would appear that some 10 per cent. suffer from defective vision, about 1 per cent. from discharging ears, about the same number from ringworm, while at least a third are suffering in health from the result of decaying teeth.[96] Everywhere we have abundant evidence to show that, from want of supervision, or of the effective means of supervision in the home, large numbers of children are growing up ill-clad, ill-nourished, and suffering from definite diseases, all alike leading to inefficient manhood. The second department of supervision is concerned with the supervision of character. Can we rest satisfied that the parents exercise over the growing lads that salutary control all growing lads require? The question is of profound importance, if, as all agree, character is the condition of success when the first steps are taken in the industrial world. It is necessary to distinguish between the boy attending school and the boy exempt from compulsory attendance. In what follows I shall draw largely on my essay in "Studies of Boy Life." The conclusions are derived from the experience of many years' residence in a poor part of London, and have been tested by a careful inquiry among ministers of religion, school-teachers, rent-collectors, and others with special knowledge of the subject. § 1. THE BOY OF SCHOOL AGE. If the parents are to control the boys, the boys must come much under the personal influence of the parents; in other words, rulers and ruled must meet frequently. Now, in all three types of family the father exercises little direct control over the children. If of good character, he is either out at work or out looking for work during five days of the week, and sees the children only in the evening. On Saturday afternoons and on Sundays he is at home; but a week-end visitor cannot be the dominant factor in domestic affairs. If control is exercised, it must be exercised by the mother. To trace her influence, it is necessary to picture the kind of life led by each type. I quote from my essay: "So far as the first type is considered, it is not easy to say when the children and parents meet.... The general order of events is something as follows: If it is one of the days on which he elects to work, the father rises about five o'clock, finds his own breakfast, and then quits the house. Some two or three hours later the school-children get out of bed, wash their faces, take a slice of bread and dripping, and go out. Sometimes the mother rises at that time and gets the breakfast, but in most cases remains in bed. At nine the boys go to school. At noon school is over, and the boys, after amusing themselves in the playground or street for an hour, go home to get some food. The mother meanwhile has risen, dressed the smaller children, performed the irreducible minimum of domestic work, and then left the house to gossip with a neighbour, or earn a few pence by charing. On rare occasions she may cook the children some dinner, but as a rule they get what food they can find, and eat it in the streets. Sometimes they receive a halfpenny to buy their own meal at a fried-fish shop. The boys then return to school, escape at half-past four, possibly go home to tea, and then once more turn for amusement to the streets. There they remain until it is dark, and often in summer till dawn begins to break, when at length they seek their dwelling and go to bed. In many cases the boys do not find their way back to their own houses, but take up their quarters for the night in the house of some friend. Sometimes they do not sleep in a house at all. In one case of which I have heard three boys spent a fortnight in a wash-house on the top of some blocks. There they lived an independent existence, getting their food and attending school regularly all the while. Later on, being discovered by a policeman, they were sent to their respective families.... Week follows week with little variation to mark the march of time. As brief a fragment of the boy's life as is possible is spent within the common dwelling, which offers him no occupation, and is entirely devoid of interest or attraction. The mother does not demand his presence indoors, while he himself has no wish to be there. The street, and not the house, ought probably to be regarded as the home or meeting-place of the family." [97] Supervision under circumstances of this kind must be an almost negligible factor in the life of the home. Let us now come to the second type. I quote again: "In the second type, as already mentioned, the family usually occupies three rooms. At first sight the conditions found in the former type seem to prevail here also. Indeed, as a matter of fact, the boys spend hardly more time at home than those just considered. Out of school hours they are either in the street or employed in some form of paid work.... School, street, meals, and bed alternate with one another here in much the same way as they did in the first type. But while the facts remain for the most part unchanged, their setting and colouring are very different. Another atmosphere seems to pervade the whole life; some sense of order and regularity begins to manifest itself; meals are at fixed hours; and the boys are expected home and sent to bed at more or less definite times. They return to their own tenements, and do not spend the night with some of their neighbours. As will appear later, home interests begin to develop; and if the boys spend their leisure in the streets, this is due more to their own choice than to the wish of their parents.... The mother does not display the utter indifference to the state of the dwelling or the habits of the children conspicuous in the first type. Some sort of ideal of home she seems to possess, but to obtain this ideal is beyond her power. She has the look of one who feels that things are wrong, and yet can see no remedy. She notes, for example, the evil influence the street exerts on the characters of her boys, but does not know how to preserve them from its overwhelming attractions." [98] "The chief difference, then, between the first and second type lies not so much in a different kind of life as in a certain change of atmosphere that pervades and transforms the common existence. In the third type this change of atmosphere becomes more conspicuous. A great part of the boy's time is, indeed, still spent outside the dwelling-place, but the life at home begins to assume larger proportions. There is more order and quiet in the house--a condition which reacts favourably on the boys. They are no longer seen hanging about the streets, loafing at the corners, or shouting noisily in the gutters. Though much out of doors, they go farther afield, and visit parks or museums; while, if they stay near home, they will usually be discovered in the school playground. In the evening many of them are indoors, and have various occupations, of which, perhaps, reading is the chief." [99] In type number one, then, there is, for all practical purposes, a complete absence of supervision. In the second type there is a desire for supervision, but the narrowness of the house accommodation thrusts the boys into the streets. In the third type alone are the conditions favourable to supervision. § 2. THE BOY AFTER SCHOOL DAYS. If the boy while at school is under little parental control, it is not to be expected that this control will be tightened when school days are over. With the first type of family there was no supervision before, and there is no more afterwards. The boy is self-supporting, and troubles little about the home, and the home troubles little about him. There is a partial exception in the case of the coster. Here the boy may become one of the regular working members of the establishment, and remains with his father; but the discipline is of a rude and ready sort. With the second type of family the boy's earnings are of great importance to the family, and the mother does her best to keep him at home. Any exercise of discipline is avoided, lest the lad should take his earnings and go elsewhere. He is rather in the position of a favoured lodger, whose presence is valuable to the home, and who must be treated well for fear he should give notice. In the third type of family, the boy, with growing years, passes out of the control of the mother, and is resentful of any restraint exerted by a woman. What supervision he enjoys comes from the father. The two do not meet often; father and son are seldom employed together, and the long distance that frequently separates home and work places the boy beyond the reach of parental control during the greater portion of the week. Such in broad outline, rendered jagged, no doubt, by numerous exceptions, is the quantity and the quality of the supervision exercised by the town parent over the town boy. Even with the highest type no high standard is reached, while with the lower we cannot contemplate the picture with any degree of satisfaction. Speaking generally, the city-bred youth is growing up in a state of unrestrained liberty; and what makes the problem more serious is the fact that all evidence goes to show that this disquieting phenomenon is not an accident, but the direct product of the social and industrial conditions of the times. Towns are growing larger, and with the growth of towns the whole conditions of family life are being transformed. The old patriarchal system is gone; the father is no longer an autocratic ruler in his small world. The family, so to say, has become democratized; we have in it an association of equals in authority. Now, the most ardent advocates of the extension of the suffrage have always limited their demands to an appeal for adult suffrage; they have never clamoured for children to be given a vote. Yet this, for all effective purposes, is what happens in the home in the case of the boy as soon as he has left school. The status of wage-earner has brought with it the status of manhood, and his earnings have conferred on him immunity from control and the right to be consulted in the politics of the home. Another fact, not sufficiently recognized, tends to break down the patriarchal system. With the steady improvement in the State schools, the boy is usually better educated than the father; the father knows this, and the boy knows it too. It is idle, therefore, to look for any large amount of parental control over the boy who has left school. We must face realities, however unpleasant these realities may happen to be; and one of the realities of the time is the independence of the lad. What is equally significant is the suddenness with which this independence comes. Until the age of fourteen he has remained under a carefully designed system of State supervision, exerted by the school authorities; while in a large number of cases the discipline of the home has been an important factor in his existence. At the age of fourteen, as a general rule, the control of school and home end together. The lad goes to bed a boy; he wakes as a man. There should therefore be little cause for surprise if the habits of the school and home are rapidly sloughed off in the new life of irresponsible freedom. Whether, therefore, we look to the State, to philanthropic enterprise, or to the home, we find no satisfactory guarantee for the supervision of the youth of the country. We have yet to search for this supervision in the workshop; but if it is absent there, we shall be faced with the disquieting phenomenon of the boy at the age of fourteen enjoying the full and complete independence of the adult. IV. THE CONTRIBUTION OF THE WORKSHOP. Having examined three out of the four factors which contribute to the apprenticeship of to-day, and found them all inadequate, we must now turn to the workshop in the hope that we shall discover there conditions more favourable to the well-being of the youth of the country. If, however, this last factor prove defective, the apprenticeship of to-day will stand condemned, and the case for drastic reform will become unanswerable. It will therefore be desirable to devote considerable space to this, the central feature of the problem of boy labour. In what follows it is proposed first to make a detailed study of conditions in London, and then to present a general picture of the state of boy labour in other parts of the country. London has been selected for a detailed study because in a peculiar degree it represents the extreme type of urbanization. There is also the advantage that in the case of London the material required for the examination has to a large extent been collected. The investigations of Mr. Charles Booth, the publications and inquiries on the subject carried out by the London County Council, Mr. Cyril Jackson's report on boy labour presented to the Poor Law Commission, and numerous other writings, have provided for the study of London a mass of information which, though not in all respects exhaustive, is more complete than can be found elsewhere. § 1. LONDON. A study of the problem of boy labour in London involves the study of three questions. First we have to consider the case of the children who, while still attending school, are employed for wages. Next we must devote special attention to the boys as they leave school and distribute themselves among the different occupations. Finally, we must watch the later career of those lads, and in particular endeavour to ascertain in what way and with what results is made the difficult passage from the status of the youth to the status of the man. _(a) The Employment of School-Children._ In London the half-time system is not permitted. The standard of attainment for total exemption has been made sufficiently high to prevent the great majority of boys from leaving school till the age of fourteen is reached. It is, however, a fact that improved methods of instruction and more rapid promotion from class to class are tending to lower the age at which it is possible to obtain a Labour Certificate. How far this opportunity is used it is not easy to say; but in certain schools, situated in the poorer districts, it is alleged that there is a growing tendency for the brighter children to claim exemption in this way. The regularity of attendance is admirable, the average attendance in boys' schools exceeding 90 per cent. We may therefore assume that, if the boys work for wages, they must work at times when the schools are not opened. To what extent are boys employed while still liable to attend school? In 1899 a return was obtained throughout the elementary schools of England and Wales of the number of children so employed. In London, in the case of boys, the figures were 21,755.[100] The tables also give the ages of the children, but boys and girls are not separated. If, however, we assume that the number of children of each sex at each age is proportionate to the total number of children of each sex at all ages, we find that 78 per cent. of the boys were eleven and upwards, and 22 per cent. under eleven. The number of boys of eleven and upwards would be about 17,000. There are in the elementary schools about 70,000 boys eleven years of age and upwards, so that about 24 per cent. of these boys are employed. In other words, nearly a quarter of the boys in the elementary schools above the age of eleven were employed at the time of the return. The actual number of boys who are employed during the course of their school career would be considerably larger, as they would not all be employed at the same moment. The return is more than ten years old, but, with the exception of the children under eleven, it is improbable that there has been much change. Similar figures may be deduced from the Report of the Interdepartmental Committee on the Employment of School-Children, 1901.[101] With regard to the number of hours worked, Miss Adler's evidence is selected, and typical schools show that 56 per cent. were employed for more than twenty hours a week, while 14 per cent. were employed thirty-five hours or upwards.[102] In individual cases the figures were much higher. "Thus a boy of eleven years of age, for four shillings a week, was employed for forty-three and three-quarter hours in carrying parcels from a chemist's shop, and, except on Sundays, was practically every moment of his life at school or at work from seven in the morning till nine o'clock at night. Another boy, aged thirteen, worked fifty-two hours a week, being employed by a moulding company, and attending a theatre for five evenings a week and for half a day on Wednesday for a _matinée_--for the last, however, playing truant from school." [103] The following graphic account taken from a school composition, and obtained under circumstances which guarantee its essential accuracy, shows the amount of work which may be compressed into a single day. It refers to Saturday: "I first got up from bed about half-past six, and put my clothes on and had a wash. Then I went to work at B.'s, and swept out his shop, and then I did the window out. But after I done the window I had my breakfast and went in the shop again. I started taking out orders that came in. While I was taking the orders out, Mr. B. went to the Borough market for some potatoes, cabbages, and some onions; but when he came home I had to unload his van. After I unloaded his van, he went for some coal, which he sells at one and sixpence a hundredweight, but he got two tons of coal in. Then we had dinner about one o'clock. When we had our dinner, I had a rest till about four o'clock, when I had tea. When I had my tea I had to go and chop some wood, when it was time to shut up the shop. I had my supper and went home, and went to bed, and the time was about twelve o'clock." [104] It will be seen that, with the exception of a break in the middle of the day, the boy was on duty for nearly three-quarters of the twenty-four hours, and for part of the time was engaged in heavy manual labour. What effect does employment have on the physical condition of children under the age of fourteen? "That excessive employment is injurious alike to the education and to the health of the children is hardly in question. It was testified to by witness after witness, many of them in no way likely to be influenced by merely theoretical objections to child labour." [105] On the other hand, most of the witnesses that appeared before the Interdepartmental Committee were of opinion that "moderate work" was in many cases not only not injurious, but "positively beneficial." [106] It is not easy to understand what is meant by the last statement. If some form of employment is beneficial, then the 76 per cent. who are not so employed suffer, and steps should be taken to encourage them to work. It is doubtful whether the witnesses would have accepted this conclusion, from which, on their own assumptions, there is really no escape. The difficulty lay in drawing the line. "Most of the witnesses seemed to suggest that twenty hours might be fixed as the maximum weekly limit; but, on the other hand, we found some cases where less than twenty hours a week, if concentrated in one or two days, or if done at night, must be injurious." [107] But the evidence of most value on the subject is to be found in a Report of the Medical Officer of the London County Council.[108] About 400 boys employed outside school hours were examined. The following table, with defects in percentages, was obtained as the result:[109] +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Actual |Fatigue| |Severe| |Severe| |Hours worked | Number |Signs. |Anæmia.|Nerve |Deformities.|Heart | | Weekly. |of Boys.| | |Signs.| |Signs.| |------------------|--------|-------|-------|------|------------|------| |All schoolboys of | | | | | | | | district workers| | | | | | | | and non-workers | 3,700 | -- | 25 | 24 | 8 | 8 | |Working 20 hours | | | | | | | | or less | 163 | 50 | 34 | 28 | 15 | 11 | |Working 20 to 30 | | | | | | | | hours | 86 | 81 | 47 | 44 | 21 | 15 | |Working over 30 | | | | | | | | hours | 95 | 83 | 45 | 50 | 22 | 21 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ It will be seen that the defects rise rapidly with increase in the hours of work; while, even in the case of those working less than twenty hours, there is a serious deviation from the average. The fact that 50 per cent. of those working less than twenty hours should exhibit signs of fatigue, even where no permanent physical evil results, must seriously affect the value of the school instruction. In every case the workers compare unfavourably with the average for the whole of the workers and non-workers. We cannot view with satisfaction the truth that, even in those employed with moderation, deformities and severe heart signs should be nearly 50 per cent. above the average. The medical officer adds other conclusions no less disquieting. "Working eight hours on Saturday is as inimical as thirty hours during the week, and working through the dinner-hour appears particularly productive of anæmia," [110] "Retardation in school work was noted in 209 out of these 330 boys, 86 being one standard, 83 two standards, 37 three standards, and 3 four standards behind that corresponding to their age." [111] As his final conclusion the medical officer states: "We must set up as an ideal the suppression of child labour below twelve years of age, and during school life regulate it to twenty hours weekly, and a maximum of five hours on any one day." [112] The figures, however, would seem to go far in justifying the more drastic remedy of complete prohibition. It is, however, fair to mention that the Report of the Interdepartmental Committee, and also the Report of the Medical Officer, refer to a state of affairs prior to the passing of the Employment of Children Act. Under this Act, as explained in the last chapter,[113] employment of children under the age of eleven is forbidden, while the by-laws of the Council place restrictions on the number of hours children may work, and the times of day during which such work may be carried on. It is too soon to judge of the extent to which these restrictions can be enforced. During the first year of effective operation in London there were, in respect of boys under the age of sixteen, 13,461 cases of infringement. Prohibition under a certain age or during certain times of the day is comparatively easy to enforce; but limitation of hours, as experience of the Shop Act shows, is extremely difficult to enforce, and peculiarly difficult where, as with school-children, persons are not employed regularly, but work irregularly at times when the schools are not open. To get evidence sufficient to justify convictions is almost impossible, except in a few outrageous cases. What, if any, effect does the employment of school-children have on the general question of the preparation for a trade? Into this general question the Interdepartmental Committee did not enter. They did indeed regard certain forms of occupation as injurious, while they pronounced as beneficial employment in moderation. But this statement has apparently reference only to matters of health, and not to the relation of employment during school days to employment afterwards. The question is of great importance, as habits, in respect of work for wages, formed by the boy cling persistently to the youth. It is necessary, therefore, to pay some attention to the characteristics of the work which schoolboys undertake. In London 90 per cent. of the work would be included in the three following classes: (1) Shops--errand-running and delivery of parcels, milk, newspapers, and watching the goods spread on the counters outside the shops; (2) domestic--knife and boot cleaning, and occasionally baby-minding; and (3) street employment--hawking of newspapers, matches, and flowers, organ-grinding, and the like. Now, none of these forms of occupation provide any trade-training, or offer an opening with satisfactory prospects, to the boy as he leaves school. On the other hand, this class of work has distinctly injurious effects. First, it is employment of a casual character. Affected as it is, on the one hand, by attendance at school, and on the other by Saturdays and holidays, it is essentially irregular as regards hours. Secondly, it is easy to obtain, and consequently lightly undertaken and lightly dropped. Where another situation can be obtained at will, there is no demand on the worker to display the qualities that make for permanence of employment. Thirdly, it is work in which youths as well as boys are engaged; in other words, it does provide an opening to the boy as he leaves school--an opening which he is likely to accept, because it is the most obvious, but at the same time an opening in one of those forms of occupation entrance into which we should, as will appear later, do our utmost to discourage. It is singularly unfortunate that a boy's first association with any kind of paid employment should be of this nature. And, finally, it is at least open to grave doubt whether that sense of independence of home which comes with the consciousness of earning wages should begin at as early an age as twelve or thirteen. It would not be easy to imagine a more unsatisfactory form of preparation for a trade than that provided by the kind of work carried out by wage-earning children. If we add to this demoralizing influence the injurious effect on health and education, the case for total prohibition of boy labour during school-days becomes very strong. _(b) The Entry to a Trade._ The great majority of boys remain at the elementary school till they attain the age of fourteen; it is no less true that the vast majority cease attendance as soon as that age is reached. The period of the next four years--that is, from fourteen to eighteen--forms the most critical time of their career. It is during these four years that the boy must, if ever, have taken the first steps towards learning a trade. During this interval his physical strength must mature, his character take on itself a more or less permanent set, and the question whether his education shall represent something more than a faint shadow of early impressions be finally determined. In short, it is during these four years that the future citizen is made or marred. The previous survey, whether of the factors which contribute to the apprenticeship of to-day, or of the evils which are found among wage-earning school-children, does not guarantee a favourable start in the world of whole-time employment. Each year about 30,000 boys leave school at the age of fourteen to take up some form of work. These figures do not agree with the Census returns, because the latter include all London boys in all classes of society, whether at school or at work. Here we are concerned only with the boys of fourteen who leave the elementary school with the intention of earning their own living. Between the ages of fourteen and eighteen there will therefore be 120,000 boys. It is the careers of these 120,000 boys that we must now try to follow. What are the first occupations selected by these 120,000 boys? During the last few years the London County Council has endeavoured to find an answer to this question. Each head-master of an elementary school is required annually to fill up a form in respect of each boy who has left the school during the preceding twelve months. The information asked for is "occupation of parent," "occupation of boy," "whether skilled or unskilled," or "whether a place of higher education is attended." Returns have been received and summarized for the years 1906-07 and 1907-08. The first return was incomplete, but the second included the vast majority of those who left. Below is given the summary for the two years: +----------------------------------------------------------+ | | Skilled.| Unskilled.| Higher | | | | |Education.| |-------------------------|---------|-----------|----------| | Number | 8,662 | 15,910 | 1,524 | | Percentage | 33·2 | 61·0 | 5·8 | | Percentage, 1906-07 | 28·5 | 67·9 | 3·6 | +----------------------------------------------------------+ It will be seen that, including those who went to some higher form of education, little more than a third of the boys left school to enter a skilled trade.[114] TABLE I. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Number. | Percentage. | | Class of Occupation. |------------------|------------------| | | Parent. | Boy. | Parent. | Boy. | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| |Trades and industries | 615 | 347 | 40·87 | 18·74 | |Domestic offices or services | 23 | 46 | 1·52 | 2·48 | |Transport (including messengers,| | | | | | errand-boys, van-boys, etc.) | 191 | 829 | 12·69 | 44·76 | |Shopkeepers, shop-assistants, | | | | | | and dealers | 137 | 133 | 9·10 | 7·18 | |Commercial occupations | 61 | 141 | 4·05 | 7·61 | |General labour | 436 | 215 | 28·98 | 11·61 | |Professional occupations and | | | | | | their subordinate services | 11 | 5 | 0·73 | 0·27 | |General or local government | 26 | 6 | 1·73 | 0·32 | |Defence of the country | 5 | 1 | 0·33 | 0·06 | |Higher education | -- | 27 | -- | 1·45 | |Unemployed | -- | 102 | -- | 5·52 | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| | Total | 1,505 | 1,852 | 100·00 | 100·00 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ It is unfortunate that no full analysis has been made of these returns. The value of the information which would have thus been obtained was not supposed to justify the labour and expenditure involved in such an analysis. I have, however, roughly analyzed nearly 4,000 cases, and endeavoured to classify the occupations, in accordance with the table founded on the Census return which will be given later.[115] I selected for this purpose typical districts in London. Table I. includes returns from all the schools in the electoral areas of Bermondsey, North Camberwell, and Walworth; it represents a typical miscellaneous working-class district. Table II. includes the electoral areas of Dulwich and Lewisham; it may be regarded as typical of suburban villadom so far as its inhabitants send their children to the elementary schools. Table III. includes the electoral areas of Whitechapel and St. George's-in-the-East, districts distinguished by the presence of a large number of small trades and sweated industries. Table IV. includes the collective results of the three preceding tables, and may be taken as fairly typical of London as a whole. It was necessary to exclude the returns of a few schools as incomplete, indefinite, or obviously inaccurate. Parent stands for occupation of parent, boy for occupation of boy. The two do not quite correspond, as in a certain number of instances the occupation of the parent was unknown. I have included the telegraph-boys under "Transport," as for my purpose this classification was the more suitable. TABLE II. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Number. | Percentage. | | Class of Occupation. |------------------|------------------| | | Parent. | Boy. | Parent. | Boy. | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| |Trades and industries | 347 | 151 | 35·57 | 14·86 | |Domestic offices or services | 14 | 27 | 1·45 | 2·64 | |Transport (including messengers,| | | | | | errand-boys, van-boys, etc.) | 70 | 350 | 7·24 | 34·31 | |Shopkeepers, shop-assistants, | | | | | | and dealers | 100 | 126 | 10·34 | 12·35 | |Commercial occupations | 180 | 157 | 18·61 | 15·38 | |General labour | 144 | 54 | 14·89 | 5·29 | |Professional occupations and | | | | | | their subordinate services | 47 | 2 | 4·86 | 0·19 | |General or local government | 66 | 9 | 6·83 | 0·88 | |Defence of the country | 2 | 5 | 0·21 | 0·48 | |Higher education | -- | 76 | -- | 7·45 | |Unemployed | -- | 63 | -- | 6·17 | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| | Total | 967 | 1,020 | 100·00 | 100·00 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ TABLE III. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Number. | Percentage. | | Class of Occupation. |------------------|------------------| | | Parent. | Boy. | Parent. | Boy. | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| |Trades and industries | 349 | 305 | 51·09 | 41·84 | |Domestic offices or services | 25 | 18 | 3·66 | 2·47 | |Transport (including messengers,| | | | | | errand-boys, van-boys, etc.) | 72 | 189 | 10·54 | 25·93 | |Shopkeepers, shop-assistants, | | | | | | and dealers | 91 | 48 | 13·33 | 6·58 | |Commercial occupations | 11 | 39 | 1·61 | 5·35 | |General labour | 116 | 63 | 16·99 | 8·64 | |Professional occupations | | | | | | and their subordinate services| 10 | 3 | 1·46 | 0·41 | |General or local government | 8 | -- | 1·17 | -- | |Defence of the country | 1 | -- | 0·15 | -- | |Higher education | -- | 7 | -- | 0·96 | |Unemployed | -- | 57 | -- | 7·82 | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| | Total | 683 | 729 | 100·00 | 100·00 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ TABLE IV. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Number. | Percentage. | | Class of Occupation. |------------------|------------------| | | Parent. | Boy. | Parent. | Boy. | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| |Trades and industries | 1,308 | 803 | 41·46 | 22·31 | |Domestic offices or services | 62 | 91 | 1·97 | 2·53 | |Transport (including messengers,| | | | | | errand-boys, van-boys, etc.) | 333 | 1,368 | 10·55 | 38·00 | |Shopkeepers, shop-assistants, | | | | | | and dealers | 328 | 307 | 10·39 | 8·52 | |Commercial occupations | 252 | 337 | 7·98 | 9·36 | |General labour | 696 | 332 | 22·06 | 9·22 | |Professional occupations and | | | | | | their subordinate services | 68 | 10 | 2·16 | 0·28 | |General or local government | 100 | 15 | 3·17 | 0·41 | |Defence of the country | 8 | 6 | 0·26 | 0·16 | |Higher education | -- | 110 | -- | 3·05 | |Unemployed | -- | 222 | -- | 6·16 | |--------------------------------|---------|--------|---------|--------| |Total | 3,155 | 3,601 | 100·00 | 100·00 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ In the interpretation of these tables certain facts must be borne in mind. None of the parents are returned as unemployed; this is because the trade of the parent was asked for, and no account was taken as to whether he was or was not employed. Secondly, the occupations are somewhat vaguely described; this in particular is true of the term "labourer." More exact information would no doubt have removed the parent from the class "general labour," and placed him in the class "transport," and occasionally in the classes "domestic servant" or "shop-assistant." Thirdly, the messenger-boys are included partly under "transport" and partly under "shop-assistants," the boy being termed sometimes an errand-boy and sometimes a shop-boy. The term "office-boy," which appears frequently in the returns, is vague. I have classed the office-boy as an errand-boy unless the school return places him in the column "skilled employment," when I have included him under the heading "commercial occupation." Making allowance for a certain inevitable inaccuracy which belongs to returns of this kind, we have a general picture, accurate in all essentials, of the distribution of boys among the various forms of occupation immediately after leaving the elementary school. The columns which refer to the trade of the parents, and indicate therefore the distribution of the parents among the various forms of occupation, are of considerable value. If we take Table IV., which may be regarded as typical of London as a whole, and compare the last two columns, we shall at once notice the striking difference that marks the distribution of boys and of adults among the several kinds of employment. In "trades and industries," 41 per cent. of parents are engaged, and only 22 per cent. of boys; 38 per cent. of the boys are engaged in "transport," and only 10 per cent. of parents. This fact carries with it a conclusion of great importance--son and father can seldom work together. If, for example, 10 per cent. of the parents are included under "transport," and 38 per cent. of the boys, it is clear that little more than a quarter of such boys can be employed in company with their parents. The actual facts, as revealed by an examination of the individual returns, are much stronger, and demonstrate the extreme rareness of father and son following the same occupation. In the case of "trades and industries" the trade of father and son is not infrequently the same; this is in particular true of "tailoring" trades of the East End, included in Table III., where the proportion of adults to boys are as fifty-one to forty-two. In suburban villadom, pictured in Table III., the clerk is often father to the clerk, while the son of a shopkeeper occasionally assists his parents in the shop. The coster habit likewise runs in families. But with these exceptions father and son do not work together. In consequence, in his first situation the boy is cut adrift from the home and its control, such as it is. He has not his father by his side to note and guide his conduct; and if he enters a skilled trade, he lacks the personal interest of the parent to guarantee his satisfactory training. We have already seen that the school supervision is at an end; in consequence, the only disciplinary influence left is the influence of the employer. The character of the employment and the nature of the supervision of the master become, therefore, of supreme importance to the well-being of the boy. It is consequently necessary to examine in some detail the distinguishing features of the various kinds of occupation. They are usually roughly classed as skilled or unskilled, according as they do or do not lead to a form of employment which requires specialized skill or specialized intelligence. THE UNSKILLED TRADES.--Practically the whole of the unskilled trades are included under the terms "domestic service," "transport," "shop," and "general labour," and the great majority of the boys who select these occupations may be said to select an unskilled trade. In Table I., a typical working-class district, it will be seen that 66 per cent. of the boys who leave the elementary schools come within this class. In Table II., a suburban area, the figures are 55 per cent.; but a considerable proportion of those included under "shops" appear to be employed in the shops of their parents, and to be learning the business. In Table III., representing the small East End trades, the figures are 44 per cent.; but, judged by wages and conditions of employment, the majority of the 42 per cent. included under trades should be transferred to the class of unskilled work. For all the districts, as a whole typical of London, Table IV. shows the figures to be 58·27 per cent. The figures quoted above ignore the boys returned as unemployed and unknown, the number of these for all London being 6 per cent. They are boys waiting for something to turn up; what will turn up it is impossible to predict. But it is safe to say that a considerable portion will drift into unskilled work. The unskilled trades fall into three classes. The first and smallest is included under "domestic service." Under this head are found boys in barbers' shops, page-boys, club-boys, boot and knife boys. Employment in a barber's shop is notoriously unhealthy;[116] a barber's shop is also supposed to be not infrequently the resort of the betting fraternity. The fortunes of the page and club boy await the zeal of an investigator; the knife and boot boy soon passes to some other occupation. Of the three classes, domestic service is the least important and the soonest left by the boy. The second class, included under "transport" and "shopkeepers," is far the largest and the most important. In all London some 47 per cent. of the boys are found here; or, if we add a half of the 6 per cent. returned as unemployed, we may say that half the boys who leave the elementary schools belong to this class. It is necessary to take "transport" and "shopkeepers" together, because it is impossible to tell whether a "shop-boy" is merely an errand-boy, or a boy on the road to become a properly trained shop-assistant. It is probable, however, that only a small number could be regarded as future shop-assistants. Ignoring these exceptions, we have to follow the fortunes of 50 per cent. of the boys leaving school--in other words, of 15,000 persons. Their forms of employment have much in common. In the first place, they are what is known as "blind-alley" occupations--they lead nowhere. Boys only are engaged, and when the boys become men they are cast adrift. Sometimes they are absorbed in the adult service, but more usually, if they have not already left, are given notice, and must at the age of eighteen seek out some new way of earning a living. The report of Mr. Cyril Jackson makes this fact abundantly clear.[117] "The industrial biographies received," he says, "show clearly that there is generally a time of transition when boys have to seek new occupations, for which they have little aptitude." [118] Or again: "There appears to be no doubt that the restlessness of many of the boys doing more or less unskilled work obscures from some employers the fact that they are using a greater number of boys than can ever be employed in connection with their trade as men. The employers who have filled up forms often state that they 'never discharge a boy who is willing to stay,' or 'that boys are only discharged for misconduct,' when it is evident from the figures appearing in the same form that there must be a considerable proportion of the boys passing out of the trade each year.... That many employers, on the other hand, do in fact discharge a considerable proportion of their boys because they have no room for them as men--or, to express the same thing in the form in which it presents itself to the masters, because they cannot afford to offer men's wages--is shown in the short accounts of the trades in the Appendix." [119] It is needless to labour the point further, as everyone familiar with the conditions of boy work give evidence to the same effect. The second characteristic of these trades is that they are mainly concerned with fetching or carrying something--messages, letters, parcels. It is characteristic of that stage of civilization at which we have arrived that we want to save ourselves trouble, or to save ourselves time. Boys are the instruments we use. "Here we are, all of us," says a modern writer, "demanding an endless number of tiny jobs to be done on our behalf. Every year multiplies these demands, increasing the pace at which the jobs can be done, and the number of them that can be crowded into the time. We learn to expect more and more conveniences at our elbow by which communication can be made, business transacted, messages despatched, parcels transferred, news brought up to date, transit hastened, things of all kinds put under our hand. We touch buttons, press knobs, ring bells, whisper down telephones, keep wires throbbing with our desires, bustle and hustle the world along. And all this in the end means _boys_. Boys are what we set moving. Boys are the material in which we deal. Boys are our tools. Every wire has a boy at the end of it." [120] This tendency to demand the services of boys has spread through all classes of society. To take a single example of quite recent growth: It is becoming less and less common for the housewife to bring the results of her marketing home herself; a boy delivers the goods instead. Go into any shop, even in the poorest part of the town, and make a few purchases; the shopman will probably offer to send them home for you. There is something flattering and pleasant in the offer; it is one of the new products of competition to multiply conveniences instead of cutting prices. The demand for boys is rapidly increasing; and while the demand is increasing, the supply of boys has diminished. The raising of the school age, the improved attendance, and the decrease of truancy, have all removed from the labour market an immense number of boys. "The Census figures show that there has been a steady diminution of boys employed under fifteen during the last quarter of a century." [121] The Labour Exchanges testify to the same effect, the managers frequently saying: "There is an unsatisfied demand for juvenile labour of an unskilled type." [122] This growing demand has two effects. First, as it becomes increasingly easier for boys to obtain situations, there is less and less inducement for them to show such industry and good conduct as are necessary to retain their places. Dismissal has no terrors; it means, if they please, a few days' holiday, or, if they prefer it, a new employer can be at once discovered. It becomes therefore difficult for an employer to exercise over the boys the discipline they need; if he attempt to do so, he will soon find himself without boys. Lads change situations for the mere sake of change, to see what happens. "I have known," says Mr. J. G. Cloete, "boys who, within three years of leaving school, have been employed in as many as seventeen different occupations." [123] The second consequence of the increased demand for boys in these kinds of occupations is a rise in wages. The earnings of these boys are considerably higher than those obtained by a boy who enters a skilled trade. "The casual and low-skilled employments give higher wages in the early years in order to attract the boys." [124] With boys choosing, as they do, their own occupations, high wages at the outset are more attractive than low wages with the prospect of learning a trade. The third characteristic these occupations have in common lies in certain general conditions of employment. Hours are long; at the same time, the boy is often idle for long periods, waiting for messages to come in and parcels to go out. Shop-boys and telegraph-boys are kept hanging about with nothing to do. The office-boy in a small office is often the whole staff, and is left alone for hours when his master is out, and "spends his time either in vacancy, in mischievous expeditions along the corridor, or in reading trash of a bloodthirsty nature." [125] The boy has often heavy goods to carry long distances, and overtaxes his strength. Either there is too much idleness or too much work; these are the alternatives. In neither case is there the possibility of much supervision. The fourth characteristic has not received the attention it deserves. These forms of occupation, though unskilled in the sense that the boy receives no training in his present place of business, nevertheless demand qualities of a high standard. The boy must be regular, obedient, and, above all, intelligent. A dull boy as a messenger is liable to make stupid and irritating mistakes. The stories of district messengers carrying letters unaided over the Continent show that the boys possess no ordinary intelligence. Now, we have already seen that these are the qualities which are in a peculiar degree the product of the elementary schools. The schools turn out innumerable boys of this kind. It is not, perhaps, a mere coincidence that the increasing use of boys in occupations which call for alertness of mind has gone on side by side with improvements in the educational system. The State has spent much money on these boys. A boy who starts to attend school at the age of three and leaves at fourteen has had spent on him a sum of money which, if invested year by year at 4 per cent., and left to accumulate till the time for leaving school comes, would amount to nearly £100. Each year in the 30,000 boys who leave school £3,000,000 of State-created value is turned adrift. The State has therefore a right to demand that this capital sum of £100 invested in the boy shall not be squandered by the employer. He ought to give back at the age of eighteen at least as valuable an article as he received four years earlier. This consideration leads to the last characteristic distinguishing these occupations. They lead to nothing, and when the boy reaches the end, he is, in the majority of cases, distinctly inferior in every way to what he was three or four years before. Evidence in favour of this assertion is overwhelming. "At the present time, at the age of eighteen, after a four years' course of employment, whose chief characteristics are the long hours, the lack of supervision, and the total absence of any educational influence, the lad is a distinctly less valuable article in the labour market than he was when he left school four years previously. His only asset is represented by greater physical strength, accompanied probably by a marked decrease in general health and vigour. He has lost the intelligence and aptitude of the boy, and remains a clumsy and unintelligent man, fitted for nothing but unskilled labour, and likely to become sooner or later one of the unemployed." [126] "There seems little doubt that the boy labour is used up for industrial purposes, and that they are left less capable members of the community, with little prospect of good work when they become adults." [127] "The most hopeless position is that of the errand-boy at a small shop in a poor neighbourhood; his prospects are absolutely nil." [128] "The chart prepared from the forms filled in by boys who entered life as errand-boys shows that the small proportion who find steady and skilled employment afterwards have ceased to be errand-boys very early; the vast majority become workers in low-skill trades, or general and casual labourers." [129] "Mr. Courtney Terell, who has been making inquiries from the Passmore Edwards Settlement, writes: 'I feel confident ... that the messenger work produced a definite effect on the boys, as will the continual performance of any one of a definite function which admits of no improvement, and that this has unfitted them for other work.'" [130] "The injury done to these boys is not that they are compelled as men to devote themselves to low-skilled labour, but that from the more or less specialized nature of the work which has employed this boyhood, they are unfitted to become good low-skilled labourers." [131] It is impossible to resist the mass of evidence of this kind which might easily be increased indefinitely. The boy gains nothing from this form of employment and loses much. He loses the results of his training in the elementary school; the habits of obedience, regularity, and industry are dead; the bright intelligence is dulled, and with the coming of dulness goes the power of learning. He loses his prospects; his future is the future of the unskilled labourer--the unskilled labourer, robbed of that grit and alertness which alone secure for unskilled labour the adequate reward of permanent employment at a steady wage. His loss is the loss of the community, which is compelled later to relieve him and his family, and perhaps in the end find a home for him in the workhouse. And in thinking of this deterioration, and of that hopeless future which that deterioration involves, we must never forget that it is not a mere handful of lads who suffer in this way, but that half the boys who leave the elementary school start on this dreary journey, and, so starting, bid fare to reach that dreary end. Reckoned in money, the State has spent a million and a half on these boys, and but little comes back to the State or remains with the boy. If it has gone anywhere, and it probably has, then it has gone into the pockets of the employers who have sucked out of the boys their value, and then cast them aside as worthless refuse, a sort of slag or waste product of their works, for which neither they nor anyone else can find a use. In saying this there is no desire to censure unfairly the employers. They are undoubtedly to blame, because thoughtlessness and ignorance in persons of their position are always blameworthy; but there is nothing deliberate in their actions, and they are largely unconscious of the harm they are doing. There is no active cruelty, and often much rude and ready kindness. The boys to them are merely instruments in the machinery of their business, for the moment the cheapest instruments that can be found, to be used until a new and better supply takes the place of those who are used up. They are ignorant of the consequences of their conduct, and, as their evidence shows, generally imagine that the boys who leave find suitable jobs. It is only of late years that numerous investigators and managers of boys' clubs have revealed the grave results of this thoughtlessness. Employers who generally enjoy a good reputation as employers are often the worst offenders. Indeed, the most flagrant example of this exploitation of boy labour is to be found in the Imperial Government and the Municipal Service. Mr. Cyril Jackson has in his report devoted much space to the telegraph-boys in the service of the Post Office. "The boys come from very good homes, and are often the pick of the family. They are examined medically, and bring characters." [132] A mere fraction are absorbed in the adult service. "It appears as if the Post Office is one of the least promising occupations into which a boy can enter. The better boys go into it, and it is very depressing to see from our returns how very few of the very large number discharged at sixteen or seventeen get into as good employment as their good social standing and general standard of education should have guaranteed for them." [133] "Everyone of experience seems to agree that these telegraph-messengers who are discharged exemplify in a very striking way the evils of a parasitic trade." [134] Yet these things had been going on for years in a service like that of the Post Office, which is subject to much criticism by its employees, and yet no attention had been called to the evil. Unfortunately, boys have no votes, and do not form trade unions. Other Government departments and the Municipal Service seem no less ignorant and no less worthy of blame. A short time back the Education Committee called the attention of the London County Council to the misuse of its boy labour, and now the Council allows its boys, weekly, six hours "off" during working hours, and provides classes which they are compelled to attend. At the same time it has nominated one of its officers to look after the interests of these boys, and to guide them into useful occupations. If the public service is thus guilty, we must not be surprised that private employers are not conscious of wrongdoing in their use of boys. The evil is now revealed; there can be no further excuse for ignorance. How to deal adequately with the problem must be left to the consideration of the next chapter. The third division of the unskilled occupations comes under the head "General Labour." Some 9 per cent. of the boys as they leave school fall into this class. This is a nondescript class not clearly defined in the returns. Probably a considerable proportion should be brought into the preceding class, but there are evidently a large number who could not be disposed of in this way. Boys employed in warehouses, in gardens and parks, boys in small places assisting the master in the lighter forms of labour, boys accompanying their fathers and joining in his work--these come into this division. The returns are not sufficiently explicit to yield materials for a critical examination; but one or two conclusions can be derived from their examination. It will be seen that 22 per cent. of the parents, as compared with 9 per cent. of boys, are recorded as being general labourers. There is here no excess of boys; there should not be the same difficulty in boys finding openings in the adult service as in those occupations where boys can claim a practical monopoly. Boys have always taken some part in labouring work, and so passed to the better class of unskilled labour. Boys in warehouses, for example, frequently find there permanent situations. Further, the proportion of parents to sons would indicate the possibility of the two being employed together, and the boy thus remaining under the supervision of his father. An examination of individual returns justifies this conclusion. On the other hand, it is to be remembered that the hours of employment are frequently very long, and the work arduous and ill suited to the strength of a growing lad, and in no way regulated by legislation. Taken as a whole, it is probable that the boys who enter this kind of occupation, though without opportunity of continuing their education, are not in as forlorn a condition as those in the previous class. But the whole question is obscure, and it is difficult, without fuller information, to test the nature of their training. THE SKILLED OCCUPATIONS.--The skilled occupations fall into two classes--those where manual skill is required, and those concerned with commercial and clerical operations. The former are included under "Trades and Industries," and the latter under "Commercial Occupations," "Professional Occupations," and "Local Government." 1. _Trades and Industries._--From the tables printed on pp. 115-118, it will be seen that under this heading there are in Table I., the type of a working-class district, 41 per cent. of parents and 19 per cent. of boys; in Table II., the type of a suburban district, the figures are 36 and 15 respectively; in Table III., the type of the small trader of the East End, 51 and 42; while in Table IV., the type of London as a whole, the percentage is in the case of fathers 41, and in the case of boys 22. We have now to consider the prospects as regards supervision, training and opening which these trades offer to the boys who enter. Table III., with its percentage of 51 parents and 42 boys engaged in trades and industries, presents a pleasing appearance, but the bulk of the trades concerned belong to the tailoring and other industries where sweating is rife, where the skill required is of a low order, and the wages small and often below the level of bare subsistence. The boys learn something, are frequently employed with their fathers, and have a more or less permanent outlook, though within the horizon of that outlook is seldom included the vision of a living wage. They in general do not form part of the class which finds its way into the ranks of that miscellaneous unskilled labour whose chief characteristic is casual employment. Ignoring this table, and taking the table for all London, we find again the great disproportion of boys and parents. There are two ways in which the boys may learn. They may become indentured apprentices, or, engaged only by the week, though sometimes still termed apprentices, they may enter the workshop, and take what chance is afforded them of "picking up" the mysteries of the trade. _(a) Indentured Apprenticeship._--Apprenticeship is of little importance in London; the system is rapidly becoming obsolete. Whether this is desirable is a matter of opinion; that it is a fact cannot be gainsaid. All evidence is unanimous in support of this conclusion. In 1906 a special committee was appointed by the London County Council to make inquiries into the question, and, after careful investigation, reported that "in London the old system of indentured apprenticeship has for many years been falling into decay. In the majority of the industries it has almost entirely disappeared; in others it is occasionally found existing in a haphazard and highly unsatisfactory manner; while in only a few trades can it be said to be the commonly recognized way of entering the profession." [135] There are in London various charities, with an income of about £24,000 a year, which, in accordance with the terms of their trusts, might be used for purposes of apprenticeship; "but not more than a third of the income has been devoted to this purpose." "The fact that so small a fraction of the income has been devoted to apprenticeship indicates that the trustees have not found it an easy task to find candidates anxious to be indentured to one of the skilled trades." [136] "The recurring note," says Mr. Charles Booth, "throughout the whole of the industrial volumes of the present inquiry is that the system of apprenticeship is either dead or dying." [137] The numerous letters to the Press, the wealth of speeches on the matter, the sundry public meetings presided over by all manner of persons, from the Lord Mayor downwards, all voice the same opinion. It is needless to labour the question; we may take it as an accepted fact that in London indentured apprenticeship is obsolescent, and the system itself of negligible value as a factor in the training of youths in the process of skilled trades. _(b) Picking up a Trade._--Here a boy enters a workshop, and takes his chance of learning the trade from watching and assisting the men. The employer is under no agreement to give him instruction--least of all, to make an all-round craftsman of him. The boy rarely acquires more than a certain dexterity in the performance of a single operation; and, however proficient he may become in that operation, his general intelligence and skill suffer from a narrow and exclusive specialization. The system and consequences are dealt with at length in the Report of the London County Council already mentioned. The importance of the problem must be the justification for a long quotation: "The high wages a lad can earn as an errand-boy ... are more attractive than the low wages associated with an industrial training. Earning looms larger in his imagination than the laborious and less remunerative learning.... Even if, on leaving school, he obtains employment in a workshop, his prospects may not be materially improved. As an errand-boy running in and out of the workshop, if possessed of aptitude and sharpness, he may in a haphazard fashion pick up a smattering of the trade. If he is taken into the shop as a learner, he has little chance of getting an all-round training. He is frequently out of work, and even when employed seldom learns more than a single operation. The Advisory Committee of the London County Council Shoreditch Technical Institute[138] recently held an exhaustive inquiry on the subject, and some of the conclusions are so germane to the present question that they merit quotation. 'It is thus possible,' they write, 'for a boy to be at one branch of a trade for a few months only, and when bad trade intervenes he is thrown out of employment, and frequently finds himself at twenty years of age without a definite knowledge of any craft whatever, and he swells the ranks of the unemployed. We have it on the authority of foremen, employers, apprentices, and parents, that very little opportunity exists, even in big houses, for a boy to learn his trade thoroughly; indeed, we have had students who have been in a workshop as apprentices for three or four years who could not make a small drawer, and in many cases who could not square up true or make the usual joints; and in the woodworking trade their knowledge of drawing when they come to us is practically _nil_. It is a rare thing to find a young workman who can attack any branch of his trade successfully. It frequently occurs that, in consequence of extensive subdivision of labour and excessive competition, a man or boy is set to do one thing--_e.g._, music-stools, overmantels, chair-legs, sideboards--all the time. It is true the man or boy becomes skilled in one direction, but correspondingly narrow in a true appreciation of his trade. It is also a frequent occurrence that a master who has a job on hand which is slightly out of the usual run finds it impossible to put it in the hands of his usual staff. Moreover, when work of delicate design and construction has to be made from specified drawings, it is extremely difficult to obtain men who can proceed with the work on their own responsibility. Not only do these remarks apply to the woodcrafts generally, but they apply with equal force to such work as upholstery (both stuffing and drapery), to metal-work, and to carving. In connection with the latter subject, it is a rare thing indeed for carvers to design a carcass in the rough, and then to see whether the proposed carved portion is in harmony with the whole--whether the said carving be too much in relief, too flat, too expansive, or altogether out of character with the general work. It is notorious that good polishers and furniture decorators are exceedingly rare, and many a high-class manufacturer has his goods spoiled on account of bad polish and decorative treatment.'" [139] It must be remembered that this last quoted opinion is not the opinion of the amateur, but the informed opinion of representative employers. The woodwork and furniture trades are not peculiar in the characteristic of inadequate training. "We have reason to believe," continues the Report, "that if a similar inquiry were made into other trades, the same unsatisfactory picture would be disclosed. Either the training is one-sided, or there is no training at all. The consequences are sufficiently obvious. The skilled trades are, we fear, recruited in the main by immigrants outside London. In many trades the Londoner is at a discount. Acquainted as he is with but one or two operations of his industry, if he loses his situation, it is only with the greatest of difficulty that he can find another. Mr. Charles Booth states that 'with carpenters and joiners, brick-layers, carriage builders, engineers, smiths, and saddlers, the percentages of heads of families born out of London range from 51 to 59,' An inquiry made of the Technical Board of the London County Council on the Building Trades in 1858 showed that '41 typical firms in various branches of the building trades having 12,000 employés had only 80 apprentices and 143 learners, instead of 1,600, which would have been the normal proportion.' The same Report mentions that 'among the foremen and operatives who have come before us, not one stated that he was born or trained in London.' In these trades the better positions go inevitably to the country-bred man, with his all-round training. In the docks alone does the Londoner hold his own. An inquiry there showed that among the dock-labourers proper more than 72 per cent. were born in London--a result not calculated to excite any very solid satisfaction. These facts should arouse serious apprehension concerning the future of the London-bred citizen. We cannot view with equanimity his relegation to lower positions, while the better places are given to better-trained immigrants. We are not prepared to admit that the Londoner is, on the average, inherently inferior either in intelligence or manual dexterity to his country-born neighbour." [140] These quotations indicate clearly the general aspects of the situation. They show the small prospects boys enjoy who enter a skilled trade in London. Parents are not blind to the condition of affairs, and it is not unnatural on their part to allow the boys to go out as errand-boys, where at least the immediate earnings are larger and the hope of advancement not much more discouraging. 2. _Clerical and Commercial Occupations._--Including under this head commercial and professional occupations, and general or local government, we find in Table I., the type of a working-class district, 6-1/2 per cent. of parents and 8 per cent. of boys; in Table II., the type of the suburbs, 30 per cent. of parents, and 16-1/2 per cent. of boys; in Table III., typical of the East End, 4 per cent. of parents, and 6 per cent. of boys; in Table IV., typical of London as a whole, 13 per cent. of parents, and 10 per cent. of boys. In the school returns no boy was placed under these headings unless he appeared in the column "Skilled Work." In judging of these results it must be borne in mind that the better positions fall to those who have had at least a secondary education. Nevertheless, clever boys, who attend evening schools, have some prospects of advancement. One feature in the returns was the large number of boys who were apparently employed with their fathers. In many instances boys obtain their positions as the result of examination. This is true of several banks, assurance companies, railway companies, and is becoming the general practice in the Civil and Municipal Service. Many of these examinations are within the standard of attainment reached by the cleverer boys in the elementary schools. The boys at their place of employment are taught sufficient to enable them to do the work allotted them. This is often of a specialized character; and without further education they cannot expect to escape from the lowest ranks of clerks. If well conducted, they can probably obtain a permanent position when manhood is reached, or, at any rate, are not discharged because they have become men. Change in the methods of business, or failure of the concern, may entail dismissal; and after dismissal a new position is not easily obtained. But the lower ranks of the clerical profession are ill paid, and the need to present a good appearance makes serious inroads on the meagre stipend. Unless the boy continues his education and means to rise, his outlook is not very encouraging. He has, however, the advantage of supervision, of relatively short hours, and enjoys the possibilities of attendance at evening schools. In spite of what is often said to the contrary, taking things as they are, he has the best prospects of those included in the returns. The fact that so large a proportion of boys coming from the suburbs is found in this class would seem to indicate that the more thoughtful parents share this opinion. _(c) The Passage to Manhood._ The tables quoted on pp. 115-118, and founded on school returns, refer only to the first occupations of boys as they leave school. It is unfortunate that no figures exist which trace year by year the later careers of the boys. All persons, however, who have any intimate knowledge of the subject agree that the boys repeatedly move in an almost aimless fashion from one situation to another. The census returns indicate in a general way the distribution, among the trades and occupations, of persons of various ages. They do not, however, give us a yearly survey; and after the age fourteen to fifteen we are compelled to rest content with figures which cover periods of five years. The following table is taken from a table printed in a Report to the Education Committee of the London County Council, made by a special committee appointed to deal with the apprenticeship question; it is founded on the 1901 census return:[141] OCCUPATIONS OF BOYS AND MEN. PERCENTAGES. +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Class of Occupation. | Age | Age | Age | Age | | | 14-15. | 15-20. | 20-45. | 45-65. | |-----------------------------|--------|---------|---------|---------| |Trades and industries | 14·74 | 31·54 | 35·76 | 38·85 | |Domestic offices or services | 1·75 | 3·29 | 3·55 | 3·35 | |Transport (including | | | | | | messengers, errand-boys, | | | | | | van-boys, etc.) | 27·65 | 19·49 | 16·04 | 14·19 | |Shopkeepers, shop-assistants,| | | | | | and dealers | 6·03 | 12·52 | 14·51 | 9·23 | |Commercial occupations | 4·61 | 11·50 | 9·55 | 12·40 | |General labour | 1·46 | 5·53 | 8·46 | 7·02 | |Professional occupations and | | | | | | their subordinate services | 0·73 | 2·00 | 4·55 | 5·08 | |General or local government | | | | | | of the country (including | | | | | | telegraph-boys) | 3·01 | 2·53 | 3·70 | 2·24 | |Defence of the country | 0·15 | 1·77 | 1·40 | 0·62 | |Without specified occupation | | | | | | or unoccupied (including | | | | | | boys at school) | 39·87 | 9·83 | 2·48 | 7·02 | |-----------------------------|--------|---------|---------|---------| |Total number analyzed | 41,889 | 208,921 | 869,466 | 313,949 | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ In comparing this table with the tables founded on the school returns, it must be borne in mind that this table is not confined to persons who have passed through the elementary schools, but refers to all the inhabitants of London. The most striking feature in the table is the marked difference in the distribution of occupations at the age of fourteen to fifteen, and at other ages. The third column, which includes persons between the ages of twenty and forty-five, covers the period of a man's greatest vigour, and may be regarded as the normal or stable distribution. Comparing the first and the third column, it becomes obvious that the first year, at least, after leaving school is a year of uncertainty and aimless wandering. The boys have not definitely chosen any particular occupation as their life's work. How long is spent in this state of unprofitable drifting the census returns do not show as the following years are not separated. But the fact that the distribution in the second column differs materially from the normal distribution of the third column would seem to indicate that this period stretches some distance into the years that lie between the ages of fifteen and twenty. In default of this general information, we must fall back on special investigations; and here the facts are drawn from too narrow a circle of inquiry to be regarded as altogether typical. In his report to the Poor Law Commission, Mr. Cyril Jackson gives an instructive table[142] (see p. 145). It is founded on biographies of boys obtained from boys' clubs, schoolmasters, and managers of schools. I have omitted the ages that follow, as the number of boys concerned was too few to justify any conclusions. The rapid diminution in the number of boys when the age of eighteen is reached impairs the value of the last two columns. In general, the districts from which the boys are drawn are poor; but the fact that the boys come into relation with various organizations, and were no doubt assisted by them, should lead us to believe that the picture presented errs, if anything, by being too favourable. The steady increase in the trades, and the equally steady decrease in the number of van-boys, Post Office boys, errand and shop boys during the first three years is instructive. Trades, skilled and low-skilled, reckoned in percentages, have risen from 39·4 to 50·9, while the messenger class has fallen from 40·1 to 23·8. The changes in the earlier years are the most significant, and little stability of occupation is reached before the age of eighteen. The age of fourteen evidently represents the year of greatest indecision and maximum drift. PERCENTAGE OF BOYS IN VARIOUS GROUPS OF OCCUPATIONS AT EACH AGE. +-----------------------------------------------------------------+ | Occupations. |Age 14.|Age 15.|Age 16.|Age 17.|Age 18.|Age 19.| |-----------------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------| |Skilled trades | 11·2 | 14·0 | 16·8 | 17·8 | 18·0 | 16·3 | |Clerks | 14·6 | 15·0 | 16·4 | 15·2 | 15·4 | 14·3 | |Low-skilled | 28·2 | 32·8 | 34·1 | 33·9 | 32·5 | 34·1 | |Carmen | 0·6 | 0·2 | 0·6 | 2·6 | 4·5 | 5·1 | |Van-boys | 8·2 | 6·6 | 5·2 | 4·9 | 2·8 | 1·2 | |Post Office | 1·4 | 1·4 | 0·2 | 0·2 | 0·3 | 1·2 | |Errand and shop | | | | | | | | boys | 30·5 | 22·0 | 18·4 | 15·0 | 12·6 | 10·3 | |General and | | | | | | | | casual labour | 5·3 | 7·0 | 6·7 | 6·9 | 6·4 | 8·7 | |Army | -- | 0·6 | 0·6 | 1·1 | 3·6 | 4·0 | |At sea | 0·2 | 0·4 | 0·8 | 1·5 | 2·8 | 3·5 | |Emigrants | -- | -- | 0·2 | 0·4 | 0·8 | 1·2 | |-----------------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------| |Total No. of boys| 485 | 500 | 474 | 448 | 356 | 252 | |Unemployed | 1 | 2 | 1 | 13 | 22 | 22 | +-----------------------------------------------------------------+ In other parts of his report Mr. Jackson has endeavoured to follow the history of boys who have begun life as errand-boys or as van-boys. "From the forms returned," he writes, "it seems clear that the theory that boys can become errand-boys for a year or two, and then enter skilled trades, cannot be maintained. Very few boys can pick up skill after a year or two of merely errand-boy work." [143] Or again: "The chart prepared from the forms filled in by boys who entered life as errand-boys shows the small proportion who find any steady and skilled employment afterwards, and those have ceased to be errand-boys very early. The vast majority become workers in low-skilled trades or general and casual labourers." [144] Of all the "blind-alley" occupations, that of the van-boy appears the most deplorable. "The life of the van-boy is a rough and somewhat lazy one. They have long hours, spells of idleness, and considerable opportunities of pilfering and drinking." [145] "The chart shows that it is a very low grade of occupation, and that very few boys who begin as van-boys get into skilled trades--a far lower percentage, in fact, than errand-boys." [146] The second point to be noted in the table founded on the census returns is the large number--nearly 40 per cent.--of boys of the age of fourteen returned as without specified occupation or unoccupied (including boys at school). There are in the elementary schools about 5,000 boys between the age of fourteen and fifteen, and probably about the same number in secondary schools. Converted into percentages, this 40 per cent. would be broken up into 24 per cent. at school and 16 per cent. without specified occupation. The last figure is high, and justifies the conclusion, not only that the boys of fourteen wander from occupation to occupation, but that they also are frequently doing nothing. The habit of shifting from situation to situation necessarily involves considerable periods of unemployment. Thus early in their career the boys become accustomed to the evils of casual labour. We can arrive at the same conclusion by approaching the problem from a somewhat different point of view. If in some trades we discover an excess of boys, and in others an excess of men, it is clear that there must be shocks and shiftings in the passage from youth to manhood. In London the number of lads between the ages of fourteen and twenty is 17·5 per cent. of the number of males between the ages of fourteen and sixty-five. If, therefore, we find the proportion of lads to total males engaged in any trade, reckoned in percentages, differs much from 17·5, either lads must at some time pass out of the trade or men come in. On the other hand, in a trade where this percentage is approximately 17·5 boys who enter have, at any rate, the chance of finding employment as men. In this sense we may regard the distribution of lads and men in a trade as normal when this percentage lies between 15 and 20; less than normal when it drops below 15; more than normal when it rises above 20. The following table may be taken as an example of trades in which considerable numbers of persons are engaged: +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | Number in | Number in | | | Trade. |1,000 of Males|1,000 of Males|Percentage.| | | Aged 14-20. | Aged 14-65. | | |---------------------------|--------------|--------------|-----------| |LESS THAN NORMAL: | | | | | Building trades | 13·2 | 144·2 | 9·1 | | Skin, leather, etc. | 2·6 | 8·5 | 14·1 | | Food, tobacco, drink, | | | | | and lodging | 19·9 | 135·2 | 14·8 | | General labour | 15·0 | 111·1 | 13·5 | | General or local | | | | | government | 6·5 | 45·8 | 14·3 | | Professional | 4·8 | 62·2 | 7·8 | |NORMAL: | | | | | Domestic services | 7·8 | 51·7 | 15·1 | | Commercial occupations | 25·9 | 131·1 | 19·8 | | Metals, machines, etc. | 14·4 | 92·7 | 15·5 | | Precious metals | 6·6 | 36·5 | 18·2 | | Furniture, etc. | 9·3 | 59·5 | 15·7 | | Textile fabrics | 4·1 | 23·5 | 17·3 | |MORE THAN NORMAL: | | | | | National Government | | | | | (messengers, etc.) | 3·9 | 13·5 | 29·2 | | Clerks, office-boys, etc.| 23·1 | 83·0 | 27·8 | | Transport, errand-boys, | | | | | etc. | 52·3 | 236·3 | 22·1 | | Printers | 7·1 | 34·1 | 20·7 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ If we could have taken the period fourteen to eighteen instead of fourteen to twenty, these tables would have been even more striking than they are. But, even as they are, they are sufficient to enforce the lesson that between the occupation of the boy and the occupation of the man there is a gulf fixed. The one does not lead naturally to the other. When the boy becomes a man he does not find provided for him a natural opening; with more or less pains, he is driven to force a way in trades for which he has received no definite preparation, and in which diligence and good character do not afford any guarantee of success. _(d) Summary._ Before proceeding to examine the conditions of boy labour in other parts of the country, it will be desirable to summarize the results for London, and so to determine how far the essentials of a true apprenticeship system are found in that city. _Supervision._--The boy should be under adequate supervision until he reaches the age of at least eighteen. In London, so far as the majority are concerned, all State supervision ends at fourteen. When the boy goes out to work what measure of supervision was previously found in the home comes to an end; it is beyond the power of parents to exert any real control over the boy. He is his own master, finds his employment for himself, and leaves it when he thinks fit. Philanthropic enterprise touches a fringe, and a fringe only, of the boys; their growing sense of independence resents restraint. The story of the workshop points the same moral. Personal relations between boy and employer are seldom possible; and where the demand for the services of boys is unlimited and unsatisfied, attempts to enforce discipline fail, because, sooner than submit, the boy seeks another situation. _Training._--For the unskilled labourer of the future London provides no training. The schools do, indeed, turn out in the boys ready made and completely finished articles for boy-work and "blind-alley" occupations, and three or four years of such employment destroy the most-marked results of elementary education. The skilled workman of the future finds in the workshop small chance of gaining that all-round training which will make of him a man, and not a machine. Technical education for the minority is successful, but without power to compel attendance and limit the hours of boy-labour it is only the few who can avail themselves of the opportunities offered. _Opening._--Boys' work is separated from man's work, and there is no broad highway leading from the one to the other. The lad of eighteen is compelled to make a new beginning just when new beginnings are most difficult. His power of learning is gone from him, and in the unskilled labour market alone does he see any prospect of earning immediate wages. The State Labour Exchange is an infant which has yet to justify its creation. In London the provision of supervision, of training, of an opening, is alike defective, and beyond the age of fourteen for the majority of boys can hardly be said to exist at all; and, what is most serious, we are face to face with a state of affairs where there is no sign of improvement, and where all tendencies indicate for the future an accelerated rate of progressive failure. In short, London cannot claim even the beginnings of a real apprenticeship system. § 2. OTHER TOWNS. Among the cities London does not stand alone in its conditions of boy labour. It may indeed be regarded as the most extreme example of urbanization, but it is nothing more; it is a normal type, not an exception or monstrous exaggeration. As the capital of the Empire and the seat of government, it has its own characteristics, but so likewise has every other town. But dominating all these local variations and giving uniformity to the conditions of boy labour in our cities, remain the common features of the industrial development of to-day. This, at any rate, is the unanimous testimony of all those investigators--and they have been many--who have studied the problem. I shall not, therefore, make any attempt to apply to other towns the detailed method of investigation I have endeavoured to employ in the case of London. It will be enough to show that the general conditions are the same. What differences exist are differences of degree, and not differences of kind. _(a) The Employment of School-Children._ The investigations of the Interdepartmental Committee has proved beyond doubt that throughout the country it is common for children, while still attending school, to work long hours for wages. One or two quotations will be sufficient to justify this statement. The Report declares "that, as the door has been closed to their employment in factories and workshops and during school-hours, there has been a tendency, which many witnesses believe to be an increasing one, towards their employment in other occupations before morning school, between school-hours, in the evening, and on Saturdays and Sundays. Provided they make eight or ten attendances every week, they may be employed (with a few exceptions, and these little enforced) in the streets, in the fields, in shops, or at home, for the longest possible hours, and on the hardest and most irksome work, without any limit or regulation." [147] Evidence abounded to show that such possibilities of overwork were frequently realized. Examples have already been quoted in the case of London, and it is unnecessary here to go over the same ground again. That legislation, as at present enforced, has done little to cure the evil of overwork may be seen from the reports of school medical officers. Some of these are quoted in the Annual Report for 1909 of the Chief Medical Officer of the Board of Education. The school medical officers were not asked to report specially on the problem, but their inspection of school-children revealed the magnitude of the evil. "Several school medical officers report on the question of child labour during 1909. Dr. Thresh (school medical officer, Essex) places on record the serious extent to which children are employed out of school-hours in the Grays and Tilbury districts, and gives many individual examples. Dr. Forbes (school medical officer, Brighton) gives some interesting particulars from a statement prepared by the Inspector under the Employment of and Cruelty to Children Acts. In this area the head-teachers furnish regularly lists of children known by them to be employed out of school-hours. Among these children it was found that 39, 25, and 22 per cent. were illegally employed during 1907, 1908, and 1909 respectively. Dr. Clarke (school medical officer, Walthamstow) found that 19 per cent. of the boys examined were employed out of school-hours, of whom 19 per cent. worked an average of eleven hours per week; 32 per cent. worked ten hours and over on Saturdays; 20 per cent. worked twenty hours or over during school-days. A full analysis of all children known to be employed out of school-hours at Yeovil is made by Dr. Page (school medical officer), who found that 22 per cent. of all children eight years of age and upwards were so employed, and of these 40 per cent. worked for twenty hours and upwards per week. Dr. Hope (school medical officer of Liverpool) produces evidence to show how usefully medical inspection may be linked up with the arrangements made to put into force by-laws relating to the employment of children. Thus, all cases where there was reason to suppose that the by-laws were being infringed were reported to the Sanitary Department. These children cases numbered 308 during the year, and a table is given showing in what manner they were dealt with. At Leamington, 119 boys and 30 girls were reported by Dr. Burnet as employed in a wage-earning capacity either before or after school-hours, and 90 boys and 11 girls both before and after school-hours. Of these, 63 children were of subnormal nutrition, 22 were suffering from anæmia, 2 from phthisis, 8 from heart disease, and 25 had enlarged tonsils. Several of these children were quite unfit for such employment, and the subject is deserving of a thorough investigation with a view to adopting protective measures where necessary. At Southport, 131 leaving boys (32·7 per cent.) were found to be doing unskilled or casual work, and in Oldham 179 of the children inspected were similarly engaged." [148] As in London, so in other parts of the country, school-children work for long hours, and no adequate means exist at present to prevent the evil. As in London, so in other parts of the country, signs of serious physical weakness are the common accompaniments of this employment, and the health of the rising generation is injured. As in London, so in other parts of the country, the forms of employment in which children are engaged are uneducational, and tend to lead children, when school-days are over, into the "blind-alley" occupations. Besides these children, there are about 38,000 "half-timers." [149] It is needless here to dilate on the evils of the half-time system, which allows children who have reached the age of twelve to spend half the day in the factory and workshop. It is condemned by all qualified to pass on it an impartial judgment. Its continuance reflects little credit on the humanity of those employers and those trade unions who have repeatedly opposed its abolition. _(b) The Entry to a Trade._ The survey of conditions of juvenile employment in London made clear certain facts. There was the growing demand for boys in what has been called "blind-alley" occupations, and the demoralizing effect of such work. There was the difficulty of obtaining adequate training for those who had entered a skilled trade. There was a general lack of supervision in the workshop. And, finally, there was no easy passage from youth to manhood. It is impossible to read the Report of the Poor Law Commission and the volumes of evidence, or to study the various investigations into the conditions of sundry towns, without being convinced that London is in no way peculiar. The chief difficulty in approaching the problem lies in the selection of the all too numerous witnesses. The Report of the Poor Law Commission probably provides the best summary of the mass of evidence on the subject. Both Reports--Majority and Minority--alike realize the gravity of the problem, not for London alone, but for the whole of the country. "The problem," says the Majority Report, "owes its rise in the main to the enormous growth of cities as distributive centres, giving innumerable openings for errand-boys, milk-boys, office and shop boys, bookstall-boys, van, lorry, and trace boys, street-sellers, etc. In nearly all these occupations the training received leads to nothing; and the occupations themselves are, in most cases, destructive to healthy development, owing to long hours, long periods of standing, walking, or mere waiting, and, morally, are wholly demoralizing." [150] Or, again: "The almost universal experience is that in large towns boys, owing to carelessness or selfishness on the part of the parents, or their own want of knowledge and thought--for the parents very often have little voice in the matter--plunge haphazard, immediately on leaving school, into occupations in which there is no future, where they earn wages sufficiently high to make them independent of parental control and disinclined for the lower wages of apprenticeship, and whence, if they remain, they are extruded when they grow to manhood." [151] Or, to go to the Minority Report: "There are the rivet-boys in shipyards and boiler shops, the 'oil-cans' in the nut and bolt department, the 'boy-minders' of automatic machines, the 'drawers-off' of sawmills, and the 'layers-on' of printing works, and scores of other varieties of boys whose occupations presently come to an end." [152] Or, again: "In towns like Glasgow, Liverpool, Bristol, Newcastle, the proportions of van-boys, etc., are as large as in London." [153] Employers do not always conceal the fact: "In the words of a frank employer, they (the boys) are not taught; they are made to work continuously at their own little temporary trades." [154] If we desire actual figures of those engaged in one class of the "blind-alley" occupations--messengers--Mr. Jackson tells us that "under fourteen years of age there are no less than 32,536 (23·5 per cent. of those occupied under that age), while there are 41,659 aged fourteen, and 54,592 from fifteen to nineteen years of age inclusive, of which it is probable that the bulk are under seventeen years of age." [155] Writing of Norwich, the same writer says: "There seems little doubt that the boy labour is used up for industrial purposes, and that they are left less capable members of the community, with little prospect of good work when they become adults." [156] Apart from the Report of the Poor Law Commission, individual writers of wide and varied experience outside London have voiced the same view. "It has never been so easy," writes Dr. Sadler, "as it is in England to-day, for a boy of thirteen or fourteen to find some kind of virtually unskilled work, involving long hours of deteriorating routine, in which there is little mental or moral discipline, but for which are offered wages that for the time seem high, and flatter his sense of being independent of school discipline and of home restraint." [157] And the same writer continues: "Certain forms of industry, which make large use of boys and girls who have recently left the elementary schools, are in part (except where the employers make special efforts to meet their responsibility) parasitic in character, and get more than they ought, and more than their promoters realize that they are getting, of the physical and moral capital of the rising generation." [158] The Rev. Spencer J. Gibb, who has devoted special attention to the problem, writes: "The characteristic evils of boy work invade office work in a peculiarly subtle and dangerous form. In every city small offices are to be found in which the whole of the business, such as it is, is carried on by the master himself, who has frequently to be absent from his one-roomed office. The office-boy, who constitutes the entire staff, is meanwhile left in charge. He has probably nothing to do, and spends his time either in vacancy, in mischievous expeditions along the corridor, or in reading trash of a bloodthirsty nature." [159] Under such conditions supervision and control are negligible factors in the training of the workshop. It seems unnecessary to multiply examples; all persons of experience lament the increasing employment of boys in "blind-alley" occupations, and deplore the general lack of supervision. The question of the skilled trades has received less attention, and there is much need of such a careful inquiry in various towns as had been made by Mr. Tawney in the case of Glasgow. Writing of the woodwork trades in that town, he says: "There is no regular training system; a boy learns incidentally, and is only shifted from one machine to another when the shop needs it.... One of its employés was the best producer of wooden rings in his town, but could not make a wage at turning a table-leg," and adds that, "with the exception of a few old men who were trained under the apprenticeship system, the foremen are the only men with all-round skill." [160] While of the engineering trades he says: "On entering the works the lad who is going to be a fitter goes straight to the fitting shop and learns nothing else; a lad who is going to be a turner goes to the machine shop and does not learn fitting." [161] Specialization is pushed even farther, and lads are kept to a single machine. Drilling, milling, slotting, punching, band-sawing, or screwing machines can be used after a few days' training, and this is all the experience a boy gets. And, speaking generally of Glasgow firms, Mr. Tawney says: "Boys are kept, as a rule, in their own departments. They are not taught; they are made to work." These facts were obtained as the result of a careful inquiry among 100 firms in Glasgow. Glasgow, then, repeats the story of London; and there is good reason to believe that other towns, if submitted to a similar examination, would demonstrate the fact of the inadequacy of the workshop training of to-day. Apprenticeship, according to numerous witnesses, is everywhere decaying, and there is nothing except the technical school rising to take its place; and under existing conditions the technical school can touch only a fringe of the problem. _(c) The Passage to Manhood._ The evidence of the last few pages, relating to the increase in the number of "blind-alley" occupations and to the inadequate training of the workshop, would show that, as in London, so likewise in other towns, there is no easy passage from the work of the youth to the work of the man. There is a break in the continuity of the service somewhere about the age of eighteen. New openings have then to be searched for, and new beginnings made, when the habits of learning have disappeared, even if the opportunities for it presented themselves. It would seem superfluous to repeat for other towns the statistical evidence in support of this statement which was given in the case of London. "Blind-alley" occupations and troubled passage to manhood necessarily go together. Mr. Tawney's researches in Glasgow indicate clearly the difficulties of this transition period. A single quotation must suffice: "A district secretary of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers says of a world-famous firm which employs several thousand men making a particular kind of domestic machine: 'It is a reception home for young bakers and grocers. Boys go to it from other occupations to do one small part of the machine.... When they leave they are not competent engineers, and find it difficult to get work elsewhere.'" [162] Detailed figures for the country as a whole in respect of certain trades may be found in Mr. Jackson's Report on Boy Labour. All evidence, from wheresoever collected, goes to show the existence of the break between the work of the boy and the work of the man. * * * * * It is trusted that sufficient evidence has been produced to prove conclusively that the conditions of boy labour in London do not differ essentially from the conditions of boy labour in other towns. The evidence could have been multiplied indefinitely and, what is most striking, among the mass of witnesses forthcoming there is none found to venture a contrary opinion. We may take it, then, as a well-established fact that in other towns besides London, supervision, training, and the provision of an opening are alike gravely and progressively defective. In other words, among the urban districts of the country no true apprenticeship system exists or is in course of creation. § 3. RURAL DISTRICTS. No comprehensive inquiry has been made into the conditions of boy labour in rural districts and small towns. A few studies of individual villages exist--as, for example, "Life in an English Village," by Miss Maude Davies--but these are not sufficiently numerous to justify any general conclusions. The return on Children Working for Wages, made to the House of Commons in 1899, gives certain statistics. From the returns on pages 21 and 23 we see that for England and Wales some 5·2 per cent. of children above Standard I. were working for wages. The percentage for boys alone would be 8·5 per cent., or for boys eleven years and upwards about 17 per cent., compared with 24 per cent. for London alone. These figures would seem to show that, while common, work among school-children over the country as a whole does not quite reach the London level. So far as can be gathered from the returns, it is in towns that the employment of school-children is most frequent, though in rural districts it is frequent enough to constitute a grave evil. The same return gives the occupation of children as they leave school. On page 163 is the summary. The table is incomplete: "In London the proportion of children is no less than 94 per cent.; in the group of large urban districts, 72 per cent.; while in the rest of England and Wales, including the rural districts and small towns, the percentage sinks to 47." [163] Without a careful analysis, such as only local knowledge could supply, it would be dangerous to give much weight to the return. It does, however, appear from the summary that "blind-alley" occupations bear a close relation to urbanization, and that the two increase together. Or looking at the question from another point of view, a boy in rural districts enjoys greater opportunities of continuity of employment in the passage from youth to manhood than he does in the towns. OCCUPATIONS OF BOYS ON LEAVING SCHOOL IN (1) LONDON, (2) LARGE URBAN AND MANUFACTURING DISTRICTS, AND (3) RURAL AND SMALL URBAN DISTRICTS OF ENGLAND AND WALES.[164] +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | |Large Urban and| Rural and | | Occupation. | London. | Manufacturing | Small Urban | | | | Districts. | Districts. | |----------------------|---------------|---------------|---------------| | | No. | % | No. | % | No. | % | |Agriculture | 101 | -- | 730 | 2 | 17,950 | 26 | |Building | 787 | 3 | 1,973 | 4 | 3,744 | 5 | |Woodworking | 905 | 4 | 591 | 1 | 661 | 1 | |Metal, engineering, | | | | | | | | and shipbuilding | 949 | 4 | 4,090 | 8 | 3,119 | 4 | |Mining and quarrying | -- | -- | 1,584 | 3 | 6,510 | 9 | |Textile | 49 | -- | 6,046 | 13 | 5,522 | 8 | |Clothing | 665 | 3 | 1,634 | 3 | 1,612 | 2 | |Printing and allied | | | | | | | | trades | 1,121 | 4 | 868 | 2 | 680 | 1 | |Clerical | 2,060 | 8 | 5,666 | 12 | 2,727 | 4 | |In shops | 3,584 | 14 | 6,084 | 13 | 7,045 | 10 | |Errand, cart, boat, | | | | | | | | etc., boy | 10,283 | 40 | 10,496 | 22 | 9,917 | 14 | |Newsboy and street | | | | | | | | vendor | 964 | 4 | 1,472 | 3 | 1,223 | 2 | |Teaching | 120 | -- | 430 | 1 | 557 | 1 | |Domestic service | 301 | 1 | 173 | -- | 1,090 | 2 | |Miscellaneous and | | | | | | | | indefinite | 2,256 | 9 | 4,159 | 9 | 4,817 | 7 | |----------------------+--------|------|--------|------|--------|------| | Total occupied | 24,145 | 94 | 45,996 | 96 | 67,174 | 96 | |No reported occupation| 1,623 | 6 | 2,097 | 4 | 2,765 | 4 | |----------------------|--------|------|--------|------|--------|------| | Grand total | 25,768 | 100 | 48,093 | 100 | 69,939 | 100 | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ There is good reason to believe that the prospects of an all-round training are more favourable in a village than in a town. The fact, already mentioned, that immigrants from rural districts obtain the better positions in London trades, especially in the building trades, would seem to justify this conclusion. There is also the general consideration that rural districts are always nearly a century behind the industrial development of the towns, and represent therefore an older condition of affairs. Workshops are smaller, the gulf between man and employer less impassable, and the old paternal relation between boy and master more possible of attainment. We may therefore assume, without much risk of error, that training is better in rural districts than in towns. On the other hand, while it is true that in industrial progress the villages lag behind the towns, they still follow them, though at an interval. Machine-made goods, especially in the woodwork trades, are in villages replacing the hand-made goods, and the demand for manual dexterity is to this extent decreasing. It would also seem to be true that the old indentured apprenticeship is falling into disuse. In the Wiltshire village of Corsley, for example, while apprenticeship occupied a prominent position in the past, in the story of to-day it passes almost without mention. In Miss Davies's[165] study of the occupations of the inhabitants of that village, only one apprentice is mentioned. It is also a fact that those who are concerned with the administration of local charities for apprenticeship are finding increasing difficulty in discovering masters who are willing to take boys as indentured apprentices, even for a premium, and boys who are desirous of being indentured. We may, perhaps, therefore assume that, while the conditions of boy labour are more favourable in rural districts than they are in towns, the old machinery of training is falling into disuse, and no adequate substitute is taking its place. V. THE BREAK-UP OF APPRENTICESHIP. The survey of the elements that make up the apprenticeship of to-day is now complete. Each of the factors which contribute to the result--the State, Philanthropy, the Home, the Workshop--has been examined, and their influence appraised. It is therefore possible to pass judgment on the system, and, by realizing the present situation in all its relations, to understand clearly the nature and the extent of the problems which call for solution in the immediate future. The period of apprenticeship has been shown to divide itself naturally into two parts. There are the years during which the boy is at school, ending somewhere about the age of fourteen. For the right use of these years we have seen that the State is beginning to accept full responsibility. Whether we have been concerned with the conduct, the physical welfare, or the training of the child, we have found collective enterprise assuming new duties, and carrying them out with a growing enthusiasm. Nor can we have remained blind to the large measure of success achieved. If defects here and there mar the result, they are clearly the defects that belong to all experiments in the early stages, and are obviously not the ineradicable faults of a worn-out system. In short, so far as regards the earlier years of the apprenticeship of to-day, there is no cause for despondency. Progress is the distinguishing characteristic of this first period; the boy is the centre of influences increasing in number, and deliberately planned to promote his well-being. One disquieting phenomenon that calls for attention is the large mass of school-children working long hours. Health is undermined, the effect of education impaired; while the occupations, essentially of the "blind-alley" type, encourage an unfortunate taste for this form of employment. Further, the various local authorities, especially in rural districts, have been very lax in using the powers conferred by the Employment of Children Act. The second stage of apprenticeship covers the years between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. In our survey of this period we have been unable to find much cause for satisfaction. The State no longer recognizes its responsibility for the well-being of all its youth; it is content to offer opportunities of training to those who are able and willing to avail themselves of these advantages, and these last form only a small minority of the whole. The success of evening schools, technical institutes, and other places of higher education, so far as concerns those who come within that sphere of influence, only adds to our regret that that sphere of influence is so narrowly restricted. The majority, at least two-thirds, of the boys pass out of the control of the State, and for the completion of their apprenticeship we must look in other directions. Our search in these other directions has met with little reward; we have found everywhere failure, and, what is worse, failure that is rapidly progressive. Nowhere on a large scale can we discover provision made for the supervision and training of juveniles; from all sides we receive a tumult of complaint that things have gone astray. Philanthropic enterprise, whether represented by the religious bodies or lads' clubs, laments the lack of control over the boys, and frankly confesses its inability to deal satisfactorily with more than a small minority. The testimony of the home is the same; parents complain of the growing independence of their children, and to a large extent have ceased to attempt to exert any restraint over the conduct of their sons. Under the stress of modern industrial conditions and accentuated urbanization, the old patriarchal system of the family has broken down; the home represents an association of equals, in which, perhaps, the young can claim a predominant influence. When we pass to the workshop, in the hope of reaching law and order and constructive thought, it is only to be confronted with the most signal example of an organization which defies every principle of a true apprenticeship system. That the boy of to-day is the workman of to-morrow is a thought that suggests itself to only a few of the most enlightened employers. To the many he is merely a cheap instrument of production to be used up, and then scrapped as waste machinery. He is kept at "his own little temporary task"; and, to make things worse, he is in so much demand that discipline cannot keep him very steadily even to this, or his services will be withdrawn. With the separation of man's work from boy's work there is no easy passage from youth to manhood. With the minute subdivision of operations, there is small chance of a lad in a skilled trade becoming a master of his craft. Apart from the small amount of medical inspection required by the Factory and Workshop Act, no attempt is made to insure that the growing lad is physically fit for the work in which he is engaged. His health is the concern of no one till its breakdown brings him under the Poor Law or thrusts him into the ranks of the unemployable. Undisciplined, with health and training neglected, the lad of eighteen tends to find himself more and more left without prospects, and a person for whom no one in particular has any particular use. In short, our survey of the problem of the apprenticeship of to-day shows conclusively that we have, in the true sense of the word, no apprenticeship system. The old apprenticeship system has broken up, and there is nothing come to take its place. It would be incredible if serious consequences did not accompany this complete break-up of the apprenticeship system; and it needs but little search to discover evils of far-reaching significance. There is first the evil of an uncontrolled youth. A child at the age of fourteen is not fitted to enjoy the independence of an adult. This statement is a truism, but there is tragedy in the fact that society of to-day confers, as we have seen, this irresponsible freedom, in a more or less unqualified form, on the majority of boys when they leave the elementary schools. In the hooligan of the streets or in the youthful criminal we have the most striking example of the fruits of an undisciplined boy. The report of the Commissioners of Prisons for the year ending March 31, 1908, makes this clear. Writing of the Borstal Association, they say: "In this admirable report" (the report, that is, of the Borstal Association), "which should be studied by all who are interested in the causes of crime, after specifying many circumstances which induce the criminal habit, they refer in particular to the absence of any system of control or organization for the employment of the young, as one of the principal causes of wrong-doing. 'When a boy leaves school the hands of organization and compulsion are lifted from his shoulders. If he is the son of very poor parents, his father has no influence, nor, indeed, a spare hour, to find work for him; he must find it for himself; generally he does find a job, and if it does not land him into a dead alley at eighteen he is fortunate, or he drifts, and the tidy scholar becomes a ragged and defiant corner loafer. Over 80 per cent. of our charges admit that they were not at work when they got into trouble,'" [166] The Poor Law Commission calls attention to the evil effects of certain forms of employment which the boys choose because of the freedom they give."'Street-selling, for example,' says the Chief Constable of Sheffield, 'makes the boys thieves.' 'News-boys and street-sellers,' says Mr. Cyril Jackson, 'are practically all gamblers.' 'Of 1,454 youths between fourteen and twenty-one charged in Glasgow during 1906 with theft and other offences inferring dishonesty, 1,208, or 83·7 per cent., came from the class of messengers, street-traders, etc.,' says Mr. Tawney." [167] And it would be easy to multiply indefinitely examples of this kind. It must not, of course, be assumed that all boys become hooligans or criminals, but all do suffer from the want of control and the need of a more disciplined life. Hooliganism is merely an extreme type of a disease which in a milder form fastens upon the boys who are allowed unrestrained liberty. The disease is the disease of restlessness--the restlessness of the town, the dislike of regularity, the joy in change for change's sake, and the habit of roving from place to place. This disease, with the lack of proper technical training, leads on to unemployment when the age of manhood is reached. Unemployment is not the fate of the old only; it is becoming common among the young. "The percentage of men under thirty years of age qualified for assistance under the Unemployed Workmen Act, 1905, was:[168] +------------------------------------------------------------+ | |Up to March 31, 1906.|Twelve Months ending| | | | March 31, 1907. | |-----------------|---------------------|--------------------| | London | 23·9 | 27·4 | | Whole of England| 27·3 | 30·2" | +------------------------------------------------------------+ "It has become clear," says a manager of boys' clubs with a very wide experience, "to all students of the labour problem that a wrong choice of their first work--or, rather, no choice at all, but a drift into it--is responsible for the presence of considerable numbers of young men amongst the unemployed." [169] The Reports of the Poor Law Commission, Majority and Minority alike, repeatedly voice the same opinion. "The great prominence given to boy labour, not only in our evidence, but in the various reports of our special investigators, leads us to the opinion that this is perhaps the most serious of the phenomena which we have encountered in our study of unemployment. The difficulty of getting boys absorbed, through gradual and systematic training, in the skilled trades is great enough; but when to this are added the temptations, outside the organized industries, to enter at an early age into occupations which are not themselves skilled and give no opportunity for acquiring skill, it seems clear that we are faced by a far greater problem than that of finding employment for adults who have fallen behind in the race for efficiency--namely, that the growth of large cities has brought with it an enormous increase in occupations that are making directly for unemployment in the future." [170] The Minority Report is equally emphatic. "There is no subject," it says, "as to which we have received so much and such conclusive evidence as upon the extent to which thousands of boys, from lack of any sort of training for industrial occupations, grow up, almost inevitably, so as to become chronically unemployed or under-employed, and presently to recruit the ranks of the unemployable. In Glasgow nearly 20 per cent. of the labourers in distress are under twenty-five, and one-half of them are under thirty-five." [171] Or again: "It has been demonstrated beyond dispute that one of the features of the manner in which we have chosen to let the nation's industry be organized is that an increasing number of boys are employed in occupations which are either uneducative (in the sense of producing no increase of efficiency and intelligence) or unpromising (in the sense of leading to no permanent occupation during adult life); secondly, that there is a constant tendency for certain industrial functions to be transferred from men to boys, especially when changes in the processes of manufacture or in the organization of industry are taking place rapidly. The resulting difficulty is the double one of the over-employment of boys and the under-employment of men." [172] It is hoped that the present chapter may have made clear the various steps in this unfortunate process of industrial development. First, we have the qualities which are the result of the school training--qualities of regularity, obedience, and intelligence--qualities required, indeed, in all forms of work, but supplying a complete technical outfit alone for the "blind-alley" occupations. The boys leave school, having had expended on them in each case a capital sum of public money of about one hundred pounds. They are valuable assets, and employers have discovered the fact, and adjusted their methods of production or distribution to make full use of this new and valuable supply. High wages attract the boy, who makes his own choice, and earning is regarded as more attractive than the laborious and less remunerative learning. This leads on to the second stage, the "blind-alley" occupation or the skilled trade where there is no real training. Four years of this kind of work dissipate the effects of elementary education. Too often weakened physically by long hours of employment, demoralized by the life of freedom and the fatal facility in obtaining a second job when fancy has made him throw up the first, robbed by disuse of the power to learn even if the inclination were present, he is, at the age of eighteen, a distinctly less valuable asset in the labour market than he was four years before. The hundred pounds investment of public money intended for life has been squandered in youth; the employer has possessed himself of it; and when the boy asks the wages of a man, he is informed that his services are no longer wanted, and told to transfer them elsewhere. Then comes the final stage of degeneration--unemployment or under-employment. The habit, acquired through four years of constant practice, of throwing up a job on the smallest pretext, remains with the lad of eighteen, but the facility of finding another is no longer his. The intensity of the demand for men varies almost inversely with the intensity of the demand for boys; the two are competitors in the same labour market, and of the two the boy is the cheaper and the more efficient instrument of production. Further, habits of boyhood have too often bred a liking for casual employment, with its frequent holidays. Here, also, the employers are willing to oblige him; they find it convenient to have at their beck and call a reserve of labour which can be drawn upon when business is brisk, and discharged in times of slackness. Finally, if he desires regular employment, it is none too easy to discover a suitable opening. The sphere of his usefulness is small; he has for sale a certain amount of animal strength, none too well developed, but has little else to offer. He can push and he can pull indifferently well, but in the world of industry there is not, as is supposed sometimes, an unlimited demand for pulling and pushing. And all the time he is faced with the fact that recruits to the army of pushing and pulling are coming from all sides. Men skilled in the performance of a single operation, and robbed of their well-paid employment by a new invention; men from decaying trades and incapable through lack of training of adapting themselves to fresh conditions; men a little past the vigour of manhood; men discharged for misconduct; men who have lost their work through the bankruptcy of a company or the death of a master--all alike, when everything fails them, turn in desperation to pulling and pushing; and meanwhile machines of novel design decrease year by year the demand for pulling and pushing. All these effects, with innumerable variations, are the result of a wrong start, and of the neglect during the years that lie between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. Want of supervision, want of technical training, want of an opening for which special preparation has been given--these are the three great and characteristic evils of the present industrial situation. Taken together, they are a negation of all apprenticeship in the true sense of the word. During the course of the last few years we have at least learned to know the cause of our suffering, and to know the cause is at least the first step in the path of prevention. And, further, we have begun to see rising from the ruins of the old stabilities of life and the ancient order of industrial organization an edifice--small, indeed, at the moment, but bearing the mark of constructive thought, because reared by the growing power of collective enterprise; and, knowing this, we can turn in a spirit of hope to the task of creating a new apprenticeship system. CHAPTER VI THE NEW APPRENTICESHIP In the present chapter we must endeavour to find some remedy for the evils disclosed in the preceding pages. The old apprenticeship system has broken up, and there is nothing come to take its place. In consequence, the youth of the country is to a large and growing extent passing through the years of adolescence without supervision, without technical training, without prospects of an opening when manhood is reached. These are defects in the industrial organization so obvious that they are now attracting general attention, so grave that there is need of immediate and comprehensive measures of reform. In what direction is the remedy to be looked for? From what quarter may we expect the new apprenticeship to come? The survey of the conditions of boy labour, contained in an earlier portion of this volume, has disclosed two forces at work in the training of the youth of the country. The one force is destructive in its action; the other constructive. Reform obviously lies in the repression of the former and in the encouragement of the latter; there is no other alternative. The force of destruction has been found throughout associated with the characteristic phenomena of the industrial revolution. The accentuated spirit of competition, the increasing use of capital and machinery, with the consequential development of large undertakings, and the rapid changes in methods of production to meet new demands or to make use of new inventions, have all alike been hostile to the well-being of the boy. The system, created by what may be called the natural growth of modern business organization, has been a system which has, in one form or another, continually attempted to exploit child labour. Under this system children, in days gone by, were driven to the mine and to the factory, or herded in gangs in the fields and barns of the farm, and even at the present time are allowed to perform tasks far beyond their strength. Under this system we have watched the slow and continuous decay of indentured apprenticeship, the steady decrease of facilities for obtaining an all-round training in the workshop, and the ever-broadening gulf separating youth from manhood in the sphere of industry. As a result of this system we have seen the hand of control lifted from the shoulder of youth, and have noted lads, under the wayward guidance of an irresponsible freedom, drifting into the path of crime and disorder. We are driven to believe that it is the young who swell the armies of unemployment, and have realized with sudden dismay that, young though they are, they are yet too old to break the set habits of an unfortunate past. And we are beginning to perceive clearly that these phenomena, of ill omen, are not a mere accident, but an integral part of the industrial organization; and to understand that, in spite of numerous superficial changes, the system, born of the revolution of a hundred years ago, has not altered in essentials, and now, as then, threatens with destruction the youth of the land. That system has never enjoyed full freedom of development, but the limits set on its power for evil have not come from within; they have come from without, and been imposed on the employers by the legislative action of the State. It is the State which has throughout the period supplied the second or regulative and constructive force in the training of the youth of the country. It has forbidden the employment of boys in some occupations, and in others limited the hours of employment. Acting without any clearly defined plan, but striking at the evils, which gusts of popular opinion denounced and refused to tolerate, it has yet made impossible the worst abuses of child labour. It has, however, long since passed beyond the realm of mere veto, and has these many years entered the sphere of constructive reform. The scheme of compulsory education, the provision of opportunities for technical instruction, and the powers, recently conferred on local education authorities, to attend to the physical condition of school-children, are all signal examples of the beneficent influence of the second force. We are left, then, with these two forces--the force of destruction and the force of construction; and the fate of the youth turns on the issue of the struggle between the two. They are not, indeed, the only forces concerned in the problem of boy labour, but, compared with their influence, all others sink into insignificance. The State and the industrial system both possess the characteristic of universality, and no other organization can make the same claim. Philanthropic and religious associations have always been found to protest against the abuses of child labour, but their protest only became generally effective when the State gave to it the force of law. Philanthropic and religious associations have been pioneers in the field of education, but the advantages were offered to all only when the State stepped in and assumed the responsibility. Individual employers have always been found to offer to their lads humane conditions of work and full opportunities of training, but these remained the privileges of a few, and it was only through State interference that the many obtained their share. As pointing the way to reform, these other agencies have been, and are, of priceless value to the community, but as themselves the instrument they have invariably proved a failure. We are left, then, with two forces which alone need to be taken into account--the industrial organization and the State. For the creation of the new apprenticeship system either the industrial organization must reform itself, or the State must reform the industrial organization: there is no third alternative. Let us begin with the first alternative, and ask ourselves whether there is any reasonable hope of reform from within the industrial organization. The experience of the past is uniformly hostile to any such expectation. In the history of the last hundred years there is no single exception to the rule that all general improvements in the conditions of boy labour have come from without, and not been carried out from within. The experience of the present repeats in an even more emphatic way the experience of the past. It is impossible to point to one single example of an industrial reform now in course of development, and affecting on a large and beneficent scale the prospects or the training of the boy. It would be easy to cite a hundred instances of the contrary process. The whole of the last chapter is nothing but a detailed summary of the progressive defects of the industrial system, and its attempts to exploit in its own interests the value of boy labour. We saw how, by the multiplication of "blind-alley" occupations, the industrial system contrived to lay hold on and use up most of the products of an improved elementary education initiated by the State. Past and present experience are in accord; we cannot look for reform from within. It is necessary to guard against a possible misinterpretation. There is no thought here of blaming the employer. The fight lies not between boy and employer, but between the force of the State and the force of competition, using the last word to denote the most marked characteristic of the industrial revolution. The employer is in general as much a victim of the process as the boy. He cannot be justly blamed for what he cannot be fairly expected to prevent. The exigencies of competition drive him to select the cheapest methods of production at the moment. If these methods involve the exploitation of the boy, it is unfortunate for the boy, but the employer has no other alternative. To produce as cheaply as his neighbours is the one condition of success; more remote considerations cannot enter into a business undertaking. Those well-intentioned persons, with a smattering of ill-digested science and a system of economics far removed from all practical realities, who talk amiably of the interests of employers and their boys, as future workmen, being identical, confuse the good of the present generation with the good of the generation that comes after. It is undoubtedly a fact that any system which injures the workers will in the long-run injure the trade of the country, but this is true only in the long-run, and the run is often very long. Now, survival in business is determined in the immediate future. The heavy charges on fixed capital, the interest on outstanding loans, the weekly wages bill, and the long tale of daily outgoings, make it impossible for the employer to follow proper methods of training in the hope that the new generation of workers will, by their added efficiency, recoup him for his expenditure. To last till that time he must live through the interval, must obtain that contract to-day, this order to-morrow, and must get it at a profit--in other words, he must choose the cheapest method of production here and now; there and next year will be too late. It will be no inducement to him to reflect that his methods would in the long-run prove the best, if he knows that he cannot stay the course. Competition is of to-day; it takes no account of the happenings of to-morrow. Those who in the struggle cannot survive this year will not live to reap the harvest of future years. Agreement among employers on such questions has been found impossible; the temptation to win by evasion an illicit success proves too strong for the majority. Those who pursue the better methods disappear; those who pursue the worse survive to propagate their kind. There is valid in the world of business a law somewhat analogous to Gresham's law in matters of currency; the bad pushes out and replaces the good. There is a real struggle between the interests of one generation and the next. The employer must concern himself with the things of his own day; it is for the State, whose life is ageless, to guard the welfare of those who are to come. By insisting on the methods that are good in the long-run, by forbidding those which are good only in the immediate present, it places all employers on the same level, and enables the best of them to do what was before impossible. It does not thereby interfere with competition; it merely changes the direction of competition by guiding it into less injurious channels. But the secret of success, as demonstrated by the experience of more than a century, must be sought in the enactment of general regulations, which will apply to all employers, and not be looked for in what is sometimes termed the spirit of growing enlightenment. Unless it can be shown that the immediate interest of the employer is one with the proposed reform, nothing really effective can be done by moral suasion; while, if the two are in accord, moral suasion is superfluous. It can hardly be supposed that the contemplative outsider should know the business of the employers better than they do themselves. The mere fact of calling to our aid the power of moral suasion should be enough to show that enlightened self-interest will not suffice; we do not appeal to a man's conscience when we can appeal to his pocket. If, then, reform and the immediate interest are not in accord, consent on the part of one employer means risk of failure in a world where salvation depends on very small margins of profit. It is, therefore, for the most part labour lost to devote time to the consideration of reforms which do not rest on the basis of legal obligation, and we might at once turn to considerations of State control and State enterprise if it were not for the fact that in the minds of many there still remains a hope of the coming of salvation from another direction. They advocate the revival of the old indentured apprenticeship system, and believe that they have only to explain the situation adequately to the employer for him to realize that his interests lie in its revival. This belief assumes, as already mentioned, that the outsider knows the business of the employer better than he does himself--a tolerably large assumption. We might drop the matter with this criticism, but a re-examination of the old apprenticeship system, in the light of the industrial revolution and of the proposals for its revival, will help us on our journey towards the goal of the new apprenticeship. Such examination will show, first, the conditions which a true apprenticeship must fulfil; and, secondly, that those who hark back upon the past for their ideals of reform are conscious that the past must change its dress before it can hope to commend itself to the critical taste of the present. Now, in its best form, as was shown in the second chapter of this book, the old apprenticeship system was a success. It did afford means of adequate supervision over the youth of the country; it did supply them with technical training; and it did provide an opening in an occupation for which special preparation had been made. But a closer examination of the problem showed that success depended on the satisfaction of three conditions: First, it was essential for the apprentice to live with his master, or at any rate that the relations between the two should be of a paternal character; the second essential was the universality of the small workshop, with the facilities it gave for an all-round training; and, thirdly, an essential part of the system was the existence of the gild, which represented masters and men alike, and in the interests of all inspected and controlled the methods of the workshop. With the dissolution of the gilds we saw the first weakening of the apprenticeship system. There was now no authority guarding the interests of the trade as a whole; compulsory apprenticeship was often used as a means of supplying the employer with cheap and enforced labour, for whose future he had no responsibility. With the advent of the industrial revolution we watched the steady disappearance of the small workshop. Training became difficult, and often impossible. With both masters and men formal apprenticeship lost favour, and the system entered on its second stage of decay. With the multiplication of "blind-alley" occupations, with the growing cleavage between man's work and boy's work, and with division of labour pushed to its utmost extreme, came, as has been proved, the break-up of the apprenticeship system. Now, there is nothing in the signs of the times to herald the approach of a new industrial revolution and a return to the old order of the Middle Ages. Machines and machine methods have come to stay, and must stay if the varied needs of the huge populations of to-day are to be satisfied. The more serious advocates of the revival of indentured apprenticeship admit this fact, and fully realize that modifications of the system are necessary. They suggest that committees of volunteers should assume certain of the functions of the gild; they should exercise a kindly supervision over the boy in his home, and take steps to insure that the conditions of the indenture are observed by the employer. Secondly, they propose that the one-sided training of the workshop should be supplemented by technical classes provided by the education authority and supervised by an advisory committee of representatives of the trade. Finally, they urge that these proposals, so far from being visionary, have actually been realized in practice with complete success. Why may not we look for a general extension of these methods? The answer is tolerably obvious. The experiments have undoubtedly been successful. They have shown the steadying influence exerted over the boy by an indenture; they have shown the advantages that come from friendly visiting at the home or the workshop; they have shown the value of technical classes and trade schools supervised by representatives of the trade. But what they have not shown is that the experiment, while resting on a purely voluntary basis, admits of indefinite expansion. Indeed, the fact that the co-operation of the education authority is invoked, in order to provide technical instruction that shall supplement the training of the workshop, is sufficient evidence that we cannot dispense altogether with the assistance of the State. But much more remains to be said against the possibility of indefinite extension. Take the case of indentures. It is true that some employers can be found willing to receive indentured apprentices, and some boys willing to be indentured. But this does not affect the general rule that the conditions of the modern workshop do not allow of the use of apprentices, whose training is enforceable at law, or discount what is a matter of common observation--that neither employers nor boys like to bind themselves together for a period of years. Indentures may be an excellent plan for curbing the independence of the boy, but it does not, unfortunately, follow that the boys who most want curbing will be the boys who will accept this fretting restraint. What happens in practice is that a select number of boys willing to submit to control are brought into relations with a select number of employers willing to be troubled with boys. This is good as far as it goes, but it goes no way in the direction of providing supervision for the boys who most need it. Or take again the question of supplementing in the technical institute the training of the workshop. Experience here and in other countries shows conclusively that technical instruction, to be really effective, must be given during the daytime, when the lad is fresh, and not during the evening, when he is wearied out by the day's work. But, ignoring the necessarily limited number of cases in which boys are able to forgo earning altogether, instruction during the day is possible only where employers allow their apprentices time off during the day to attend classes. It is true that some few employers have given this permission, but their number is strictly limited. In the hope of extending the principle, the London County Council recently carried out an elaborate inquiry among employers, but with very small results. "If we compare," says the report, "the magnitude of the elaborate inquiry carried out by the principals of polytechnics and technical institutes, by the skilled employment committees, and by the Council itself, with the extent of the success attained, we are bound to admit that the results are of the most meagre dimensions. There appears no prospect of inducing employers on any large scale to co-operate with us in the establishment of a satisfactory system of 'part-time' classes." [173] Extension on a large scale and on a voluntary basis is impossible. But, neglecting the question of possibilities, is the revival of an indentured apprenticeship, as a method of learning certain trades, in itself a thing to be desired? There remains one difficulty that has never satisfactorily been surmounted. If indentured apprenticeship is the door leading to a skilled trade, there will be a movement in the trade to close all other doors. Those who have paid a premium, or at any rate served their time for low wages, cannot be expected to allow without complaint vacancies in the trade to be filled by men who have not passed through a similar period of servitude. If the door is closed, there is no way of recruiting the trade in times of expanding business. But, in general, prohibition has not proved practical, and other ways of entry are discovered, and as these ways are easier, it is only natural that people should tend to choose the easier path. Indentured apprenticeship has never escaped from this dilemma; either the trade is closed to strangers when there is no means of expansion, or the trade is open when there is no inducement to be apprenticed. The change in modern industry, with its tendency to break down the barriers between trade and trade, only accentuates the acuteness of the dilemma. Finally, assuming indentured apprenticeship to be both practical and desirable, would it provide a solution for the problem of boy labour? It is obvious that it would only touch a fringe of the question. We have already seen that some two-thirds of the children, as they leave the elementary school, enter a form of occupation which leads only to unskilled labour, and even for that provides no adequate training. An apprenticeship system would not affect these two-thirds. A boy cannot be apprenticed as an errand-boy, or in one of those workshops where practically only boys are engaged. Not only is this class the most important in respect of numbers; it is also the class most urgently in need of control. It is here that degeneration and demoralization are most marked, while it is here that indentured apprenticeship offers not even a shadow of a remedy. A system which ignores the majority, even if it provided for the favoured few, cannot be regarded as affording a possible solution of the problem of boy labour. We cannot, therefore, look to the revival of apprenticeship, even when supplemented by technical training, to carry us far on the road of reform. It would, however, be a mistake to under-rate the lessons of the experiments. They have shown the value of indentures as a means of controlling the boy; they have shown the value of sympathetic supervision; and they have shown the value of the technical school in widening the inadequate training of the workshop. The defects of the experiment lay in the necessary limitations of the case. Remove the limitations, and you remove the defects. We want universal indentures, universal supervision, universal training. To guard against the dangers of creating a privileged class through the establishment of an apprenticeship system we must see to it that all alike serve a period of apprenticeship. Obviously, we cannot apprentice all boys to employers; we must, therefore, apprentice all boys to the State. There is nothing new in this proposal. Already, through the law of compulsory attendance at school, all boys are so apprenticed between the ages of five and fourteen. What is necessary is an extension of the period of an already existing apprenticeship system. In the search of a means of preventing an evil, the most difficult task is always to exclude the inadequate and the irrelevant. When all paths of advance, with one exception, have been blocked, there is no longer any choice or risk of losing one's way. We have now seen that all ways, except the way of collective control and collective enterprise, fail to reach the desired goal, and, having exhausted all other alternatives, must fall back upon the State. Some do this willingly, some reluctantly, but all, with a few exceptions that may be disregarded, appeal to the State when they are convinced that help can be looked for from no other source. We are now in that position, and must frankly face the situation. Failing assistance in any other direction, we must call on the State to organize a new apprenticeship system. Such a system must make due provision for supervision, training, and an opening. It remains to be considered how these three essentials can be secured. I SUPERVISION. A boy must be under some sort of supervision until he reaches at least the age of eighteen. Such supervision must have respect to his physical well-being as well as to his conduct. Neither the home, nor philanthropy, nor the workshop can be looked for to provide this supervision. They have all failed, and that failure is progressive. The State remains as our only hope. The State has not failed; it has made impossible the worst abuses of child labour, and through its educational system has been an influence for good in the moral and physical development of the children. Its success has been great, and that success has been progressive. Where it has failed, it has failed because its supervision has been withdrawn too soon. The remedy is obvious: we must extend the sphere of State supervision. Three reforms are urgently necessary: (1) The raising of the age of compulsory attendance to fifteen; (2) the complete prohibition of the employment of school-children for wages; and (3) the compulsory attendance of lads between the ages of fifteen and eighteen at some place of education for at least half the working day. With regard to these proposals, it may be said that all three are supported by the Minority Report of the Poor Law Commission and by the labour organizations which have in general expressed their approval of that Report. (1) and (3) are the recommendations of the Report of the Education Committee of the London County Council, adopted unanimously by that body in February, 1909; while (1) and (3) also received a qualified approval from the Majority Report of the Poor Law Commission, and from the Report of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education on Continuation Schools. They have, therefore, behind them a strong backing of expert opinion. _(a) The Raising of the School Age._ More than ten years have elapsed since Parliament last raised the age of compulsory attendance. There is almost universal agreement that the time has come for adding another year. The discipline of the school is successful while it lasts, but fails in permanent effect because it is withdrawn too soon. In the last chapter we saw from the study of the census tables that for at least the first year after school the boys have settled down to no very fixed employment. Many of the skilled trades do not take learners and apprentices before the age of fifteen. "It is clear," say the Education Committee of the London County Council, "that the year after leaving school--the year, that is, between the ages of fourteen and fifteen--is for the children concerned a year of uncertainty. Nearly half are returned as without specified occupation. No doubt a large proportion of the number are attending some place of education, but it is no less true that a considerable number are not classified, because for the time being they are doing nothing. They have thrown up one situation and are looking out for another. In this respect we must remember that it is a common practice--at any rate, so far as the poorer section of the community is concerned--for the children, and not their parents, to select for themselves the form of occupation and find for themselves situations. The children are too young to choose wisely, and, as a natural consequence, shift from place to place until they discover something that suits their taste or ability. It would be difficult to imagine a more unsatisfactory method of training. Till the age of fourteen they are carefully looked after in school; at the age of fourteen they are set free from all forms of discipline, and become practically their own masters. We must not, therefore, be surprised that under such conditions the effect of the school training is transient, and the large amount of money spent on their education to a great extent wasted." [174] And, summing up the whole case for the raising of the school age, the Education Committee say: "The advantages of keeping children at school until the age of fifteen are many and obvious. They receive an extra year's instruction at a time when they are most apt to learn; they are kept for another year under discipline just at the period when it is easiest to influence permanently the development of character. With the extension they escape the year of aimless drifting from occupation to occupation, and, when called on to choose a profession, they will have a year's extra experience to help them in the choice. We may hope that under these new conditions the tendency to follow the line of greatest initial wages will decrease, and be replaced by a tendency to consider as of paramount importance prospects of training and hope of future advancement." [175] In raising the school age we should take the opportunity of getting rid of certain anomalies which now exist. While for the vast majority of children in London and many other places attendance is compulsory up to the age of fourteen, exemption is possible at the age of twelve and thirteen for a small minority. In certain parts of the country large numbers of children are allowed to leave before the age of fourteen. It is unfortunate that it is the cleverest children who are entitled to this earlier exemption. We are here looking at the problem of apprenticeship from the standpoint of supervision, and in the case of supervision age and not mental attainment must be the determining principle. The bright precocious boy of twelve or thirteen is precisely the boy who stands most in need of control. Morally and physically he is likely to suffer from the effects of premature freedom. The sleepy dullard, who is kept at school until fourteen, could be freed from discipline at an earlier age, with less risk of serious harm. In raising, then, the age of compulsory attendance to fifteen, we must abolish the privileges of exemption and the powers of local option, and enact that all children shall attend school full time until they reach the age of fifteen. _(b) The Prohibition of Child Labour._ Much space has in this volume been devoted to the task of demonstrating the extent and the evils of child labour. It has been shown that anything except the very lightest employment is physically injurious. It has been made clear that the work in which children are engaged is frequently demoralizing, while it never paves the way to entering a skilled trade when school is left. They are essentially "blind-alley" occupations. Further, we have seen good reason to believe that the habit of earning money and the precocious sense of independence so encouraged are not in the best interests of order and discipline. We note the evil in its worst form under the "half-time" system. "The half-timers," we are told, "become clever at repartee and in the use of 'mannish' phrases, which sound clever when they dare use them. They lose their childish habits ... some of the boys commence to smoke and to use bad language." [176] Finally, it has been proved that limitation of the hours of employment in the case of school-children is in practice impossible; there is no ready way of detecting breaches of the law. We are, therefore, driven to the conclusion that, unless the evils are to remain--and this is not tolerable--we must prohibit altogether the employment for wages of children liable to attend school full time. Various objections are made to the proposal. We are told by many of the witnesses who appeared before the Interdepartmental Committee on Wage-earning Children that a little light work was good for boys; it kept them out of mischief. Ignoring the difficulties of insuring that the work shall be little and light, they do not seem to make out their case. In London, as has been shown, not more than a quarter of the boys during the course of their school time are ever engaged seriously in paid employment. If, therefore, the work was beneficial, we should expect to find in the after-career of the 25 per cent. evidence of the advantages they have enjoyed, and in the case of the 75 per cent. signs of failure due to their less fortunate training. But all experience points in the opposite direction. It is the 25 per cent. who drift most generally into the "blind-alley" occupations; it is from this 25 per cent. that the majority of hooligans and youthful criminals are recruited. It is also argued that there are certain tasks which only children can perform, because they occupy only a small portion of the day. Papers must be delivered and milk left at people's houses. But in Germany much of this work is done by old men,[177] and even in this country the "knocker-up" in the morning is not a child, but an old man. Employers in the textile trades declared that it is only by beginning young that children can acquire the necessary quickness and deftness of touch. But as these trades absorb in the adult service only a small proportion of the children engaged, and seeing that in many instances the half-time system has been dropped as uneconomic, there does not seem much force in this objection. Moreover, it cannot be beyond the power of manual training in the schools to provide a fitting and less injurious substitute. The arguments in favour of the continued employment of school-children are the arguments of the old world, and the new world is becoming a little tired of the arguments of these old-world people. The time has come to make a stand, and insist that for all children there shall be insured the blessings of childhood. The first step in this direction lies in making it impossible for them to enter the ranks of the wage-earners as long as their names remain on the roll of the elementary school. _(c) The New Half-Time System._ The proposals for raising the school age and for prohibiting child labour during that period will do much to strengthen the system of supervision. Another year of school discipline; another year of medical inspection and medical treatment; protection during another year from the evil effects of overwork and from the demoralization due to "blind-alley" occupations and premature earning--these reforms will bring us some way on our journey towards the new apprenticeship, but they will not bring us the whole way. There remain the three years which lie between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, and include the greater part of the period of adolescence--in some respects the most important period in the development of a human being. It is during these years that character begins to take its permanent set; it is during these years that, with the coming of puberty, there is most risk of ugly and dangerous outbreaks; it is during these years that physical health demands the most careful attention; and it is during these years that, with the exception of the failures of civilization--the physically, the mentally, and the morally defective--there is no real supervision or, under existing conditions, any hope of securing it. To allow irresponsible freedom during these years is to court disaster; to give it suddenly and in an unqualified degree, as it is given now when the school career is brought to an abrupt end, is to follow a course condemned by all educationalists. No parent, even the most thoughtless, among the well-to-do classes would think of treating his son in this fashion. His whole scheme of education is founded on the principle of a slow and gradual loosening of the bonds of discipline. The close supervision of the private school is replaced by the larger liberty of the public school, which in turn opens into the greater but still restricted freedom of the University. Freedom must come slowly. We want a bridge between the elementary school of the boy and the full-time workshop of the man. Such a bridge would be created by the establishment of the proposed half-time system. For half the day--or at any rate, for half his time--the lad between the ages of fifteen and eighteen would be compelled to attend a place of education, and only during the remaining half be permitted to undertake employment for wages. The advantages of this proposal are many. First, the influence of the school would be retained for an additional three years, and under the half-time system the freedom of the youthful wage-earner would find a suitable limitation in the half-time control of the school. Secondly, we should have the opportunity of another three years' medical inspection and medical treatment. With supervision over the health of the community continued until the age of eighteen we might fairly anticipate a rapid improvement in the physical efficiency of the worker. In particular, we should be able to detect, in a way now impossible, the effects of various forms of employment on those engaged in them. Inspection under the provisions of the Factory and Workshops Act, as has been shown, is too limited in character to do more than pick out a few young persons obviously unfit for the occupation they have selected; but, with the education authority responsible for the health of juveniles, and using to the full extent its powers to provide preventive measures or to veto in the case of certain individuals certain forms of work, we should have gone far to secure that no one should enter on or remain in a trade for which he was physically unfit. Thirdly, as already shown, a half-time system is the only really effective way of limiting the hours of juvenile employment. If the lad is compelled to be elsewhere than in the workshop for half his time, we have an automatic check on excessive work. Other advantages of this system will appear when we come to deal with questions of training and the provision of an opening. The half-time system should be made compulsory throughout the country; it ought not to be left to local option to decide. The local rating authority naturally wishes to encourage the establishment of workshops and factories within its area, and would be unwilling to adopt Acts which might prove a deterrent. It would be a most unsatisfactory state of affairs for employers to evade the spirit of the law by moving into districts where the law was not enforced. It is a little unfortunate that the Education (Scotland) Act, 1908, which allows a limited amount of compulsion in connection with continuation schools, is founded on the principle of local option. The recommendations of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education are vitiated in a similar way. Local option can never be really successful. It will elect to act only where there is least opposition from employers--in other words, where action is least necessary; and it will do nothing where boy labour is most exploited and regulation most urgently required. In one direction alone can local option be allowed with advantage. It may be permitted to decide on the precise kind or kinds of half-time to be enforced within their area. Boys might attend school on the half-day system or on the alternate day system. Or, again, they might spend three days in the workshop and three days in the school, or under certain circumstances devote six months of the year to the workshop and the remaining six months to the school. It would be desirable to allow the local authority considerable liberty in their methods of adapting the half-time system to the special needs of the trades of the district, provided always that a true half-time system was established. There is no serious difficulty in the way of compelling attendance at the half-time school. It would be enforced just as attendance at the elementary school is enforced, and by the same officers. Further, no employer would be permitted to employ a boy between the ages of fifteen and eighteen who could not show satisfactory evidence of attendance at school. Or if, as may be the case, it is found desirable to permit boys to be engaged only by means of the Labour Exchange, the Labour Exchange itself would prove a most effective way of enforcing attendance. There is nothing new or impracticable in the principle of the proposal. Compulsory attendance at continuation schools can be required in Scotland. Such attendance is compulsory in parts of Germany and Switzerland.[178] It is exacted by certain employers in this country from their apprentices. Further, the fact that for many years the half-time system has been in use in the case of many important industries, and tens of thousands of children so employed, demonstrates clearly enough that there is nothing impossible in the application of a half-time system to juveniles. It would, no doubt, cause some inconvenience, and some employers might dispense with the services of juveniles; but no more difficulty would arise than has arisen when any fresh regulations have been imposed; and we should see, as we have always done in the past, the employers who predicted inevitable ruin before the event, as soon as the proposal became law adapt themselves, with that placid content and admirable success which they have always displayed after the event, to the new condition of affairs. _(d) The Parents' Point of View._ The three proposals just made have one characteristic in common-they all directly set a limit to the employment of children and young persons. It is possible that some readers may regard them from another point of view, and say that in limiting employment they seriously diminish the income of the family. Will the poor parent, whose lot is pitiable enough as things are, be able to stand the loss? In considering this, the parents' point of view, we must guard against being caught in the noose of a vicious circle. We must not perpetuate an evil in order to mitigate its present effects. Many, probably most, of those parents whose income hovers about the margin of possible existence are in this pitiful position because their own childhood has been neglected. As children, they have been overworked, and they are now physically unfit for regular employment; as children, they have been allowed to go uncontrolled and untrained, and now, as men, they are paying a heavy tax for the earnings of their boyhood. They receive little because they are worth little; their work is precarious because the sphere of their usefulness is small. We must not allow their children to live as _they_ lived when children, and so pass on to the next generation the taint of inefficiency and its consequent wages of starvation merely because to-day wages of starvation need to be supplemented. We can never hope to overtake and pass an evil if we always cast it in front of us. The one clear message to the reformer of to-day is that he should look to prevention, and not merely to cure; and the one clear hope of a nation's future lies in insuring to every youth, as he crosses the threshold of manhood, the fullest realization of that development whose promise was his at birth. It might be well worth while for a country lavishly to endow poverty for a generation in order to free itself once for all from its fatal infection. But there is no reason to believe that we must resort to this drastic measure because there is no reason to believe that the proposed restrictions of child labour will in any way injure the parents. Take first the earnings of school-children. There is very little reason to believe that they often make any effective contribution to the income of the home. They are irregular, they are small, and very frequently the boys retain them as pocket-money. Where they are large, as in the case of children employed during the pantomime season, they often form a convenient excuse for the parent to go idle for a time. The only large exception to this rule is the case of the widow. Here, indeed, the earnings do usually find their way home, materially increase the miserable pittance allowed by the guardians, and must be regarded as a tax levied on children in aid of the ratepayer. Humanity and a reformed Poor Law may be trusted to remove the tax. Take next the raising of the school age to fifteen. The age has not been raised for more than ten years, and when it was last raised it was raised without friction and without complaint on the part of the parent. We might, perhaps, have expected that the percentage of attendance would have decreased because of the difficulty of enforcing it on the children of poverty-stricken parents. This has not been the experience; indeed, the last decade has been remarkable for the rapid rise in that percentage. There is not a scrap of evidence to show that the last raising of the school age caused even temporary suffering on a large scale. Never was a large reform carried out with greater ease. There is no reason to believe that, if we raised the age again, that favourable experience would not be repeated. We come now to the new half-time system. The earnings of boys between fifteen and eighteen years are considerable. To diminish them by one-half, it is urged, would be to adopt a course which would prove intolerable to the poor parent. Now, in the first place, though it is true that the lads could be employed for only half the time they were before, it by no means follows that they would only receive half the present money. We have already seen that the demand for boys far outruns the supply. The half-time system would halve the supply, and, though some employers might cease to use boys, the demand would certainly not be halved. The demand for boys would then considerably exceed the demand of to-day. The rate of wages would, in consequence, rise. The boys would no doubt earn less, but certainly more than half of what they now earn. In the next place, it must be remembered that the parent rarely receives the whole of the boy's earnings even during the first year, and each year the proportion of wages that comes to the home grows less. At the age of seventeen it is seldom that more than half finds its way into the family exchequer. The boy keeps the rest, and, as we have already seen, the large amount of money he has to spend on himself is by no means an unmixed benefit. The parent cannot usually get from the boy much more than is required to keep him; indeed, he is afraid to enlarge his demand lest the boy, who is economically independent, should leave home. But under the half-time system, though he may earn his keep, he will rarely earn enough to support himself outside the family. In addition, the fact of being compelled to attend school will be a healthy reminder that he is not yet a man, and so check the growing spirit of independence. Home influence and parental authority will thus be strengthened, and the father will be able to exact a much larger share than before of the boy's earnings. Now, if the earnings are not diminished by so much as half, and if at the same time the parent obtain an increased proportion, it is by no means clear that the home affairs will suffer. Among the poorest families, where home discipline ceases altogether when the boy leaves school, it is quite possible that the financial position of the parent will be improved rather than worsened. But we have not yet taken into account what is, perhaps, the most important consideration. The three proposals under discussion will undoubtedly largely diminish the amount of work performed by boys, but will not diminish the amount of work that requires to be done. Somebody must take up the tasks formerly allotted to boys, and, if boys fail, men must fill their place. Now, the work was given to boys because, to give it to men would cost more. In future, the work will be given to men, and more money will be paid for it than before. In other words, the increased earnings of men will more than make up for the diminished earnings of boys, and much more than compensate for the loss, because, as we have seen, only a portion of the boys' earnings ever reach the home. Or we may look at the question from another point of view, and say that the decreased use of boys will mean an increase in the demand for men, and, consequently, an increase in the wages of men. The Minority Report of the Poor Law Commission arrives at these three proposals by starting from the opposite point of view, and advocates their adoption not primarily for the good of the boys, but for the good of their parents. In the task of decasualizing labour, they are met with the difficulty that a considerable number of men will in the process be thrown out of employment altogether. Work must be found for them, and the easiest and the best way to find it is shown to be the withdrawal from the labour market of persons, like children, who ought not either to be employed at all or to be employed for such long hours as at present. Hence arises the suggestion of a rigid limitation of boy labour. It is much in favour of these proposals that they are the outcome of an elaborate analysis which in the one case begins with the man, and in the other with the child. We may take it, then, as clear that, from the parents' point of view, there is nothing to hinder us in raising the school age to fifteen, prohibiting the employment of school-children, and instituting a new half-time system. II. TRAINING. The second essential in an apprenticeship system worthy the name is the provision of adequate training. The word "training" is used in its broadest sense to include preparation, not only for the life of the workman, but for the life of the citizen as well. In the preceding chapter we have seen that the scholarship schemes, connecting the elementary school with the University, and rapidly increasing throughout the country, are offering opportunities of training for those likely to rise high in the professional, the commercial, and the industrial world. It is probable that sufficient attention has not as yet been given to the supply of the most advanced kind of technological instruction, but the fault is being remedied, and the defect is due rather to lack of knowledge than to lack of will; and it is the instruction, and not the facilities of access to it, that is wanting. What we are concerned with in this chapter is the training of those destined to fill the posts of foremen and managers of small undertakings, of the skilled workmen of the future, and of those never likely to rise above the ranks of unskilled labour. We are also concerned with those who will occupy corresponding positions in the commercial world. It has already been shown that the training of these persons is one-sided and inadequate, and, in the case of the majority, can hardly be said to exist at all. On the other hand, we have seen good reason to believe that the technical school can be, if not a complete substitute for the workshop, at any rate a necessary and fitting supplement. The day has gone by when it was necessary to argue at length the uses of technical instruction. Employers in this country, as they have long since done on the Continent and in America, recognize the advantages. Yearly, whether by compelling the lads in their service to attend the technical school, or forming themselves into committees to advise as to the most desirable methods of teaching, they are displaying a keener interest in the question, and a fuller faith in the possibilities of practical training given outside the walls of the workshop. The defect of existing arrangements has been shown to lie in their limitation. For the majority technical instruction has been unsatisfactory or impossible of access. We must show in the present chapter how all may enjoy the advantages of training; but before doing so we must consider, a little more closely than has been done before, the kind of training required by the petty officers and the rank and file of the industrial army. In much of the preceding discussion it has been assumed that what the man wants is an all-round training. This is undoubtedly a fact, but by an all-round training is not necessarily meant a training that will produce a craftsman of the old school, equally capable of turning his hand successfully to any of the operations with which his trade is concerned. Except in rural districts, in a few of the artistic crafts, and in certain branches of repairing work, a man of this kind is not generally required. It seems probable that the industrial tendencies of to-day are making decreasing demands for purely manual skill. The Report of the Poor Law Commission contains a valuable discussion of the question, and sums up the conclusions in the following passage: "The general trend of our answers was that the 'skill' of modern industry is scarcely comparable with the skill of labour in the past. One might say that, within twenty years, with the universal employment of machinery and the excessive subdivision and specialization of its use, the character of the productive process has quite changed. There is a growing demand for higher intelligence on the part of the few; a large and probably growing demand for specialized machine-minders; and, unhappily, a relegation of those who cannot adapt themselves to a quite inferior, if not worse paid, position. If, then, the 'skill' which we might have looked for and desired is what might be called 'craftsmanship,' we must conclude that the demand for skill is, on the whole, declining. The all-round ability which used honourably to mark out the mechanic is no longer in demand, so much as the work of the highly specialized machine-minder." [179] But if there seems a less demand for all-round skill, there appears to be an increasing demand for trained intelligence. "In the greater industries employing adult male labour, 'machinery' does not in the least resemble the long lines of revolving spindles one sees in a cotton mill. In the machine tools of an engineering shop there is comparatively little of such automatism, and, even where the machines are automatic, single men are put in charge of a number of machines, and the setting and supervising of these is work probably demanding a higher level of intelligence than ever before. 'I should say the skilled men require even more skill than they did,' says Mr. Barnes, 'because of the finer work and more intricate machinery.... Side by side with automatic machines there has come about more intricate and highly complicated machinery.' 'The semi-skilled of to-day,' says Sir Benjamin C. Brown, 'is in many cases as good as the skilled was a quarter of a century ago.'" [180] Or, as another witness puts it: "The tendency of machinery is always to cause a substitution of intelligence for dexterity, the person who was in effect a machine by reason of his dexterity giving place to one who could understand a direct and mechanical process." [181] There seems also good reason to believe that the demand for intelligence outruns the supply. In the workmen, usually classed as skilled, the employer requires intelligence, but he wants something more; he wants trustworthiness, and frequently a certain highly specialized manual dexterity. The training of the workshop can supply the third of these qualifications; it cannot, however, supply the other two, which are in the main the products of education. But between the second and the third there is a certain antagonism. Monotony in the workshop does not cultivate intelligence; it is actively hostile to such growth. Unless there is a well-trained intelligence to begin with, the continual performance of a single task will reduce the man to the level of a mere machine. Now, the employer does not want a mere machine; if he did, in these days of inventive genius, he would soon discover something more reliable in the way of machines than flesh and blood. He wants a machine with intelligence; he must therefore have a man. But the intelligence must rest on a broad basis of education, or the machine element will prove too much for it. This is the reason of the statement, found so often in evidence on technical training given by enlightened employers, that what is mostly required is a good general education. Now we are coming to see that a general education does not imply a certain specific syllabus of instruction; it may be the result of the most varied kinds of instruction. We have ceased to take the narrow view that it consists only in book-learning and aptness with the pen. We have recognized that manual training may rightly play a large part in any system of education, and for the full development of certain types of mind is absolutely indispensable. Consequently, though the employer does not need the man of all-round skill, there is no reason why the workman should not acquire a general use of the tools employed in his trade. Whatever it may be to the employer, the possession of a certain amount of all-round skill is not a matter of indifference to the workman. If he can boast skill in a single operation alone, the bridge that lifts him above the gulf of unskilled labour is very fragile. A change in demand or a new invention may any day render his specialized skill useless, and precipitate him into that gulf whence is no escape. But this is not the case with the man who has received an all-round training. Thrust out of one branch of the trade, he can, if intelligent, comparatively easily find an opening in another. The all-round skill, though not required in the workshop, is necessary to the man if his position in the skilled labour market is to be secure. In a sense, the measure of his all-round skill is the measure of the stability of his industrial status. Further, the possession of all-round skill is a necessary condition of the possession of intelligence. It gives a man a clearer insight into the significance of his trade, and robs monotony of some part of its soul-killing power. Pure specialization is hostile to intelligence; the man who can only do one thing cannot do that one thing well. Finally, from these skilled workmen must be chosen the foremen and small managers, and these people must possess the wider knowledge and a more varied skill. To a large extent at the present time they are not recruited from the large workshop; they come from the country district, where this all-round skill can still be acquired. But, as we have seen, this supply is not inexhaustible, and there are signs that the methods of the industrial revolution are invading the village. Unless, therefore, we are prepared to see a scarcity of trained foremen in the future, we must to-day aim at producing the skilled workman, who is at once intelligent and possesses a general knowledge of the tools of his trade. "We do not to-day," says Sir Christopher Furness, "want men who are all-round at building marine engines; we do need men who are all-round mechanical engineers--men who can apply the principles of their craft to any form of machinery that may be called for. That is a class of training which cannot be achieved by any system of apprenticeship, and is essentially a matter which the governing authority must handle if this country is to maintain its position in the industrial world." [182] "The characteristics," says the Consultative Committee, "that employers most value and most deplore the lack of would appear to be general handiness (which is really to a large extent a mental quality), adaptability and alertness, habits of observation--and the power to express the thing observed--accuracy, resourcefulness, the ability to grapple with new unfamiliar conditions, the habit of applying one's mind and one's knowledge to what one has to do." [183] It is clear that within the narrow sphere of the workshop an all-round training of this kind can never be secured. We must look, then, to the elementary schools supplemented by the technical institute, to insure to the workmen an all-round intelligence and a general knowledge of the use of tools employed in his trade. For commerce, intelligence and an all-round training are no less necessary. "You produce a better clerk," it has been said, "if the boy takes an industrial rather than a commercial course." There is therefore no conflict of interest between what the employer wants and what the workman wants. The employer wants intelligence, and cannot get it from a workman who does not possess a general knowledge of his trade. The workman wants an all-round knowledge of his trade because without it his position as a skilled artisan is precarious and at the mercy of every new invention or change in fashion. We have hitherto spoken as if all were skilled workmen, and as though the unskilled labourer did not exist. Now, there are at the present time huge armies of men that can by no stretch of imagination be regarded as skilled at anything; but it is by no means clear that it is desirable for this huge army to continue as such. It is generally assumed that the performance of so-called unskilled work requires no training and makes no demand on skill. This is a grave mistake; let anyone, without previous experience, try a day's digging in his garden, and he will realize the fact. But it is not merely a question of manual training and practice; the unskilled labourer, to be efficient, needs intelligence. Skilled and unskilled work call for, in this age of machines, more intelligence than was wanted in the past. Almost everyone nowadays uses a machine of some sort; and there can be no question that in such use there is a serious lack of intelligence. The unskilled labour engaged with machinery is almost always inadequate and unsatisfactory. The agricultural labourer, for example, has to manage machines whose complex mechanism is far beyond his ill-trained intelligence to comprehend. The same may be said of the general run of machine-minders. Breakdowns, stoppages, and accidents are the costly consequences of their defect. Of all forms of labour, the unskilled labour of to-day is probably the most expensive to the employer. The labourer is worth, as a rule, little more than he receives, and, not infrequently, a good deal less. The preservation of stupidity is among the most foolish and most expensive of modern luxuries. What the employer wants is the intelligent unskilled labourer, and such a class must be the product, not of the workshop, but of the schools. The training to be provided would be very similar to that required by the skilled workman. From the point of view of the employer, we require more intelligence in the unskilled labourer; from the point of view of the community and the man himself, the need is even more urgent. We must not forget the man in the labourer. He is not for all his time an unskilled labourer; he is the autocrat of the home, the father of a family, and, as a voter, one of the rulers of the Empire. These last functions belong essentially to the highly skilled class of work. Uneducated parents are a danger to their children, and so to the future prosperity of the nation; the illiterate voters a peril to the safety of the State. Finally, the man himself, with a wider outlook on the world, and with a life richer in interests, and so with more opportunities of healthy enjoyment, would be a happier and a better citizen. The shame of modern civilization and the abiding menace to its security lie in the miserable horde of stupid, unintelligent, and uninterested labourers who are good for nothing except the exercise of mere brute strength and indulgence in mere animal pleasures, and not very much good even for this. Looking, then, at the problem of the training of skilled and unskilled workmen alike, whether from the point of view of man or master, we see that the great essential is the possession of a large measure of intelligence. With the continual changes in the methods of industry, men must be capable of changing too; they must be capable of readily adapting themselves to new conditions, and not become petrified in a rigid and inflexible mould. Intelligence, properly developed, means adaptability. If we could secure this, the problem of dealing with the unemployed would be comparatively easy of solution. The inextricable tangle of to-day lies in the hopeless task of securing employment at a living wage for men who are not worth it. Let each man be made good for something, and it will not be beyond the range of wise statesmanship to find that good thing for him to do. How is the necessary training to be provided? The answer to this question need not detain us long. We have already seen that elementary and technical education can solve the problem in the case of those who have been able to avail themselves of the opportunities offered. The only outstanding difficulty was the difficulty of insuring ready access to all; and this has been surmounted in the proposals of the last section. The raising of the school age to fifteen, the prohibition of the employment of school-children, and the new half-time system, give facilities for education never before enjoyed. The boy will remain at the elementary school till the age of fifteen, and there will be no employment outside school hours to undermine his health and render him unfit to profit by the instruction given. We have already noticed the transformation of the elementary school now going on, and the multiplication of various types of school. The process will continue, and the results following the raising of the school age will be increased in value. The school will, in the first place, be regarded as a sorting-house, in which the different kinds of ability are discovered and classified. It will next be an institution where proper provision is made to insure that each kind of ability shall have the fullest opportunity of development. The only meaning of a general education is the discovery and the cultivation of the special interests of the individual. When the boy leaves the elementary school his interests and ability will guide him to search for employment where they will have most scope. How this opening is to be found is a question that will be discussed in the next section. Let us take the boy who enters a skilled trade--say a branch of the woodwork industry--and follow his fortunes. He can be employed in the workshop for only half the day; during the remainder he must attend the half-time school. We have hitherto looked at this half-time school as a means of exercising supervision over conduct and physical development; we must now regard it as a place of technical instruction. There must, therefore, be various types of schools corresponding to the different groups of trades. The boy who enters a woodwork trade will attend a school designed to meet the needs of that industry. At his place of employment he will no doubt be kept to a narrow range of operations, and in their performance will acquire that dexterity which only workshop experience can give. In the half-time school he will receive the training necessary to make of him an intelligent and all-round workman. Here his ordinary education will be continued; instruction in drawing, in mensuration, and in science--all specially adapted to the requirements of his trade--will be provided; and, lastly, in the school workshop he will acquire skill in the general use of the woodwork tools. If it is urged that it will be difficult to find room in the curriculum for such varied training, it must be remembered that the subjects of instruction will all have formed part of the curriculum of the elementary school, with a bias in the direction of the woodwork industry. The boy will remain at the school for three years, and at the age of eighteen we shall have at least laid the foundation of those qualities required by the employer for success in the workshop and by the workman for success in life. Let us take now the case of a boy who, on leaving school, finds employment in some occupation which does not lead to a skilled trade, and provides no educational training. Let us suppose he becomes an errand-boy. We cannot prevent lads of fifteen and upwards from being employed in such occupations, however undesirable, but we can at least guard against the more serious evils which are now the result. The boy will only be employed for half the day; he also must attend a half-time school. At this school he will continue his ordinary education; manual training will be provided to make him clever with his hands, while special attention will be devoted to his physical development. He will not, of course, be taught a definite trade, but will learn the general use of tools. How far, then, schools may be specialized, into different types it must be left for the future to decide. We have hitherto never seriously considered the training of the unskilled labourer, and much pioneer work of an experimental character remains to be done. At the age of eighteen the lad, like his brother in the skilled trade, will be a valuable asset in the labour market. We shall have created what we have not got now, and what we much need--a race of intelligent and adaptable unskilled labourers. There are certain other advantages which the half-time system can claim. First, the training of the workshop and the training of the school are carried on at the same time; instruction and practice go hand in hand. Secondly, only those boys will in general be taught a skilled trade in the schools who have already entered a skilled trade. This removes an objection often felt by Trade Unionists to what they term a multiplication through the schools of half-skilled workmen. Thirdly, we have in it a system of universal apprenticeship. All boys will have been learners, and worked for the same period at low wages. There will, therefore, be no obstacle of a privileged class to make difficulties in the way of those entering a trade who have not passed through the normal course of preparation for it. Fitness for the work will be, as it should be, the sole qualification. Looked at in a general way, the half-time schools will be called on to play a double part. They must train the man in the interests of the community and in the interests of the trade. From the employer's standpoint these schools must be essentially places of practical instruction in close touch with the workshop. Already, under existing conditions, employers and representatives of the trade have been found willing to form advisory committees to visit the schools, criticize the teaching, and make suggestions for increasing its value. The principle must be extended; only in this way shall we get the expert inspection necessary to secure real efficiency. On the other hand, the education authority, the representative of the community, will manage the schools, and make them training-grounds of true citizenship. Under this double system of control, wisely administered, we shall not lose the man in the worker or the worker in the man; the interests of the individual and the interests of the employer will alike be safeguarded. In a real sense, and in fashion adapted to modern requirements, we shall have brought back the best traditions of the old apprenticeship system in which the gild, standing at once for the community and for the trade, watched over the training of the youth of the nation. III. THE PROVISION OF AN OPENING. The third and last essential of an apprenticeship system is the provision of an opening. In the last chapter we have seen the aimless drift of boys as they leave school into "blind-alley" occupations; we have watched them rapidly slough off the effects of the school training; and we have found them a few years later left stranded without prospects; and we have been driven to confess that this process of waste and demoralization is not a passing phase, but an integral part of the industrial development in its present unregulated condition. Boys, parents, employers are alike impotent to cure the evil; once again we are compelled to look to the State for help. The State must guide the choice of boys as they leave school. It must assist them during the period of adolescence to find better forms of employment, or at any rate to retain and increase the value of the school training, and it must bridge the gulf that now separates the work of the lad from the work of the man. Already the necessary organization is in process of formation. We have seen how the establishment of Labour Exchanges for adults has, quite unexpectedly, led to the creation of special departments for juveniles. It is singularly fortunate that this accident has led naturally to the Board of Trade being regarded as the proper authority to carry out the work. It is, however, a fact that Parliament has recently passed an Act which gives power to education authorities to spend money for this purpose. It may do no harm for education authorities to be able, without fear of surcharge, to spend money in co-operating with the Board of Trade, but it would be disastrous if they came to think themselves the responsible authority for the undertaking. One of the chief objects of the machinery is the bridging of the gulf between youth and manhood. We should not enter on this difficult task with much hope of success if we perpetuated the distinction by making the Board of Trade responsible for the work of adults, and the education authorities responsible for the work of juveniles. Further, we are coming to see that questions of employment are questions which must be dealt with by a national, and not a local, body. Only a national authority, with its knowledge of the conditions over the whole country, could be in a position to estimate the prospects in any trade, or to decide as to the right proportions of boys to men. Next, the unit of area for employment bears no relation to the unit of area for educational purposes. Towns are separated from the adjoining districts. The unit of area for London employment, for example, is not the administrative county, but Greater London, and in Greater London there are more than thirty education authorities. If these are not in agreement--and when are thirty local authorities in agreement?--no system of regulation would be effective. If, let us say, the London County Council, in order to discourage the employment of van-boys, declined to supply them through their Exchange, their action would be without result if the adjoining districts did not follow suit, while it is impossible to conceive a more chaotic organization than one which would allow employers in the City to be canvassed for openings by thirty independent bodies. For these and many other reasons the Board of Trade must be regarded as the dominant authority for the organization of the Juvenile Labour Exchange. On the other hand, there must be close co-operation between the Labour Exchange and the education authority. The Board of Trade has recognized the importance of this co-operation, and is making full provision for it in the machinery it is setting up. It is forming local advisory committees in connection with each Labour Exchange, and is making them practically responsible for the control of the juvenile department. On this committee are appointed persons nominated by the Board of Trade on the one hand, and on the other by the education authority. The committee thus represents the two branches of the organization. These committees are only just coming into existence, and it is too early to judge of their success. The problem is one of immediate practical importance; it is, therefore, desirable to consider a little in detail the principles that should guide them in their work. For the same reason it is desirable to ignore for the moment the proposals made in the preceding sections, to take things as they are, and to show what can be achieved under existing conditions. The work of the Juvenile Labour Exchange divides itself naturally into a number of different parts or stages. The first stage is concerned with the boy while still at school. Some months before he is likely to leave he must be seen with the view of inducing him to make use of the Labour Exchange to obtain employment. A form will be filled up showing his position in the school, and any particular ability he may have displayed, recording the state of his health as revealed by medical inspection, and indicating any particular desire as to occupation expressed by himself or his parents. The interview and the filling up of the form will be undertaken by someone connected with the school organization--a teacher, or probably a volunteer. The institution of care committees for each school in connection with medical treatment, and the supply of meals to necessitous children, has enlisted the services of a large number of volunteers who would probably be found willing to make themselves responsible for this part of the work. The form, when filled up, will be sent to the Labour Exchange, where, if thought desirable, arrangements will be made by certain members of the advisory committee, in company with the secretary, to interview the boy and his parents. The next part of the work is connected with the finding of vacancies. Either the employer will notify the Exchange of forthcoming vacancies or vacancies be obtained by canvassing employers. In either case it will be necessary to ascertain exactly the nature and the prospects of the employment. For this work expert knowledge is essential, and it will devolve almost entirely on the secretary or other paid officers of the Exchange. Having found boys wanting employers and employers wanting boys, it will be the duty of the advisory committee to bring the two parties together. The second stage in the work begins as soon as the boy has obtained employment. It will be desirable, if possible, to secure periodic reports, either by interview or by letter, from the employer, who in the majority of cases would no doubt be willing to give the information asked for. We should then know how the boy is getting on at his work from the employer's point of view. We must also know how he is getting on from his own point of view. For this and other reasons it is absolutely essential to keep in touch with the boy in his home. A tactful person, paying periodic visits to the home and seeing the boy, would soon learn what prospects the employment offered, what progress he was making, and would be able to advise him as to what evening classes he should attend, and to help him in those many ways in which a boy can be helped when first he goes out to work. In this way a large amount of valuable though unostentatious supervision would be kept over the boy. The persons most capable of doing this home-visiting are volunteers. In many cases the member of the school case committee who originally interviewed the boy would undertake the duty of supervision; in other cases we might get the assistance of the manager of a boys' club or other similar institution of which the boy was a member; but in all cases the advisory committee must make provision for supervision in the home. The reports from the home and the reports from the employer would be filed at the Exchange. They will enable the advisory committee to follow the career of every boy placed out, and at the same time gradually furnish a mass of detailed information respecting the employers of the district. To what kind of employers or to what classes of employment shall we send boys? To all who ask, or to only selected number? Experience will no doubt show that there are certain employers of such a kind that under no circumstances ought we to trust them with boys. The number of such will be very small, and presents no serious difficulty. We should not supply boys until we had a guarantee that the conditions offered were improved. The question of the class of employment requires more careful consideration. There is a danger into which the advisory committee may easily fall. Recognizing the evils of "blind-alley" occupations, they may be inclined to refuse to send boys to such forms of employment, and only recommend boys to places where there is a prospect of learning a trade. Such a policy would be a fatal one. We should not thereby discourage "blind-alley" occupations, employers would get their boys as they have got them in the past, and the only result would be that we should lose all control over the boys, be unable to move them later to better situations, and so leave the problem not only unsolved, but, for want of knowledge, without possibility of solution. We ought not in the Labour Exchange to bar out any form of employment unless we are prepared to make that employment illegal by Act of Parliament. Street-selling might fairly come within that category, and no doubt other forms of employment will later be brought within the same class. But to bring them within that class, accurate information as to evil effects must be collected in order to stiffen public opinion, and if we wash our hands from the outset of all responsibility for such trades, we shall never have that accurate information. The first step in the way of regulation is that accurate knowledge which a detailed supervision of the boys placed out alone can give. There will, however, always be a temptation for the Exchange to confine its activities to the skilled trades, and let the others go. In Munich, for example, we find the education authority devoting much attention to the apprenticeship section of the work, while "unskilled labourers appear to be left to the Labour Exchange, and they receive, therefore, no advice in selecting their work." [184] The same tendency is seen in this country among the various voluntary associations for obtaining employment for boys. They have concentrated almost exclusively on the skilled trades. The results, expressed in figures or percentages, are pleasing, but altogether misleading. They ignore the large residuum which drifts without advice and without supervision into the less favourable openings, and in matters of social reform it is the large residuums that count. It is always nice to get a nice place for a nice boy that we know; but if we do no more, there is no reason to believe that our action is of any advantage to the community at large. The nice places always are filled, and not infrequently the only effect of interference is that A., who is known, gets the job instead of the unknown B. The Labour Exchange must resist this temptation. It should aim at inducing all employers to obtain their supply of boy labour from the Exchange; its influence will then be at a maximum. The mere establishment of a Juvenile Labour Exchange cannot create favourable openings; it cannot in itself alter the direction of the demand for labour. It might, therefore, be asked what is the use of an exchange for boys who can already find employment of a sort more easily than is good for them? First, there are the advantages of supervision and the opportunities for friendly advice and sympathy; secondly, there is the task of collecting accurate information which will lead up to legislative action, and the system of regulation which is ultimately inevitable; thirdly, while not closing the door to the "blind-alley" occupations, there is no need for the advisory committees to press them on the parent. They would, on the contrary, point out the evils, and suggest either that the opening should be refused or accepted only as a temporary expedient. The object should be to induce the parent to refuse situations which did not afford any prospects of learning or allow time off to attend a continuation school. The "blind-alley" occupations would disappear to-morrow if parents stubbornly refused to permit their boys to fill them. For the moment, moreover, the advantage is all on the side of the parent, as the demand for boys outruns the supply. But neither individual parent nor individual boy can take advantage of this fact; they have not the knowledge or the opportunity to make their voices effectively heard. There is no trade union of parents or trade union of boys, or, indeed, can be, in the "blind-alley" occupations. Collective bargaining must be done for them, and the advisory committee must be its instrument. They must first create the opinion among the parents, and then give effect to it through the Exchange. If employers found that, so long as they refused to offer better conditions, they were either unable to get boys or only got the least satisfactory boys, there would be a strong inducement for them to change their ways. Finally, there is the reverse of this system of educating the parents--the educating of the employers. There is already growing up a feeling among employers that if they cannot give the boys employment as men they might at least offer them opportunities of continuing their education. At a conference held in 1910 between agencies interested in the welfare of boys and employers of labour, under the presidency of the Chairman of the London Chamber of Commerce, the following resolutions were unanimously adopted: "That the London Chamber of Commerce be asked to consider the advisability of establishing a register of its members who would be willing to engage or apprentice boys with a view to the co-operation of the Chamber with the various institutions interested in the welfare of boys." "That employers of labour be recommended, by reducing the present hours of labour or otherwise, to give such facilities as may be possible consistently with the requirements of their business to enable boys and youths to obtain technical instruction." Judicious canvassing among a certain class of employers may, therefore, lead to most beneficent results. It should also be borne in mind that in London and other towns into which there is a large immigration of adult labour, there is room for new openings leading on to skilled trades. While much can unquestionably be done under existing conditions to improve and supervise the conditions of boy labour by means of the Juvenile Labour Exchange, it is certain that sooner or later there will be need of regulation by Act of Parliament. Probably the best course would be to give the Board of Trade power in the case of certain occupations to limit at their discretion the employment of boys to boys engaged at the Exchange. If in addition the proposals made in the previous sections were to become law, we should be in a very strong position to launch the youth on the ocean of manhood with all the prospects of a successful voyage. IV. GENERAL CONCLUSIONS. At the end of a long and rather complex discussion it is desirable to attempt some general summary of what has already been achieved and of the proposals necessary for the creation of a true apprenticeship system. It will make for clearness if we take a boy and follow his career through its various stages. At the age of five or thereabouts he will enter the elementary school. It is to be hoped that the reorganization of the public health services and the more careful attention devoted to the period of infancy may send him to the school free from those physical defects so common now, and healthy within the limits of nature. Here he will begin his education. Improved methods of teaching will make for increased intelligence and the growth of numerous interests, while physical exercises, medical inspection and treatment, added to the supply of wholesome food to the necessitous, will promote the healthy development of his body. At the age of eleven comes an important epoch in his career. It is then that, if found suitable, he will, with the help of a scholarship, be sent to the secondary school, and thence be led along a broad road to the University. Failing the winning of a scholarship, he will, if he display any special aptitude, be drafted off to a central school with a commercial or industrial bias. Failing, again, the proof of any exceptional ability, he will remain in the ordinary school. In either case he will continue at school till the age of fifteen, will be forbidden to work for wages outside school hours, and will throughout be periodically examined by the school doctor. With the approach to the age of fifteen begins the second important epoch in his career. Some time before the day of leaving school arrives he will have been interviewed by a friendly volunteer, who, with the help of the school record and medical register, will be able to decide for what form of employment he is best suited. In the meanwhile the Labour Exchange will have found for him a suitable opening, or, failing this, a temporary situation pending a more satisfactory and permanent position. If he gain a place in a skilled trade, the half-time school, which he must attend for the next three years, will add to the training of the workshop that all-round training, whose result is intelligence and adaptability, required to make of him an efficient artisan. If he is destined to fill the ranks of unskilled labour, he will likewise attend a half-time school carefully designed to enable him to play a useful part in the world of life. In both cases he will remain for half-time under the supervision of the education authority; in both cases periodic medical inspection will watch over his physical development, and if it show him physically unfit for the work he has undertaken, he will be found employment more suitable to his strength; in both cases the advisory committee of the Labour Exchange will receive reports from the home, the school, and the employer, and these reports will enable them to discover whether the occupation and the training are well adapted to foster his natural abilities. For three years, while at work, he will also remain at school; for three years his training will be guided by employers who will see to it that it turns out the efficient workman, and by the education authority, which, acting in the interests of the community, will see that it makes for the efficient citizen. In process of time, with the gradual accumulation of experience, and with the knowledge of the Board of Trade behind it, the advisory committee will be able to adjust the supply of boys in course of special training to meet the demands of special trades, and even if some unforeseen transformation of industry upsets the calculations, there should be no insurmountable difficulty of disposing of lads at the age of eighteen who are at once well conducted, physically fit, and intelligent. We come back to the position from which we started in the introduction--the need of securing for the youth of the country adequate supervision up to the age of at least eighteen, appropriate training during that period, and at its conclusion the provision of an opening in some occupation for which special preparation has been given. We have seen that for at any rate a large section of the people these conditions were satisfied during the best days of the gilds, and that they were satisfied in direct proportion to the extent to which the gilds stood for the common interests. With the decay and disappearance of the gilds the training of the youth became a matter of individual bargaining between parent and employer. No authority, standing for the common good, superintended the process. Apprenticeship might be enforced; its efficiency could not be guaranteed. Further, the existence of apprenticeship tended to create a privileged class who resented the intrusion of those who entered a trade by other means. With the coming of the industrial revolution, training itself became more difficult. The large workshop and the division of labour were unfavourable to apprenticeship. Employers wanted to use boys, and not to train them. Rapid progress of invention continually discounted the value of acquired manual skill, and parents could not see at the conclusion of the apprenticeship any prospect of a favourable opening in a skilled trade; while the gradual break-up of the system of supervision bred a spirit of independence among boys which rendered them disinclined to bind themselves for a period of years. Finally, competition, with the urgent need of surviving the struggle of to-day, made it hard for employers to prepare for the future by providing for the training of the future workmen. The industrial system gave no guarantee for the efficiency of the next generation of workers. The old apprenticeship system had broken down. But in the period of general disintegration there was slowly developing--at first unconsciously, and later with more clearly directed effort--an organization which made for constructive reform. It was called into being as a last resort, and to save the country from the ruin which was threatened by the exploitation of children. Competition demanded the sacrifice of to-morrow to-day; the State, whose interests belong to all time, was driven to forbid the sacrifice. Competition demanded that children of tender years should labour in the mines and the factories, and under conditions that made all health a mockery; the State insisted on a minimum standard of health and safety for its children. The standard, low at first, has steadily been raised. Thus has grown up the regulation of child labour and the Acts relating to factories and workshops. Competition cared nothing for the education of the children; it wanted to use them up and cast them on the waste-heap. The State, recognizing the dangers of an uneducated people, established by slow degrees a system of universal education. So the struggle between the two has gone on, the State only interfering as a last resort and in despair of other means to stop the evil. Throughout its action has been generally beneficial, but the benefits have been limited because that action has been partial and patchy. Much of the expenditure, for example, on education has been wasted just because the education came to an end too soon. The time had come for a more comprehensive study of the situation that should indicate the faults of the existing system. Such a study has been attempted in the present volume. The task has been comparatively easy, because the evils are generally admitted. What has not hitherto been recognized sufficiently is the fact that these evils are growing, and not in course of removal. The various factors in the process have been examined, and, ignoring the State, they are clearly inadequate, and progressively inadequate, to the task of solving the problem. As a last resort the State remains. If the principles underlying the training of youth are admitted, if out of the various possible forces concerned all with one exception have been proved defective, then we must put our hopes in the one exception. We must enlarge the sphere of influence of the State. How this should be done has been shown in the present chapter. The principles underlying the proposals have all been drawn from experience, and are founded on the apprenticeship system, but applied with modifications suitable to changed conditions. Under the gild system there were three interests concerned and conjoined--the interests of the master, the interest of journeyman and apprentice, and the interest of the community. Since the gilds have gone these interests have become separate and increasingly antagonistic. For the successful training of the youth of the country the claims of these clashing interests must again be brought together and reconciled. Ultimately and in the long-run they are identical; it is only competition, with its dimmed and narrow vision, that made the cleavage. It is hoped that the proposals outlined in this chapter will point the road towards a final peace. Let us, in conclusion, bring them to the test of the three essentials for which a true apprenticeship system must make adequate provision. There must be supervision--supervision of conduct, supervision of health. Under the new apprenticeship system the State will be the ultimate authority for the supervision of conduct. Till the age of fifteen the boy will remain subject to the control of the schools. Long experience has demonstrated the beneficent influence exercised by the teachers over the children even under present conditions, when the school career is brought to an end at the age of thirteen or fourteen. There is, therefore, nothing wild in the expectation that, with compulsory attendance extended to the age of fifteen, we shall receive richer and more lasting fruits. For the next three years, the critical period of a boy's life, with its first experience of the workshop and the sense of independence which comes with earning wages, the supervision of the State will only in part be withdrawn. During these years he will be compelled to attend the half-time school, and so continue under the control of the education authority. Nor is this all. The advisory committee of the Labour Exchange will advise him in the choice of employment, assist him to obtain it, and generally watch over his career. Thus, helped on his journey and surrounded with wise and friendly influences, he will approach the threshold of manhood with such promise of success as good habits and an ordered life may bring. The State, likewise, will be responsible for the supervision of the boy's health. Periodic medical inspection will watch and aid his physical development. We have not yet learned to appreciate the full value of this periodic inspection; it is, however, destined to become the most powerful instrument of reform. The ill-nourished child, the delicate child, the child in the early stages of phthisis, the child of negligent parents, the child from the overcrowded or insanitary home--all these, the future weaklings of the nation, we know them now only when the evil has too often outrun the possibility of a cure and it is too late. Under the new conditions we shall detect the evil in its first beginning, while there is yet hope. Medical inspection is also the key to the situation after the boy goes out to work, and for three years he will remain under its control. At the present time we only dimly realize the disastrous effects that come to a boy from the choice of an occupation ill-suited to his strength. We forbid a few forms of work, attempt for the most part ineffectively to limit the hours of employment in a few others, but in our clumsy fashion legislate as a rule for the normal child, and it is the abnormal child that suffers most. Under the new conditions there will be no work for children under the age of fifteen, while for the three following years medical inspection will enable us to legislate for the individual boy, taking into account his physical characteristics. Not only shall we be able to help a boy to avoid making a wrong choice, but we shall be able to remove him as soon as medical inspection shows him unfit for the work. Thus, to the age of eighteen the State has its finger on the pulse of the youth. Secondly, there must be an adequate provision of training, special and general, accessible to all. Here, again, we are building on the firm rock of solid experience. The elementary schools have proved themselves to be schools for the cultivation of intelligence. With a year or two added to the school life; with the relief from that distracting influence which comes from wage-earning while at school; with the improved methods of teaching and a clearer differentiation of types of school to suit varying types of mind--reforms already under way--we may fairly hope for a general rise in the intelligence of the boys. The half-time school, with its three years' course, will supply the more specialized training required in the different trades and occupations, while committees of employers will provide the expert criticism essential to success. Finally, there must be the provision of an opening in some form of employment for which special preparation has been given. The Labour Exchange, the juvenile branch worked in close co-operation with the adult section, will supply the opening, while the technical training will give good guarantee for the adequacy of the preparation. The Elementary School, the Half-time School, the Education Authority, and the Advisory Committee, all acting together, will insure a safe passage from youth to manhood. The new apprenticeship system is more complex than the old--it lacks something of the picturesqueness of the Middle Ages--but it finds its compensation in an organization at once more flexible and more comprehensive, and therefore better suited to stand the shock of those huge changes in methods of production and methods of living which have been the ungainly offspring of the industrial revolution. LIST OF AUTHORITIES I PARLIAMENTARY AND MUNICIPAL PUBLICATIONS Elementary Schools (Children Working for Wages), Parts I. and II., Parliamentary Return. 1899. Report of the Interdepartmental Committee on the Employment of School-Children. 1901. Report of the Departmental Committee on the Employment of Children Act, 1903. 1910. Report of the Royal Commission on the Poor Laws and the Relief of Distress. 1909. Report by Mr. Cyril Jackson on Boy Labour. 1909. Report of the Commissioners of Prisons for the year ending March 31, 1908. Report of the Chief Medical Officer of the Board of Education for the year 1909. Report of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education on Higher Elementary Schools. 1906. Report of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education on Attendance, Compulsory or Otherwise, at Continuation Schools. 2 vols., 1909. Report on the By-Laws made by the London County Council under the Employment of Children Act, 1903, by Chester Jones. 1906. London County Council Report of the Medical Officer (Education) for the year 1906. London County Council Report of the Medical Officer (Education) for the year 1909. London County Council: Medical Treatment of Children attending Elementary Schools--Report of Education Committee. 1909. London County Council: Home Circumstances of Necessitous Children in Twelve Selected Schools. 1909. London County Council: The Apprenticeship Question. 1906. London County Council: Report of the Higher Education Sub-Committee on Apprenticeship: Agenda of Education Committee, February 24, 1909, pp. 412-425. London County Council: Technical Education Board Report on the Building Trades. 1899. London County Council: Report by Miss Durham, Inspector of Women's Technical Classes on Juvenile Labour in Germany. 1910. London County Council: Report by Mr. R. Blair (Education Officer) on Organization of Education in London. P. S. King and Son, Westminster. County Council of Middlesex: Report by Mr. A. J. Bird (Inspector of Schools) on Employment Bureaux for Children of School-leaving Age. Urban District Council of Finchley: Annual Report of the Medical Officer of Health, including the Report to the Education Committee for the year 1908. Gloucestershire Education Committee: Report of the Minor Committee to consider Certain Proposals for the Creation of an Apprenticeship Fund and a Labour Bureau. 1907. II AUTHORS ABRAHAM AND DAVIES: Factories and Workshops. 1902. ABRAM, A.: Social Life in the Fifteenth Century. 1909. ALDEN, MARGARET: Child Life and Labour. ASHLEY, W. J.: Introduction to English Economic History. 1888. BEVERIDGE, W. H.: Unemployment. 1909. BLACK, CLEMENTINA: Sweated Industry. 1907. BLAIR, R.: Some Features of American Education. 1904. BOOTH, CHARLES: Life and Labour of the People, 9 vols. 1896. BRAY, REGINALD A.: The Apprenticeship Question, in _Economic Journal_, September, 1909. BRAY, REGINALD A.: The Town Child. 1907. CHRISTIAN SOCIAL UNION: Report on the Employment of Boys in the London Area. 1910. Continuation Schools in England and Elsewhere, edited by M. E. SADLER. 1907. CREASEY, CLARENCE H.: Technical Education in Evening Schools. 1905. CROWLEY, RALPH H.: Hygiene of School Life. 1909. CUNINGHAM, W.: Growth of English Industry and Commerce: Early and Middle Ages. 1905. CUNINGHAM, W.: Growth of English Industry and Commerce: Modern Times, 2 vols. 1903. DAVIES, MAUDE F.: Life in an English Village. 1909. FRERE, MARGARET: Children's Care Committees. 1909. GIBB, THE REV. SPENCER J.: The Problem of Boy Work. 1906. GIBB, THE REV. SPENCER J.: Boy Work and Unemployment. C.S.U. Pamphlet. GORDON, OGILVIE: Handbook of Employments. 1908. GREEN, J. R.: History of the English Peoples, vols. i. and iv. 1896. GREEN, MRS. J. R.: Town Life in the Fifteenth Century, 2 vols. 1894. HALL, G. STANLEY: Adolescence, 2 vols. HASBACH, W.: History of the English Agricultural Labourer. 1908. HAWKINS, C. B.: Norwich: A Social Study. 1910. HAYWARD, F. H.: Day and Evening Schools. 1910. HOGARTH, A. H.: Medical Inspection of Schools. 1909. HUTCHINS AND HARRISON: A History of Factory Legislation. 1907. JACKSON, CYRIL: Unemployment and Trade Unions. 1910. JEBB, EGLANTYNE: Cambridge: A Brief Study in Social Questions. 1906. KEELING, FREDERIC: The Labour Exchange in Relation to Boy and Girl Labour. 1910. KIRKMAN, GRAY B.: A History of English Philanthropy. 1905. KIRKMAN, GRAY B.: Philanthropy and the State. KNOWLES, G. W.: Junior Labour Exchanges. 1910. MACMILLAN, MARGARET: Labour and Childhood. 1907. MOSELEY: Educational Committee Report. 1904. NICHOLLS, SIR G.: History of the English Poor Law. 1898. ROGERS, J. E. T.: Six Centuries of Work and Wages. 1884. ROWNTREE, B. S.: Poverty: A Study of Town Life. 1901. RUSSELL, C. E. B.: Manchester Boys. 1905. RUSSELL AND RIGBY: The Making of the Criminal. 1906. RUSSELL AND RIGBY: Working Lads' Clubs. 1908. SHADWELL, ARTHUR: Industrial Efficiency. 1909. Studies of Boy Life in our Cities, edited by E. J. URWICK. 1904. TAWNEY, R. H.: The Economics of Boy Labour, in _Economic Journal_, December, 1909. Trades for London: Boys. Compiled by the Apprenticeship and Skilled Employment Committee. 1908. Trades for London: Girls. Compiled by the Apprenticeship and Skilled Employment Committee. 1909. TUCKWELL AND SMITH: The Workers' Handbook. 1908. WEBB, SIDNEY AND BEATRICE: History of Trade Unionism. 1907. WEBB, SIDNEY AND BEATRICE: Industrial Democracy, 2 vols. 1897. INDEX Abraham and Davies, 45, 49, 53 Abram, A., 9 Adler, Miss, 106 Adolescence, vi, 176, 198 Agricultural Gangs Act, 42 Apprentices, statute of, 13-15; effect, 16, 17; pauper, 15, 17-19; repeal, 22 Apprenticeship, break-up of, 165-175 charities, 19; decay, 25, 135, 164, 165-175, 177; difficulties of, 12, 188; essentials, 43, 237; indentured, 5, 135, 187-189; meaning, 1; under gilds, 4-11, 234, 237; under industrial revolution, 26-29; under statute, 11-19; universal, 3, 13, 189 of to-day: contribution of home, 92-103; of philanthropy, 89-92; of State, 73-74, 76-89; of workshop, 103-165 the new: Juvenile Labour Exchange, 231-231; new half-time, 191, 197-202; prohibition of employment, 191, 195-197; raising school age, 191-195, 217; summary, 231-240 Ashby, W. J., 4 Attendance at school, Acts relating to, 38, 46-48; percentage of, 83, 106, 105 Blair, R., 86 "Blind-alley" occupations, 87, 112, 123-130, 145, 157, 158, 163, 169-172, 180, 227 Board of Education, 61, 64 Board of Trade, 71, 72, 223, 233 Booth, C., 95, 104, 136, 139 Borstal Association, 169 Boy labour: difficulties of regulation, 79, 80; effects of regulation, 77-82, 88, 89 half-time, 49-52, 78, 197-202, 204, 205 health and safety, 52-58, 77, 197-202 limitation of hours, 43-52, 197-202 prohibition of, 41-43, 195-197, 203, 204 regulation under gilds, 7-11, 234, 237; under industrial revolution, 20-25; under statute, 13, 14 Boys: clubs, 90; errand, 82, 112, 119, 129, 145; lather, 43; office, 119, 126, 158; shop, 122, 126, 128, 145; telegraph, 126, 131, 145; van, 82, 119, 145 Boys: employment of, at school, 103-113, 151-155; on leaving school, 114-119, 163; entering manhood, 143 unemployed, 119; under London County Council, 132 Bursaries, 65 Chamber of Commerce, 230 Chapman, Professor, 211 Child, definition of, 40 Children Act, 38, 59, 61, 80 Children, employment of. _See_ Boys Chimney Sweepers Act, 42 Cloete, J. G., 126, 129 Coal Mines Regulation Act, 38, 42 Competition, 177, 235 Cuningham, W., 4, 6, 10, 16, 20, 22, 28 Davies, Miss Maude, 161, 164 Distribution of trades, 115-118, 142-149, 163; normal, 147-149 Durham, Miss, 196, 228 _Economic Journal_, 116, 159 Education Acts, 1902-03, 62 Administrative Provisions Act, 1907, 58, 60, 61 Provision of Meals Act, 61 Employment of children. _See_ Boys Employment of Children Act, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 46, 48, 57, 58, 77, 80, 81, 111, 166 Factory legislation, causes of, 30 Factory and Workshops Act, 38, 168; authority for enforcement, 40, 51; definitions, 39-41; effects of, 77, 81, 82, 88; half-time, 49-51; health and safety, 52-56; limitation of hours, 43-52; prohibition of employment, 41, 42 Furness, Sir Christopher, 213 Gibb, Spencer J., 124, 158 Gilds, 4-11, 234, 237 Girls, vii Green, Mrs. J. R., 12 Half-time system, 49-51, 78, 197-203, 204-205 Hall, G. Stanley, vi Hasbach, W., 25 Health and Morals of Apprentices Act, 17, 18, 23, 29 Hutchins and Harrison, 23, 29 Idealist, triumph of, 28 Indenture, old, 6 Individualist, triumph of, 32-34 Industrial revolution, 20-26; effects of, 26-29, 173-175; characteristics, 177-185 schools, 61 Jackson, Cyril. _See_ Report on Boy Labour Labour Exchange, 70, 125; Juvenile, 71, 72, 83, 201, 221-231, 232-240 Lather-boy. _See_ Boys London, employment of school-children, 105-113; entry to a trade, 113-142; passage to manhood, 142-151 Medical certificate, 56, 57, 58 inspection, 58, 60, 61, 85, 86, 94, 168, 197, 231, 232, 233, 238, 239 Messenger-boy. _See_ Boys Metalliferous Mines Regulation Act, 38 Mines (Prohibition of Child Labour Underground) Act, 38, 41 Necessitous children, 94, 95 Nicholls, Sir G., 18 Occupations, clerical, 140-142; distribution of, 115-120, 143, 142-149, 163; skilled, 132-140; unskilled, 112, 121-133 Office-boy. _See_ Boys Opening. _See_ Provision of Poor Law, Elizabethan, 15; Amendment Act, 23-26; Report of Royal Commission. _See_ Reports Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act, 38, 42 Provision of opening, need for, 2; Labour Exchange, 70-72, 221-231, 240; under gilds, 8-11; under industrial revolution, 20-26 Report of Board of Education, 64 of Commissioners for Prisons, 169 of Consultative Committee on Continuation School, 47, 81, 154, 192, 201 of Consultative Committee on Higher Elementary Schools, 214 of Departmental Committee on Employment of Children Act, 81, 125 of Interdepartmental Committee on Employment of Children, 51, 110, 152 of London County Council on Apprenticeship, 66, 115, 128, 135, 136, 139, 140, 143, 187, 192, 194 of Medical Officer, Board of Education, 152, 174 of Medical Officer (Education) of London County Council, 96, 109, 110 Report of Poor Law Commission, 31, 104, 155, 156, 172, 191, 192, 206, 209, 210, 211, 213 Report on Boy Labour, by Mr. Cyril Jackson, 104, 123, 124, 125, 128, 129, 131, 144, 145, 146, 156, 157 on Home Circumstances of Necessitous Children, 95 Rogers, J. E. Thorold, 5 Rural Districts, 161-165 Sadler, M. E., 157, 171, 195 Scholarships, 66-68, 86, 232 School: age, 46-48, 192-195; central, 64, 65; elementary, 46, 47, 63-65, 83-86, 218, 224, 231; evening, 60, 67, 69, 86; industrial, 59, 61; part-time, 68, 132, 187, 218-221, 231; secondary, 60, 67, 86, 232; Sunday, 89; technical and trade, 60, 66, 68, 208 Scott-Holland, Canon, 124 Shop-boy. _See_ Boys Shop Hours Act, 38, 46, 79, 81 Skilled Employment Committees, 91, 92, 185 Supervision, need for, 2; under gilds, 8-11; under statute, 13-15; under industrial revolution, 20-26; by State regulation, 37-58; by State enterprise, 59-70; effects of State, 76-88; by philanthropy, 89-92; in home, 92-103; in workshop, 125; in London, summary, 149, 150; general summary, 165-168; under new apprenticeship, 191-202, 221-231, 237, 238 Tawney, R. L., 159, 160 Technical instruction. _See_ Schools Trades, distribution of, 115-120, 142-149, 163; picking up, 136-140; skilled, 133-142, 208-214, 218, 239; unskilled, 112, 121-133, 155-160, 165-175, 208, 215, 216, 219, 239 Training, need for, 2; under gilds, 9-12; under statute, 13, 14; under industrial revolution, 20-27; in single operation, 21, 137-139; in elementary schools, 63-65; in continuation schools, 65-70; in workshops, 111-113, 121-142, 165-175; in new apprenticeships, 207-221, 233 Van-boy. _See_ Boys Webb, Sidney and Beatrice, 8, 21, 22 Young person, 40, 44-46, 81, 83 THE END BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD FOOTNOTES: [1] G. Stanley Hall, "Adolescence," vol. ii., p. 83. [2] See, for a general description of gilds, "Economic History," by W. J. Ashby; "Growth of English History and Commerce: Early and Middle Ages." by W. Cunningham. [3] J. E. Thorold Rogers, "Six Centuries of Work and Wages," p. 566. [4] Quoted, Cunningham, pp. 349-350. [5] Sidney and Beatrice Webb, "A History of Trade Unionism," p. 17. [6] Cunningham, p. 460. [7] _Ibid._, p. 345. [8] A. Abiam, "Social England in the Fifteenth Century," p. 118. [9] Cunningham, p. 509. [10] Mrs. J. R. Green, "Town Life in the Fifteenth Century," vol. ii., p. 102. [11] 5 Elizabeth, Cap. iv. [12] Sect. 3. [13] Sect. 25. [14] Sect. 26. [15] Sect. 31. [16] 5 Elizabeth, Cap. iv., Sect. 35. [17] 43 Elizabeth, Cap. ii., Sect. 5. Similar powers had been given to Justices of the Peace in earlier Acts (see 27 Henry VIII., Cap. xxv.; Edw. VI., Cap. iii.) [18] W. Cunningham, "Growth of English Industry and Commerce in Modern Times," pp. 29-30. [19] _Ibid._, p. 33. [20] See 3 Chas. I., Cap. v. [21] Sir G. Nicholls, "History of the Poor Law," vol. ii., p. 223 _et seq._ 1898. [22] James I., Cap. iii. [23] Cunningham, p. 615. [24] _Ibid._, pp. 640-641. [25] Sidney and Beatrice Webb, "History of Trade Unionism," p. 47. [26] Sidney and Beatrice Webb, "History of Trade Unionism," p. 47. [27] Cunningham, p. 660. [28] _Ibid._ [29] 54 George III., Cap. xcvi. [30] Hutchins and Harrison, "History of Factory Legislation," p. 16. [31] Herr W. Hasbach, "A History of the English Agricultural Labourer," pp. 224, 225. [32] Quoted by Cunningham, "Growth of Industry and Commerce in Modern Times," p. 776. [33] Quoted by B. L. Hutchins and A. Harrison, in "A History of Factory Legislation," p. 15. [34] In the Report of the Poor Law Commission we have an interesting example side by side of the two forces that make for reform. The Majority Report is altogether the work of sentiment. The proposed variation in the terminology applicable to those in receipt of relief, the loosening of the deterrent system, the advocacy of the more generous treatment of the young and the sick, the general neglect to consider remote causes, and the total absence of any consistent principle, can be explained in no other way. Its cold reception by the British Constitutional Association--that body of people who still hold aloft the tattered banners of the individualist--is but another proof that sentiment, and not the _a priori_ assumptions of the old school, is the guiding spirit. In the Minority Report we see everywhere the mark of the imaginative reason--that reason which, starting with facts and not with theories, strives to picture the long chain of cause and effect which leads up to the sufferer, and finally, seeing the whole process in its true proportions, strikes at the evil where it begins and can be prevented, and not where it ends, when only a more or less modified failure can be looked for. [35] A striking instance of this is supplied by the Municipal Reform Party on the London County Council. Opposed in principle to feeding or treating medically children at the cost of the rates, they have yet been compelled to do both these things. And they have been compelled to take action, not by the pressure of public opinion--the public opinion of their own side generally condemned them for forsaking their principles--but by the sheer inability of members to learn, week after week, that hungry children were unfed and sick children left without treatment. [36] See Part X. of the Act. Needless to say, the decision as to what kinds of industry come within these definitions has exercised the ingenuity of the lawyer. In one case (Law _v._ Graham), for example, Lord Alverstone, Chief Justice, expressed the opinion that bottling beer is not within paragraph (i.) or paragraph (ii.) above; that by a somewhat strained construction it might be said to be within paragraph (iii.), as being an adapting of an article for sale, but that the powers used in washing the bottles was not "in aid of the process of bottling." [37] For complete list of such industries, see Sch. VI. of the Act. [38] See Part VI. of the Act for details and exceptions. [39] Sects. 103, 104, 105, 106. [40] Sects. 71 and 156. [41] Sect. 156. [42] Sect. 13. [43] Factory and Workshop Act, Sect. 77. [44] Sect. 99. [45] Mines Act, 1900, Sect. 1. [46] Coal Mines Regulation Act, 1887, Sect. 7. [47] Factory and Workshops Act, Sect. 77. [48] Employment of Children Act, Sects. 3 and 13. [49] Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act, 1894, Sect. 3. [50] Sect. 1. [51] Sect. 2. [52] Sect. 4. [53] For definitions, see p. 39. [54] Sect. 24. [55] Sect. 26. [56] Sect. 111. [57] Sects. 51, 53. [58] Sects. 31, 46. [59] The best detailed account of the Act is found in "The Law Relating to Factories and Workshops," by Abraham and Davies. [60] Shop Hours Act, Sect. 3. [61] Employment of Children Act, Sect. 2. [62] Report of the Consultative Committee on Continuation Schools, vol. i., p. 22. [63] _Ibid._, vol. i., p. 21. [64] Employment of Children Act, Sect. 3 (1). [65] Sect. 1. [66] Abraham and Davies, "The Law Relating to Factories and Workshops," fourth edition, p. 41. [67] Factory and Workshop Act, 1901, Sect. 25. [68] Sect. 25. [69] Sects. 31 and 46. [70] Sect. 69. [71] Report of the Interdepartmental Committee on the Employment of School-Children, p. 12. [72] The summary of the provisions that follow is founded on "The Law Relating to Factories and Workshops," by Abraham and Davies, chap. ii. [73] Factory and Workshop Act, Sect. 63, (1) and (2). [74] Sect. 64 (4). [75] Sect. 64 (5). [76] Sect. 64 (6). [77] Sect. 67. [78] Sect. 65. [79] Sect. 66. [80] Education (Administrative Provisions) Act, 1907, Sect. 13. [81] See pp. 46-48. [82] Children Act, 1908, Sect. 58. [83] Education (Administration Provisions) Act, 1907, Sect. 13. [84] Board of Education Circular 576, Sect. 12. [85] Education (Administrative Provisions) Act, 1907, Sect. 13. [86] Education (Provision of Meals) Act, 1906, Sect. 3. [87] Children Act, Sect. 77. [88] I am here speaking of England; in Scotland there are limited powers of enforcing attendance. [89] Report of Board of Education, 1908-09, p. 110. [90] For a more detailed account of the machinery considered desirable, see the Report of the London County Council on "The Apprenticeship Question." [91] See Report of the Consultative Committee on Continuation Schools, p. 22. [92] Report of the Departmental Committee on the Employment of Children Act, pp. 6, 7. [93] "The Organization of Education in London," by R. Blair, Education Officer to the London County Council, p. 29. [94] "Studies of Boy Life in Our Cities," edited by E. J. Urwick. Dent and Co. [95] "Home Circumstances of Necessitous Children in Twelve Selected Schools." Report of the London County Council. [96] See "Medical Treatment of Children attending Elementary Schools," in Report of the Medical Officer (Education) of the London County Council for the year 1909. See also Report of the Medical Officer of the Board of Education for 1909. [97] "Studies of Boy Life," pp. 22-25 _passim_. [98] "Studies of Boy Life," pp. 26-28 _passim_. [99] "Studies of Boy Life," p. 32. [100] Elementary Schools (Children Working for Wages) Parliamentary Return, 1899, p. 32. [101] Report on Employment of School-Children, p. 8. [102] _Ibid._, p. 9. [103] Report on the Employment of School-Children, p. 9. [104] Quoted from "Studies of Boy Life," p. 24. [105] Report on Employment of School-Children, p. 10. [106] _Ibid._, p. 11. [107] Report on Employment of School-Children, p. 11. [108] Report of the Education Committee submitting the Report of the Medical Officer (Education) for the year 1906. P. S. King and Son. [109] Report of Medical Officer, p. 22. [110] Report of the Medical Officer (Education) 1906, p. 23. [111] _Ibid._, p. 23. [112] _Ibid._, p. 24. [113] See p. 43. [114] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, Minutes of the Education Committee of the London County Council for February 24, 1909, p. 414. [115] The substance of what follows appeared in an article published in the _Economic Journal_ for September, 1909, and is reproduced by the kind permission of the Editor. [116] L.C.C. Report of Medical Officer (Education), 1906, p. 23, showed that this was the most injurious form of work in which school-children were engaged. [117] Report of Mr. Cyril Jackson on Boy Labour, prepared for the Poor Law Commission. [118] Report on Boy Labour, p. 7. [119] Report on Boy Labour, pp. 7 and 8. [120] Canon Scott Holland, Introduction to "The Problem of Boy Work," by the Rev. Spencer J. Gibb. [121] Report on Boy Labour, p. 4. [122] Report of the Departmental Committee on the Employment of Children Act, 1903, 1910, p. 14. [123] "Studies of Boy Life," p. 111. [124] Cyril Jackson, Report on Boy Labour, p. 14. [125] The Rev. Spencer J. Gibb, "The Problem of Boy Work," p. 33. [126] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, Minutes of the Education Committee of the London County Council, February 24, 1909, p. 424. [127] Report on Boy Labour, p. 27. [128] Mr. Cloete, in "Studies of Boy Life," p. 125. [129] Report on Boy Labour, p. 20. [130] _Ibid._, p. 20. [131] _Ibid._, p. 26. [132] Report on Boy Labour, p. 17. [133] _Ibid._, p. 16. [134] _Ibid._, p. 17. [135] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, p. 1. London County Council Publications. P. S. King and Son. [136] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, p. 2. [137] Charles Booth, "Life and Labour of the People," vol. ix., p. 222. [138] This Advisory Committee contains representatives of the chief woodwork industries of the district. [139] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, p. 4. [140] Report on the Apprenticeship Question, p. 4. [141] Minutes of the Education Committee, February 24, 1909, p. 415. [142] Report on Boy Labour, p. 47. [143] Report on Boy Labour, p. 20. [144] _Ibid._, p. 20. [145] _Ibid._, p. 22. [146] _Ibid._, p. 23. [147] Report on Employment of School-Children, p. 5. [148] Report of Chief Medical Officer of Board of Education for 1909, pp. 80-81, _note_. [149] Report of Consultation Committee on Continuation Schools, p. 206. [150] Majority Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 325. [151] _Ibid._, p. 325. [152] Minority Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 1166. [153] _Ibid._, p. 1166. [154] Minority Report on the Poor Law Commission, p. 1166. [155] Report on Boy Labour, p. 5. [156] _Ibid._, p. 27. [157] M. E. Sadler, "Continuation Schools," Preface, p. xii. [158] M. E. Sadler, "Continuation Schools," Preface, p. xiii. [159] The Rev. Spencer J. Gibb, "The Problem of Boy Work," p. 33. [160] _Economic Journal_, December, 1909, p. 522. [161] _Ibid._, p. 522. [162] _Economic Journal_, December, 1909, p. 532. [163] Elementary Schools (Children Working for Wages) Act, Part (2), Return for England and Wales, 1899, p. iv. [164] Elementary Schools (Children Working for Wages) Act, Part (2), Return for England and Wales, 1899., p. vii. [165] M. F. Davies, "Life in an English Village," chap. x. [166] Report of the Commissioners of Prisons for the year ending March 31, 1908, p. 14. [167] Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 325. [168] _Morning Post_, January 3, 1909, letter from Professor M. E. Sadler. [169] Russell and Rigby, "Working Lads' Club," p. 286. [170] Majority Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 326. [171] Minority Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 1165. [172] _Ibid._, p. 1166. [173] Minutes of the Education Committee, February 24, 1909, p. 422. [174] Minutes of the Education Committee, February 24, 1909, p. 416. [175] Minutes of the Education Committee, February 24, 1909, p. 416. [176] M. E. Sadler, "Continuation Schools," p. 334. [177] "Berlin, though growing luxurious, is not yet as spendthrift of young life as is London. The newspaper-boy and the street-trader are unknown" (Report to the London County Council, by Miss Durham, p. 3). [178] See Report of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education on Continuation Schools, chap. x. [179] Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 346. [180] Report of the Poor Law Commission, pp. 346-347. [181] _Ibid._, Professor Chapman, footnote, p. 346. [182] Report of the Poor Law Commission, p. 351. [183] Report of the Consultative Committee of the Board of Education in Higher Elementary Schools, p. 7. [184] Report by Miss Durham to the London County Council on Juvenile Labour in Germany, p. 7. 
9112	----	The Dare Boys of 1776 by Stephen Angus Cox Illustrations by R. Mencl New York The Platt & Peck Co. Copyright 1910 by The A. L. Chatterton Co. Contents I. The Clang of the Liberty Bell II. Waylaid on the Road III. Ben Foster Brings Important News IV. A Night Attack V. The Dare Boys in New York VI. Chosen for Dangerous Work VII. Dick's First Adventure VIII. Tom Dare Acts IX. The Brothers Together X. In the Enemy's Camp XI. Tom in Trouble XII. Dick Does Wonderful Work XIII. General Washington is Pleased XIV. The Haunted House XV. Dick Again Does Spy-Work XVI. The Battle of Long Island Chapter I The Clang of the Liberty Bell It was the fourth day of July of the year 1776. There was great excitement in all of the colonies of America at that time, for on this day the representatives of the people, gathered together in the city of Philadelphia, were to decide whether the Declaration of Independence, already drawn up, should be adopted and signed. In Philadelphia, as may well be supposed, the excitement was so intense that the people suspended business. They thronged the streets, walking up and down, talking excitedly, and waiting, waiting for the decision to be made, the determination that would mean so much to them. The people talked and gesticulated, and there was considerable arguing, some contending that the Declaration of Independence would be adopted and signed, others that it would not. "Look, here it is almost evening," contended one of these latter, "and nothing has been done yet. If they were going to adopt the Declaration it would have been done before this. The delay means that it will not be done." "They are taking their time to it, that is all," replied the others. "It is a most serious matter and not to be taken up hastily and without due thought. They will adopt and sign the Declaration of Independence before the day is gone, see if they don't!" Dick and Tom Dare, two patriot youths, brothers, from about three miles over in New Jersey, who had come to the city to hear the news, listening eagerly, were thrilled by the excitement and interest shown on every side. "Oh, I hope they will adopt the Declaration of Independence, Dick!" said Tom. "I'm sure they will, aren't you?" "I think they will, Tom. I hope so." "Bah, they won't do nothin' uv the kind, Dick Dare!" cried a sneering voice at their side, and turning, the Dare youths saw Zeke Boggs and Lem Hicks, the sons of two Tory neighbors, standing there. "Uv course they won't," added Lem Hicks. "They don't darst. They know that ef they do, they'll git into trouble with King George. They won't ring no old Liberty Bell to-day." "Well, they just will!" cried Tom Dare, who was an excitable, impulsive youth. "They'll ring it pretty soon, Lem Hicks, and they aren't afraid of your old king, not a bit of it!" "What's thet! Don't ye dare speak disrespectfully uv the king!" snarled Zeke Boggs, making a threatening motion with his fist. "Ef ye do, why et'll be the worse fur ye, that's all." Instantly Dick Dare, who was the elder of the brothers, a handsome, manly youth of eighteen years, seized Zeke by the wrist, and pushed him back, at the same time saying quietly, yet firmly: "That will do, Zeke. Don't go making any threats. You and Lem go about your business, and don't interfere with Tom and I." "We'll go where we please," snarled Zeke, who was a vicious youth of about Dick's age, as was Lem Hicks also. "An' we'll stay heer ef we want to, too, Dick Dare, an' ye can't he'p yerself." "That's all right," calmly; "you can stay here, I suppose, if you want to, but you will have to behave yourselves and attend to your own business. If you try to interfere with Tom and I, or to bully us, you will wish you hadn't stayed." "Is thet so?" sneeringly. "Whut'll ye do, Dick Dare, hey?" "Yes, whut'll ye do?" cried Lem Hicks, pushing forward and facing Dick. Tom confronted him quickly, and met his angry glare unflinchingly. Tom was only sixteen years of age, but he was well-built and athletic for his age, and was moreover as brave as a lion, though somewhat quick-tempered and impulsive. He put out his left hand and, placing it against Lem's chest, pushed him back. "Hold on, Lem Hicks," he said. "Just you stand back. One at a time talking with Dick is enough. You talk to me, if you want to talk to anybody." Lem Hicks was a hot-tempered youth also, and suddenly his rage flared to the surface. He didn't relish being pushed back by Tom, and quick as a flash, he gave the patriot youth a smart slap on the cheek. "That thet, an' l'arn to keep yer han's offen people!" he snarled. The blow was with the flat of the hand, and while it smarted, it did not hurt much to speak of, but it was sufficient to start impulsive Tom Dare into action, and quick as a flash out shot his fist. It caught Lem Hicks between the eyes and knocked him down flat on his back. "There, see how you like that!" exclaimed Tom, his eyes flashing. "I guess that next time you'll think once or twice before you slap me in the face!" With an angry exclamation, Zeke Boggs struck at Dick Dare, but that youth was on his guard, and he warded the blow off, and striking out himself, landed a blow on Zeke's jaw, downing him as neatly as had been the case with Hicks. Instantly a crowd gathered, many eagerly asking what the trouble was about. Dick and Tom explained that the two youths who had been floored were Tories, and the sympathies of the crowd were at once with Dick and Tom, more especially when they learned that the Tory boys had picked the quarrel with the patriots. "You did just right in knocking them down!" was the cry, and so hostile were the looks, actions and words of the crowd, that Zeke and Lem on scrambling to their feet, did not renew the fight. They shook their fists at Dick and Tom, however, and muttered threats, as they moved away through the crowd declaring that they would get even with Dick and Tom. The patriot youths received the congratulations and commendations of the people in their vicinity with becoming modesty, and a little later moved on up the street. They walked about for an hour or more, after that, and then took up their station as near the old State House as they could. There was such an immense crowd there that it was impossible to get within half a block of the building. In the steeple of the State House was a bell, and the old bell-ringer sat beside it, waiting for the moment when his son, stationed below, should give him word that the Declaration had been adopted, when he would ring the bell. He had been stationed there since morning, waiting, waiting, and as the day wore away and still the word to ring came not, he shook his head and muttered that they would never reach a favorable conclusion. But he was mistaken, for when evening was almost at hand, his son came rushing out of the State House and called up eagerly and excitedly: "They've done it, father! They've adopted and signed the Declaration of Independence! Ring the bell! Ring it, father! Ring the bell! Ring it--quick!" With a glad cry, the old man leaped up, forgetting his rheumatism in his excitement and delight, and seizing the great iron clapper, swung it back and forth against the sides of the great brass bell, thus causing it to do what by a strange coincidence the inscription on its side said it was to do, viz.: "Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." Chapter II Waylaid on the Road As the deep tones of the old bell died away on the evening air a great shout of delight went up from the people on the streets. They leaped and danced for joy. They tossed their hats in the air. They shouted and sang. Many wept for joy. It was an exciting, a thrilling manifestation. Dick and Tom Dare were not a whit behind any in their expressions of delight. They shouted for joy, and then in the excess of their happiness they threw their arms around each other in a bearlike hug. "Oh, Dick, I'm so glad!" cried Tom. "I never was so happy in my life." "Nor I, Tom. This is the most joyous hour of my life! How delighted father will be when we go home and tell him that it is settled, that the Declaration of Independence is a real and determined fact!" "It will please him more than anything else in the world, Dick." "Yes, yes indeed." Then lifting up his voice the patriot youth cried out loudly, his voice ringing clear as the notes of a bugle: "Down with the king! Long live Liberty! Long live Washington!" The excitement was even greater after that, and instantly the cry was taken up on every hand. Thousands shouted aloud, in a thrilling, triumphant roar: "Down with the king! Long live Liberty! Long live Washington!" People leaped and danced, and shouted till they were hoarse. They were like crazy people, but with them it was pure joy because of the thought that they were to be free, to be their own masters, independent of a tyrannical king. They had reason to be joyous and happy. It was certainly a great day for the American people-without doubt the greatest in the history of the greatest country on the face of the Globe. After awhile, when the people had calmed down to a considerable extent and were beginning to disperse to their homes, Dick and Tom Dare set their faces homeward. They were soon at the river, and crossing on the ferry, walked swiftly along the road. They were eager to get back and tell their father the glad, the glorious news. Part of the way the road led through a heavy growth of timber, and as Dick and Tom were making their way past this point, talking enthusiastically of what they had seen in the city, and never thinking that danger might lurk near, they were suddenly set upon by four youths of about their own age-no others, in fact, than Zeke Boggs, Lem Hicks and two other Tory sympathisers of the neighborhood. "We told ye we'd git even with ye!" hissed Zeke Boggs, as they hurled themselves upon Dick and Tom. "Ye thought ye was mighty smart, there in Phillydelphy, with ever'buddy on yer side an' ag'in us, but heer its different an' we'll beat ye till ye'll wish ye had never been born! Go fur 'em, fellers!" this last to his companions. The two patriot youths, although taken by surprise, and outnumbered two to one, were yet not dismayed, for they were brave lads, and they fought the Tory youths with all their might, so fiercely, in fact, that they held their own remarkably well. They knocked down each of the four young Tories, and gave them a thumping that they would likely remember for some time. Of course, they got hit a number of times by the youths, but they did not mind it, the smart of the blows only serving to make them settle down to their work with increased vim and determination, and the result was that the Tory ruffians presently got enough of it, and suddenly ceasing the attack and dashing in among the trees at the roadside, disappeared from view, leaving Dick and Tom Dare masters of the situation. "Phew, that was warm work, Dick!" said Tom, wiping his perspiring face with his handkerchief. "Yes, so it was, Tom," replied his brother. "But I believe that we made it warmer for Zeke and his gang than they did for us." "Yes, I think we did," with a chuckle. "Say, Dick, they are better runners than fighters, aren't they!" "I think they are, Tom. They did some lively sprinting, just now, at any rate." "I guess they won't be likely to attack us again, soon." "Hardly." Dick and Tom now resumed their journey homeward, and reached there about half an hour later. It was still light enough to see their father at work in the backyard, as they entered the front gate. They ran around the house at the top of their speed, to halt a few moments later in front of their father. "They did it, father!" exclaimed Tom, pantingly. "They adopted and signed the Declaration of Independence." "Say you so, my son?" exclaimed Mr. Dare joyously. "Well, heaven be praised! I am glad, my sons; yes, very, very glad! It means much to everybody, and to young people like yourselves more than to older ones, for you have practically the whole of your lives before you, while we older people have already lived the greater portion of the time allotted to us." "It was wonderful, the interest and excitement shown by the people in Philadelphia, father!" said Dick. "They were wild with delight." "I have no doubt of it, my son. And they had reason to be delighted. It is a great thing to feel free and independent. I feel wonderfully relieved already. I feel as if shackles had suddenly been stricken from my limbs, and I have no doubt that is the way the majority of the people look at the matter, so why should they not feel joyous?" The three then entered the house, Mr. Dare having finished his work for the evening, and Mrs. Dare greeted her sons affectionately. "The Declaration of Independence has been adopted, wife," said Mr. Dare, joyously. "The die is cast. There will be war now, undoubtedly, and it will result in the independence of the people of America. It cannot result otherwise, for the people will fight to the death. In the words of Patrick Henry, it will be with them, `Give me liberty, or give me death!'" "I am glad, Henry," said Mrs. Dare. "I am glad, and almost sorry, as well, for-I am afraid it will take you from me. You will want to enter the army, I am afraid." "Oh, I must do so, wife," earnestly. "Every man should step to the front and shoulder a musket and fight for liberty. Yes, I must go to the war, mother. I must join the Continental Army at once." "I feared it," sighed the woman. "But, I shall try to be brave and bear up well, for I know that it is the right thing for you to do. I would not want you to stay at home, when you were needed at the front to help fight the minions of King George." "Spoken like my own true-hearted wife!" said Mr. Dare. "I knew you would look at the matter that way, dear." At this moment there came a knock on the back-door, and when Mrs. Dare opened it, she saw a neighbor, Abe Boggs, the father of Zeke, standing there. This man was an avowed Tory, who was vehement in his declarations of allegiance to the king, and who had been heard often to viciously proclaim that all who were not in favor of the king, were traitors and that they ought to be hung. Knowing this, and instinctively disliking the man because she knew he was vicious and bad, Mrs. Dare's heart sank when she saw who was standing there. The fact was, that the Dares lived right in the midst of a Tory neighborhood; that is the six or seven nearest neighbors were adherents of the king, and they neighbored among themselves, and would not have anything to do with the Dares. This did not bother the patriot family, however, for they did not like the Tory families anyway. Mr. Dare often met one or more of the men, when going about his work, however, and frequently he had arguments with them. As he was a brave man, and frank-spoken as he was brave, he always told the Tories just what he thought of their king, and thus he had angered them many times, and they had learned to hate him. Only his fearlessness, and the fact that he was known to be a dangerous man to interfere with, had saved him from rough treatment at the hands of the Tories. "Good evenin', Mrs. Dare," said Boggs, ducking his head. "Tell yer husban' to come out here; we'd like to see 'im." Mrs. Dare glanced out into the yard, and her heart gave a leap, and then sank as she saw several of their Tory neighbors sanding in a group a few yards from the house. She noted, with a feeling of fear gripping her heart, that two or three of them had rifles in their hands. "W-what do you want, Mr. Boggs?" she asked, her voice trembling. "My husband is here, but-but-we were just going to eat supper, and--" "Supper can wait a few minutes, wife," said Mr. Dare. "I'll see what neighbor Boggs wants. Won't you come in, Abe?" "No, we wanter see ye out here, Dare" replied the Tory. "Come out uv doors. We won't keep ye but a minnet." "Oh, husband, be careful!" whispered Mrs. Dare in her husband's ear as he passed her. "Don't anger them. They have weapons in their hands, and--" With a smile and a reassuring glance Mr. Dare passed on out, closing the door behind him. He had no fear whatever of his Tory neighbors, and would have scoffed at the idea of their trying to do him injury. Dick and Tom were washing their faces and hands and combing their hair, and did not know anything about the coming of the Tories until they entered the room where their mother was, and then Mr. Dare had been out in the yard perhaps five minutes. During this time Mrs. Dare had been on the anxious seat, so to speak. She had been listening eagerly and anxiously, fearing she might hear rifle-shots, or the sound of a struggle, but no such sounds had come to her hearing. Still, she was not feeling very much reassured when the boys entered the room, and she told them about the coming of Abe Boggs and some more of the neighbors, and how they had called Mr. Dare out, on the plea of wishing to speak to him. "He's been out there quite a while," Mrs. Dare finished; "and I'm beginning to feel uneasy. I wish you would go out and tell father to come in, that supper is getting cold, Dick." "Certainly, mother," said Dick, and he hastened to the door. The truth was, that a feeling of uneasiness had taken hold upon him when he heard what his mother had to say about the Tories, and, remembering the trouble he and Tom had had with Zeke Boggs and his cronies that afternoon in Philadelphia and on the road home, Dick was led to fear that the Tories had called his father out of doors with evil intent. He opened the door and stepped quickly out, and Tom, who had also been assailed with fears for his father's safety, was close at his heels. They looked all around, but to their surprise, and to their alarm as well, there was no one in sight. Neither their father nor the Tories could be seen anywhere. It was so dark that the youths could not see any very great distance with distinctness, but they were confident that there was nobody in the back yard. "They're around in the front yard, likely, Dick," said Tom, but his tone lacked positiveness. It was evident that he had fears that such was not really the case. The two hastened around the house, accompanied by their mother, who had followed them to the door and had, like her sons, noted that there was nobody to be seen. And when they reached the front yard, they saw it was the same there: Not a soul was in the front yard. The Tories, and Mr. Dare as well, had disappeared. "Oh, where can they be?" cried Mrs. Dare, almost at the weeping point. "What have they done with your father? Oh, I am afraid they have wrought him injury of some kind, sons!" The youths were alarmed, but they pretended that such was not the case, in order to reassure their mother. They said that their father was all right. "He has gone with them, to see about something," said Dick. "You go back in the house, mother, and Tom and I will go over to Mr. Boggs and see what has become of father. Likely he is there. You go in and stay with Mary. We won't be gone long." "Very well, Dick," said Mrs. Dare; "but hurry, for I shall be anxious till you get back with your father." She entered the house, and Dick and Tom hastened over to the Boggs home, which was less than a quarter mile distant. Mr. Dare was not there, and Mrs. Boggs said she did not know where her husband was, that he had left the house an hour or more before, saying he did not know when he would be back. Thanking her for the information, Dick and Tom hastened to the homes of several of the neighboring Tories in succession, and made inquiries regarding Mr. Dare, but with the same result as at the Boggs home. In none of the homes visited were any of the men of the house, and the women did not know where the men were. Greatly worried now, but hoping they would find their father at home when they got there, Dick and Tom hastened back, and as they approached the house, they caught sight of something white on the door. When they reached the door, they found it was a piece of paper, and on taking this into the house discovered it was a rudely scrawled note, signed by Abe Boggs and six of his Tory neighbors. The note read as follows: "To Mrs. Dare and rebel sons, Dick and Tom: "We hev took Henry Dare prisner. He is a rebel, an we are goin ter turn him over to Captain Wilson an his compny uv British sojers, who hev ben heer fur a week past, an are goin to jine the main army on Long Island to-night. Ye kaint do nothin to git him back, so ye needn try. An ye two boys, Dick an Tom, had better be keerful er we'll serve ye worsen whut we hev yer father. We don't aim ter hev any rebels in our neighborhood. So, Dick and Tom Dare, hev a care!" "Oh, husband is a prisoner in the hands of the British!" wailed Mrs. Dare. "Oh, this is terrible, boys! What shall we do? Oh, what shall we do!" "Don't be frightened, mother," said Dick, soothingly. "I don't think father is in any danger. He is a prisoner, true, but the British don't kill prisoners, and sooner or later father will escape-or be rescued. That will be work for Tom and I, mother!" his eyes lighting up. "We will make it our object in life to rescue father and get him back home here, with you, mother." The poor woman was not greatly comforted, however, and she shook her head, at the same time saying, in a hopeless tone of voice: "What could you do, you are only a couple of boys? You could not possibly rescue father. It is useless to think of such a thing. Oh, I greatly fear I shall never see my husband again in this world! Oh, those terrible, cowardly Tories!" The good woman gave way to an outburst of uncontrollable grief. "Yes, you shall see father again, mother," declared Dick, decidedly. "Don't worry. He is safe from personal harm, and sooner or later we will succeed in getting him located and will rescue him. Tom and I will make that our object in life." "Yes, yes, mother," said Tom eagerly. "We'll join the patriot army, if need be, to further our ends, and while fighting for Liberty and Independence, and aiding our country in that manner, we will at the same time be on the lookout to find father and rescue him." "Yes, that is what we will do," said Dick. "Father would have joined the patriot army if he had not been captured and taken away by the Tories, and now that he is not able to do that, we will do it in his stead. I know it is what father would wish us to do, and as Tom says, it will give us a better chance to find and rescue father." "Oh, my sons, my sons! How can I spare you, too?" murmured Mrs. Dare. "How can I let you leave me, now that I have lost your dear father!" "It will be only temporary, mother. You can see, when you give the matter more thought, that it is the best thing to do." "Perhaps so, Dick, darling," acquiesced Mrs. Dare, "but it is hard!" Throwing their arms about their mother's neck, the youths kissed her, and presently she grew more calm. Chapter III Ben Foster Brings Important News "Oh, Dick, is it true that you and Tom are going to enter the army and fight for liberty?" "Yes, it is true, Elsie. Aren't you glad?" "Y-yes, Dick," replied Elsie Foster, hesitatingly. "I'm glad you are to be a soldier, but I-well, you might get killed you know, and-and-" "Would you care, Elsie?" Elsie Foster was the daughter of Robert Foster, the nearest neighbor of the Dares. Mr. Foster was a king's man, but he was different from the other Tories of the neighborhood, in that he was an honest, honorable man, and was a friend of the Dares. He had had nothing to do with the capture of Mr. Dare, and was outspoken in his denunciation of his Tory neighbors for the deed they had committed. Dick had gone over to the Foster home to borrow something for his mother, and had met Elsie out in the yard, and the girl had greeted Dick as above. The truth was that Dick and Elsie were great friends. They were school-mates, and whenever there was anything going on in the neighborhood, such as spelling schools, skating parties, etc., Dick was Elsie's companion. Elsie was seventeen, and she had a brother, Ben, he being her twin, and a sister, Lucy, aged fifteen. The three young folks of the Dare family and the three of the Foster family often got together of evenings and had a pleasant time, but now that Dick and Tom were going away to the war, it would break into this arrangement. When Dick asked Elsie if she would care if he should get killed in battle, she blushed and looked confused at first, and then she looked him frankly in the eyes and said, softly. "You know I would, Dick." "I'm glad to know that, Elsie," said Dick, earnestly. At this moment Ben Foster came running up. He was a manly-looking youth, and was lively and jolly as a rule. But now he was very sober-looking, for he realized that Dick, whose father had been captured by the Tories only the day before, was in no mood for jollity. There was an eager expression on Ben's face, however, and after greeting Dick, he asked: "Are you really going to join the Continental army, Dick, you and Tom!" "Yes, Ben," was the reply. "Well, say, I'm going to go with you," declared Ben. "Oh, Ben!" exclaimed Elsie. "What will father say?" "Father's all right, sis. He is a king's man, everybody knows that, but he is reasonable, and lets other people think as they like. He knows that I'm a patriot, and he won't object." Dick's face lighted up, for he liked Ben very much, and the idea of having him along was a pleasing one. "That would be fine, Ben," he said. "But I wouldn't want you to do anything contrary to the wishes of your father." "Oh, that will be all right," Ben assured him. "He won't care, I am sure." "Goodness, what will Mary do if you go away?" said Elsie. Ben seemed to think as much of Mary Dare as Dick did of Elsie, and he flushed slightly at his sister's words, and then retorted: "I guess she'll do about the same thing that you will when Dick goes-go up into the attic and have a good cry." "You're a mean brother," said Elsie in pretended anger, lifting her hand as if to slap him, "and if it wasn't that I will likely soon lose you, I would box your ears soundly." They talked awhile, and then Dick attended to the errand that had brought him there and went home. "I guess we will have company when we go to war, Tom" he said to his brother. "Is that so?" with an interested ear. "Who?" "Ben Foster." "You don't mean it, Dick?" "Yes. He just told me he intends to accompany us." "But-his father's a Tory!" "Yes, but he is a reasonable man, and Ben says that he will not object." "Well, that will be fine. I'd like to have Ben along." "So would I. And I guess he'll go." "I hope he will. He's such a lively, jolly fellow that he is good company, and will help keep us from getting homesick." "I guess, Tom, that we will be kept too busy to get homesick." "You think there will be lots of fighting, then? You feel certain that there will be war?" "War has really existed for more than a year, Tom. You know the battle of Lexington was fought April the nineteenth of last year, and that was the first battle of the Revolution. And since that there has been more or less skirmishing between the `Minute Men' of New England and the British, the most important of all these being the battle of Bunker Hill, which took place on the seventeenth day of June of last year." "Our soldiers defeated the British there, didn't they, Dick!" "Yes, they got all the better of the battle, but their ammunition gave out and they had to retreat. Still, it was equivalent to a victory." "That's what I thought." "Yes, and then General Washington-who was appointed commander-in-chief of the army by the Second Continental Congress, at Philadelphia in May of last year, and who went to Boston and took charge of the army on July third-kept the British penned up in Boston till about the middle of last March, when he fortified Dorchester Heights, overlooking Boston, the work being performed in one night, and next morning the British, seeing what had been done and realizing that they would be at the mercy of the patriot army if they remained in Boston, hurriedly boarded the ships of the British fleet, then in the harbor, and sailed to Halifax, Nova Scotia." "And General Washington and his patriot troops went down and took possession of Boston!" said Tom, his eyes shining. "Yes, Tom. But General Howe, the British commander-in-chief, did not keep his troops long in Halifax, but sailed to New York, where he was soon joined by the British fleet under his brother, Admiral Howe, and by General Clinton." "And General Washington and his patriot army came to New York and took possession of that city," said Tom. "Yes, and he's there now, and that is where we are going, Tom." "Hurrah, Dick! Say, I'm glad of it. I want to join the army, and fight the redcoats. I want to fight for liberty and independence." "So do I. And we will, too." "When will we go, Dick?" "In a few days, likely. We have to get things in shape so that mother and sister Mary can get along without us, you know." "Yes, but that won't take long. Most of the work for the summer is done, and all there will be to do on the farm is to wait for the crops to ripen." "True. Well, we'll go in a few days, now, likely." "Don't be in too big a hurry to go, sons," said Mrs. Dare sadly, when they were discussing the matter, that evening at supper. "Think how lonesome Mary and I will be when you are gone." "Mrs. Foster and the girls will come over often," said Dick. "They will keep you cheered up." "It will help," was the reply. "But we will be lonely, just the same." "You might try to be cheerful, mother," said Tom. "Dick and I won't want to think of you as being lonely." "Oh, I will get along all right, sons," said the brave woman, forcing a smile. She wanted to have the boys go away feeling that she was in good spirits. They had just finished eating supper, when Ben Foster came in. There was an eager, excited look on his face, and he said earnestly: "There's a plot on foot against Dick and Tom, and I came right over to let you know about it." "A plot!" exclaimed Mrs. Dare, her face paling and her voice trembling. "By whom!" "The Tories." "Ah!" breathed the woman, a look of anxiety on her face. "This is terrible!" "Don't worry, mother," said Dick. "We know of it, now, and can prepare for them. It will not be as if we were to be taken by surprise." "No, don't be afraid, Mrs. Dare," said Ben. "We'll make the Tories wish they had attended to their own business." "How did you learn about it, Ben?" asked Tom. "Father found it out this afternoon. You know, he's a king's man, and they weren't as careful as they might have been, and he heard them talking about it." "What are their plans?" asked Dick. "They are going to come here to-night at about midnight and break in, take you and Tom out and tie you to trees and whip you-at least, that is their intention. They won't succeed, though, you may be sure." "Indeed they will not!" smiled Dick. "There will be some sadder and wiser Tories before the night is ended." "Oh, I am sore afraid, son!" said Mrs. Dare. "There will be a dozen or more of the Tories, and what can you and Tom do against so many?" "I'll come over and help Dick and Tom, Mrs. Dare," said Ben. "As soon as father told me about the plan, I made up my mind that I would come here to-night and help fight the Tories." "Say, you are all right, Ben!" said Tom, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "That is good of you, old fellow," said Dick, seizing Ben's hand and shaking it heartily. "We thank you." "Yes, indeed!" said Mary, who saw that Ben's eyes were on her, as if he wished to hear what she thought about it. "It is indeed good of you, Ben, to volunteer to do that." "Oh, that's all right," said Ben, a pleased look in his eyes. "I tell you we will make it lively for those Tories when they come sneaking around here." "We'll do our best to give them a warm reception, at any rate," said Dick. "I'll be over in an hour or so," said Ben, "and I'll bring a musket and a pistol along. But how about Mrs. Dare and Mary? Hadn't they better come over to our house until after the attack has been made? The folks told me to ask you to come, Mrs. Dare and Mary." "Perhaps it would be best," agreed Mrs. Dare. "But still, I hate to go away and leave you boys here. You might be reckless, when if I were to stay you would be more careful." "Don't think that, mother," said Dick. "We are going to go to war soon, and you can't be with us then, and if you and Mary stayed here, you might get hit with a stray bullet. There is no use of your taking the risk. We'll be as careful with you away as if you were here; and we will be in a position to fight with more freedom and effect if you are not here." "Very well, then, Dick. If that is the case, we will go over to Mr. Foster's. But we will return after the attack has been made, for we wouldn't want any of the neighbors to see us coming away from there in the morning, as that would cause them to suspect that Mr. Foster had warned us, and might cause him trouble." "True, mother. That will be all right. You and Mary can come home after we have driven the Tories away." "We'll go over to Mr. Foster's as soon as it is dark," said Mrs. Dare. Shortly after dark, Dick, accompanied by his mother and Mary, went over to the Foster home, and Ben returned with him. "So you're here, eh?" greeted Tom. "That's fine. I guess when those cowardly Tories put in an appearance, they will get something that they are not looking for." "That's what they will," nodded Ben. "At any rate, I hope so." "So do I," said Dick. "I wish Zeke and Lem would be in the party," said Tom, grinning. "I'd like to give them another thrashing." "When did you thrash them, before?" queried Ben. "In Philadelphia, yesterday. Didn't Dick tell you about it?" "No, you tell me now," eagerly. Then Tom did so, detailing the encounter on the streets of Philadelphia, and when he had heard all, Ben said: "Good! I'm glad you thrashed them." Chapter IV A Night Attack "They're coming, Dick!" whispered Ben Foster. "Yes, I hear footsteps," replied Dick. "But," after listening a few moments, "there is only one person coming. Perhaps it isn't the Tories after all." "Yes, that's their game-to make you think there is only one. He walks boldly, so you can hear him, while the others creep up. It is the Tory gang, all right." "Likely you are right." It was now nearly midnight, and so it was time for the Tories to put in their appearance, if they were to make the attack that night, as Mr. Foster had heard them say they would do. Closer sounded the footsteps, and then they ceased and there came a knock on the door. Dick did not answer, as he did not want the fellow to suspect that the inmates of the house were awake and on the alert. The youths, gripping tightly their rifles and muskets, waited. Their hearts were beating more rapidly than was their wont, but it is safe to say that no feeling of fear had place in their hearts. Only expectation, and eagerness to get at the Tories dominated them. After a brief period, the knock on the door was repeated. Then Dick spoke up. "Who is there?" he called out. "A friend," was the reply, in a hoarse, evidently disguised voice. "What is your name, friend?" "That doesn't matter. I have news, important news for you, Dick Dare" "You have no news for me that I don't know already," retorted the youth. "What do you mean?" There was a quick suspicion in the voice. "I mean that I know you are a Tory, and that you have a number of companions, and intend to try to get hold of my brother and myself and tie us up and whip us. I don't feel like permitting that, so you had better go away, if you value your skins, for if you try to bother us, we will surely defend ourselves and do harm to you-if we can." Evidently the man realized it was useless to carry the deception further, for he cried out, sneeringly: "Oh, will you indeed, Dick Dare? Well, let me tell you something, my bold young rebel: When we get through with you, you will not be in a position to harm anybody. We are going to take you out and whip you soundly, as should be done with all such traitors to the king as you two are!" "I give you fair warning," replied Dick, sternly; "if you attempt to injure myself and brother, you will get badly hurt. Go about you business and leave us alone." "Oh, we'll go about our business and leave you alone, of course we will-but it will be after we have tied you up to one of the trees here in your own yard! Open the door, or we'll break it down." "You are wasting breath," in a voice of contempt. "We would be very foolish if we opened the door, would we not?" "It doesn't matter; we'll break the door down in a jiffy, anyway." "If you do, you'll be very sorry. Remember, I gave you fair warning." "Bah! Boys' threats don't scare us worth a cent. We'll have the door down and you two rebel brats out of there very quickly." "And we'll have some of you Tory hounds lying dead on the grass of our own yard very soon, too. Mind what I tell you!" A sneering laugh was the only reply. They had no idea the boys would really shoot at them. There was the sound of receding footsteps, followed by the murmur of voices, and then a few minutes later there sounded the trampling of many feet, and crash! something struck the door, causing it to creak and groan under the impact. "They've found a log, and will better the door down," said Dick. "Be ready, boys and as soon as the door falls, fire through the opening. They have brought this upon themselves, and if we injure a few of them, it will be their own fault." "We're ready, Dick," said Tom. "Yes, we'll fire when you give the word," from Ben. "All right, boys. Level your weapons, and be ready, and when I say `Fire', pull trigger." "Yes, yes, we will!" came the reply. The next moment there sounded the trampling of feet once more, and crash! the end of the log struck the door. This time the impact was so great the door could not withstand it, and down it came with a thud. At least a dozen forms could be seen through the opening, outlined against the horizon. "Fire!" cried Dick, his voice ringing out loudly and clearly. The youths obeyed the command, pulling trigger instantly, and the crash that followed was deafening, and seemed almost sufficient in volume to raise the roof. It was an effective volley, too, for two or three of the Tories were hit by bullets, as was evidenced by the yells and screams of pain and rage that they gave utterance to. They fell back, in dismay, the log dropping to the ground with a thud. Dick, instinctively realizing that the Tories were stricken with a feeling of dismay, not to say terror, because of their reception, cried, "Charge them, boys! At them! Give it to the scoundrels!" With a yell that must have added to the dismay of the enemy, the youths dashed out through the doorway and attacked the Tories, laying about them with the butts of their rifles and muskets, and discharging their pistols. Thud, thud, thud! Thus sounded the impact of the butts of the weapons with the heads, arms and bodies of the ruffians, and with each thud sounded a yell of pain and rage from the recipient of the blow. Then, suddenly the Tories took refuge in flight, running from the scene as swiftly as possible, and fairly falling over the fence in their haste to get away. They were quickly out of sight, and the affair was at an end. The three youths had put their enemies to rout, and without having sustained any injury whatever. They were well pleased, and although they had not killed any of the Tories outright, yet the youths were sure they had wounded several, for they had heard the ruffians give utterance to cries of pain, and too, they saw blood on the ground in several places. Dick now hastened to the Foster home and reported the victory over the Tories, and was congratulated by all there, even Mr. Foster, the avowed king's man, seeming very well pleased for he was an honest, honorable man, and not at all in sympathy with the night-marauding tactics of his Tory neighbors. Mrs. Dare and Mary accompanied Dick home, and the good woman thanked Ben for coming and helping her sons. "Oh, that's all right," smiled Ben. "I was glad to come. I wanted a chance at those cowardly Tories." "And we thrashed them soundly, too, mother," said Tom. "Do you think there is any danger that they will return?" queried Mrs. Dare, somewhat anxiously. "I don't think so, mother," said Dick. "They've had all the fighting they want, for one night, I am sure." "I think so," said Ben Foster. "But I'll stay here, Mrs. Dare, and if they come, we will be able to drive them away again." But the Tories did not return. They had, as Dick said, evidently seen all the fighting they wanted, for one night. Dick, Tom, and Ben Foster began getting ready to go to New York, that day, to join the patriot army under General Washington. They would be ready in a day or two, as there was not a great deal to do. Next day, however, Ben Foster had news for his friends. He came over, an eager look in his eyes, and told the brothers that Zeke Boggs had just told him that he and Lem Hicks were going over to Long Island and join the British army. "He says that they don't intend to let us get ahead of them, Dick," finished Ben. "They hope to fight against us in some of the battles." "Well, I guess they will get the chance," said Dick, grimly. "Yes, they'll get the worst of the fighting, too," declared Tom. "That they will!" coincided Ben. "There are two things that I hope to do, when in the patriot army," said Dick. "One is, to find where my father is imprisoned and free him, and the other to meet Zeke Boggs and Lem Hicks in battle and defeat them." "Yes, Dick," said Tom, his eyes shining. "We must find father as soon as possible, and rescue him from the hands of the British. I think we can do so, don't you?" "I surely think so, Tom." "Oh, you'll be certain to find out where he is, and before very long, then you can rescue him," proposed Ben, confidently. "And after that we can thrash Zeke and Lem with a good heart," suggested Tom. "I don't think Zeke and Lem will make very good soldiers," remarked Ben. "I think they'll run, the very first time they get into a battle," concluded Tom. Chapter V The Dare Boys in New York An orderly knocked at the door of the room occupied by General Washington, in the old Fraunces' Tavern, the building used as patriot headquarters, and on being commanded to enter, opened the door and said: "A young man wishes audience with you, your excellency." General Washington, the great man on whose shoulders rested such a serious responsibility, now that the people of the Colonies had declared for Independence, sat at his desk, looking over some papers. He now glanced up at the orderly. "Who is the young man, orderly?" he queried. "He says his name is Richard Dare." "I have never heard of him," with a shake of the head. "Did he state his business?" "No, your excellency. I asked him, but he said he preferred seeing you and stating his business direct." Washington was thoughtful for a few moments, and then said: "He is a young man, you say?" "Yes, your excellency; or rather, I should perhaps have said youth. I doubt if he is more than eighteen or nineteen years of age." "H'm," murmured the commander-in-chief; "I am pretty busy, but will see him briefly. Show him in." "Yes, your excellency," and the orderly withdrew. He was back again in a few moments, however, and ushered in a handsome, manly-looking youth, at the same time announcing: "Richard Dare, your excellency." Then he withdrew, leaving the two alone. General Washington glanced up as his visitor was announced, and when his eyes took in the handsome face, the fine physique and perfect poise of the youth, he gave a slight start and eyed him keenly and somewhat searchingly, with considerable interest. "You are Richard Dare?" the commander-in-chief remarked. "Yes, your excellency," saluting. "Very good, Mr. Dare. Now if you will be so kind as to state your business as briefly as possible, I will hear you. I am quite busy, as you may well suppose." "Pardon me for taking up your time, sir," said Dick, "but I wished to see you in person, as I have come to make you an offer." "Ah, indeed? What kind of an offer, my young friend?" "I will tell you, sir: I and two friends of about my own age have come to New York from our homes in the western part of New Jersey. We arrived here only this morning, and I, as their spokesman, have come to offer our services to you, sir. We are ardent patriots and desirous of fighting in our country, for the freedom and independence of our people." "Well, well," said Washington, looking at the youth with renewed interest. "Bravely spoken! Your desire is a commendable one, and certainly I shall be glad to accept of your offer, if your parents are willing that you shall enter the army. You are mere youths, as it were, and I would not want to take advantage of your offer unless it were satisfactory to your parents. They have knowledge of you project?" "Oh, yes, your excellency. We have done this with the knowledge and approval of our parents. My father, however, was captured in his own dooryard, less than two weeks ago, by a gang of Tories, and I and my brother Tom decided to join your army, to take father's place, as he had intended to join, and also with the hope of finding and rescuing him. One of our friends, when he heard that we were going to do this, came and told us that he wanted to come, too, and here we are. I hope you will accept us, sir, and give us a place in your army." "I shall be pleased to do so, Dick Dare," was the hearty reply. "From this moment you are a member of the Continental Army, as are your companions also. I thank you, Dare, for your interest in the welfare of our country, and pray extend to your companions my thanks, and tell them that I shall expect to hear a good report from them when it comes to actual conflict with the enemy." "I think they will give a good account of themselves, your excellency," said Dick, quietly but modestly. "I am sure they will fight hard for freedom." "I have no doubt about it, my boy. Well, the matter is settled, then. Here, take this order and present it to Colonel Morgan, who will find room for you in his regiment, now in process of formation." The commander-in-chief hastily wrote the order and handed it to Dick, who took it and saluted. "Thanks, your excellency," he said. "I will do as you have commanded. My companions will be delighted when I make my report to them." Then, saluting again, Dick left the presence of the great man, and was quickly back with Tom and Ben, who were quartered in a building only about a block distant. They greeted him eagerly. "Did you see General Washington, Dick?" cried Tom Dare. "Yes, Tom, I saw him," was the reply. "And what did he say?" queried Ben Foster. "Did he accept our offer of our services?" "Yes, Ben," replied Dick. "He seemed to be pleased, and said that he hopes to hear a good report concerning us when we come in actual conflict with the British." "I think he will be satisfied on that score," said Ben, a grim look on his face. "I think we will be as good fighters as any of them, when we get started, eh, Tom?" "Yes, I think so, Ben," nodded Tom, his eager eyes sparkling. "Get ready and come with me, boys," said Dick, beginning to gather up his belongings, which were not many, as the youths had not brought very much luggage with them. "Where to, Dick?" queried Tom. "We are to report to Colonel Morgan, and will be assigned to his regiment." "Good!" said Ben. "Then we will be genuine soldiers, eh, Dick?" "Yes, indeed." "Say, that will be fine!" said Tom. "I'm ready. Lead the way to Colonel Morgan's quarters, Dick." A few minutes later the youths set out. They found Colonel Morgan and Dick gave him the note from the commander-in-chief, whereupon they were assigned to their new quarters, their names having been enrolled on the membership list of the regiment. "Now we are soldiers, sure enough!" murmured Tom Dare, his eyes shining. "Hurrah!" "Yes, patriot soldiers, Tom," said Dick, quietly. There was an air of satisfaction on his face also. "We will be ready to take part in the first battle that takes place," said Ben. "Say, that'll be fine. I am eager to be in a battle!" "And I," said Dick. "I want to fight for Independence and the freedom of the American people. And, too, I want to fight and rescue our father, Tom." "Yes, yes, Dick. We won't forget that part of our work!" said Tom. Chapter VI Chosen for Dangerous Work Dick, Tom and Ben made friends rapidly, and were soon well acquainted with the majority of the members of the company to which they had been assigned, and with many of the members of other companies that were quartered in the same building and near at hand. They had been in New York about a week, and were feeling quite at home. One afternoon, as they were sitting in the big front room, talking to some of the soldiers, the door opened and an orderly from headquarters was seen standing on the threshold. "Is there anyone here by the name of Dare?" he asked. "Dick Dare, I believe it is." "I am he," said Dick, advancing. "What is wanted?" "You are wanted at headquarters." "Now?" "Yes, at once. The commander-in-chief orders you to report." "I will go right along with you." "Very well. Such were his instructions." Dick put on his hat and took his departure in the orderly's company, after telling Ben and Tom that he would probably be back soon. They arrived quickly at headquarters, and Dick was ushered into the private room occupied by the commander-in-chief. Dick saluted and said: "You sent for me, your excellency?" "Yes, Dare. Be seated," and he pointed to a chair near his desk. Dick took the seat and then looked at the commander-in-chief inquiringly. General Washington did not say anything for a few moments, but eyed Dick keenly and searchingly. It was evident that he was appraising the boy's value carefully, and it seemed that the result was satisfactory, for he gave a sigh as of relief, and said: "How old are you, Dare?" "Eighteen, sir." "Eighteen. That is young. You are a mere youth, but somehow I believe you are the one to do what I wish done. I have a mind to try you, anyway. Dick," pausing and looking impressively at the youth, "if I were to ask you to undertake something that was exceedingly dangerous, something that might easily result in your death if you made a false step, what would you say?" "I would say, your excellency, that if you had confidence enough in me to think I might succeed, I would be only too glad to try. You have only to command and I will obey, sir." "Spoken like a true Son of Liberty!" exclaimed the commander-in-chief. "That is what I expected to hear you say, however. I believe you are a brave, sensible youth, and that it is possible you may succeed in the undertaking which I have in mind, even though several grown men have already failed. You had better think well before you consent to attempt this task, however, Dick. It is one fraught with such danger that I would not think of ordering you to attempt it, considering your age. But if, on the other hand, after knowing what the work is, you still wish to go ahead, I shall be delighted to avail myself of your services." "I will be glad to attempt the work, sir. Pray state the case. What is the nature of the work you wish me to do?" "It is spy-work!" Dick's heart leapt with joy. Spy-work! This, of all things was what he felt that he would most like to do. As a spy he would have to venture into the enemy's territory, would have to even penetrate to their midst and secure information as to their plans and, too, he might thus find and rescue his father. It was fine to think of, and the sparkle in his eyes must have told the commander-in-chief that the youth was pleased, for he said: "You seem to be favorably impressed, rather than otherwise, my boy. You think you will like spy-work?" "Yes, your excellency," was the reply. "I think I shall like it, better than anything else. I shall be glad to attempt any work in that line that you wish. Just tell me where you wish me to go and what you want me to do, and I will do my best to make a success of the work, sir." "Very well, Dick. I will do so. You know, perhaps, that the British army is located on the southwest shore of Long Island, near York Bay, and the British fleet lies just outside the Narrows and off York Bay. The British outnumber us considerably, I think, but just how much I do not know. And this is one thing that I wish to learn. I want to learn the numerical strength of the British, and also I wish to find out, if such a thing is possible, the intentions of the British commander-in-chief. This is a big undertaking, my boy, and as I have told you, several of my best men have already tried to accomplish this and failed, so you can see the magnitude of the task that confronts you. It will be no disgrace if you should fail." "I may fail, sir," said Dick, modestly; "I may not succeed in securing the information you desire, but I will make the attempt, and I will say this, that if such a thing as securing the information is possible, I will do it. I will do my very best, sir, you may rest assured of that." "I do, Dick. I feel confident that if you fail it will be only after you have made every effort to succeed. Well, it is settled, then? You will attempt his spy-work?" "Yes, your excellency. When shall I start?" "This evening. I will give you a letter of introduction to General Putnam, who is in command of the patriot force on Brooklyn Heights, and he will give you all the information and assistance in his power." "Very well, sir. At what hour shall I report here?" "Be here at six, Dick. I will have the letter for you, and then you will go down to the East River in company with one of my orderlies, and a boatman will take you across to the Long Island side. It is not far from there to the Heights, where you will locate General Putnam." "I will report here at six, your excellency," said Dick, and then saluting, he took his departure. When he returned to his quarters and told Tom and Ben that General Washington had selected him to go over onto Long Island and do some spying, the youths were surprised, but were delighted as well, for they felt that it was an honor to Dick. "That will be fine," said Ben Foster. "I believe you will make a good spy, Dick." "I hope so, Ben." "I wish I could go with you," said Tom, looking wistfully at his brother. "It will be best that I go alone, Tom," said Dick. "One can do spy-work better than two." "I vould lige dot sby vork," said Fritz Schmockenburg, a fat, Dutch soldier, gravely. "It's a foine spoy yez would be afther makin', Fritz," chuckled Tim Murphy, a merry Irish patriot. "Yez would be caught the first thing, and the only thing thot would kape thim from hangin' yez would be because they wouldn't have inny rope sthout enough to hould your weight." "When are you going, Dick?" queried Ben. "This evening at six." The youths discussed the matter at considerable length, and were glad that Dick had been selected for such important work, though they were somewhat fearful for his safety. Tom and Ben cautioned him to be careful, and he was the recipient of advice from others, all well-meant, but of course not likely to be of much use to him, as he would have to govern his actions mainly by existing circumstances, after he was on the ground and at work. Shortly before six he bade Tom and Ben, and his comrades good-bye and made his way to headquarters, where he was given the letter of introduction by the commander-in-chief, and also a few kindly words of encouragement. "General Putnam will give you all the information and help in his power," General Washington said. "Go, now, Dick, my boy, and may you be successful is my prayer. Good-bye, and heaven bless you." He shook Dick's hand, and then with a good-bye and a salute, the youth took his departure. An orderly accompanied him to the dock and summoned a boatman, and then Dick got in and was ferried across the East River. Alighting on the Long Island shore, he set out in the direction of Brooklyn Heights, reaching there shortly after dark. Chapter VII Dick's First Adventure Dick was challenged, and on answering that he was a friend, was told to advance and give the countersign. He approached the sentinel, and when near him, said: "I am a patriot, but do not know the countersign. I wish to see General Putnam." "Who are you and why do you wish to see the general?" the sentinel asked. "My name is Dare, and I am a messenger from General Washington. I have a letter of introduction to General Putnam." "All right. I'll summon the officer of the guard and he'll conduct you to the general." He did so, and the officer asked Dick a few questions, seemed satisfied, and conducted him to the quarters occupied by General Putnam. Dick saluted on entering the presence of the general, and drawing the letter from his pocket, handed it to Putnam, who took it an read the contents, after which he gave Dick a keen, searching and somewhat wondering glance. "You are Richard Dare?" he queried. "Yes, General Putnam," replied Dick. "H'm. The commander-in-chief says here that you are going down to the enemy's territory to try to do some spying. You are rather young, it seems to me, to be going such work." "Time will cure that," smiled Dick. "Yes-if you live," grimly. "This is very dangerous business you are entering upon, my boy." "So General Washington said, sir." "Yes? Well, it is a fact, and I have my doubts regarding your ability to do anything, but since the commander-in-chief has seen fit to try you and has sent you to me for the purpose of having me give you what information I possess regarding the location of the British, I will do what I can to assist you." "Thank you, General Putnam." The general then gave Dick all the information that he thought would be of value to him, and the youth listened attentively. "Now," said Putnam when he had finished, "do you think you can find the British without any trouble?" "I am sure I can find the British, sir," was the reply; "but I don't know about the trouble part." The grim general chuckled. He seemed to like the dry humor of the lad. "I guess you'll do, Dare," he said. "I'm beginning to think the commander-in-chief showed good judgment in sending you, after all. But, I might have known that such was the case, for he is a man who seldom makes mistakes." "I hope he hasn't made a mistake in this instance, sir," modestly. "I guess he hasn't. It is possible that a boy like you may be better able to penetrate to the enemy's lines and secure information than a man, for the British will not be so likely to suspect you of being a spy." "That is what General Washington said, sir." "The position is well taken, I feel confident. Well, Dare, be careful, take care of yourself and secure all the information possible regarding the enemy." "I will do my best, General. Well, I must be going." The general shook hands with Dick, and wished him good luck. "Don't let the redcoats get you," he said. Dick laughed. "They won't get me, if I can help it," he said. "Good-bye, General Putnam." Dick did not start just then, however, for the very good reason that while he had been engaged in conversation with General Putnam, a storm that had been threatening that afternoon and evening, broke upon them, the wind blew a gale and the rain poured down in torrents, the lightning was incessant and the roar of the thunder terrific. It was indeed a severe storm. "You must not think of starting out to-night," said General Putnam. "You could not find your way anywhere, and would simply get soaked to the skin, or perhaps struck by lightning. I will give you a bed, and you will remain here till morning." "Doubtless that will be best," agreed Dick, though he disliked the delay. Still, he felt that it would do no good to go in such a storm, for as the general had said, he could not find his way to the British encampment, or accomplish anything if he did find it. So he remained on the Heights that night, only to find it still raining the next morning. "You would not want to start out in the daytime, anyhow," said General Putnam; "so it does not matter. You will stay till evening, and then if it has ceased raining, you can start on your expedition." It was still raining hard, when evening came, however, and General Putnam said it would be foolish to make the start in the storm. So Dick remained all that night, and all next day. The rain had ceased soon after sunrise and the sun shone brightly that day, drying the ground pretty thoroughly, by evening. "You can make the start, this evening, Dare," said the general. "I don't suppose the delay in getting away from here will make any difference." "I hope not, sir," said Dick. After dark that evening, Dick took his departure, and as soon as he was past the sentinels, he struck out southward. The British army was at that time encamped near the Flatlands, about two miles from the bay and about two miles south of Flatbush. Dick walked onward at a moderate pace. There was no hurry, and besides, by hurrying he might run right into a party of redcoats, and this would be bad, as it would likely result in his capture. It were better to make haste slowly. Dick realized this, and he decided to take his time and exercise his every care. Caution was a necessary adjunct of a spy. Dick was eager to succeed. Several men had failed, and had doubtless been captured, and if he could accomplish his object it would be a big feather in his cap. He was intensely patriotic, anyway, and this made him extremely desirous of succeeding in securing the information regarding the plans of the British. He reached the wooded heights about halfway between the village of Bedford and Flatbush after a walk of an hour or so, and having climbed the hill, he paused on the summit and listened intently for some time. It was his thought that perhaps a party of British might be located here, and he did not want to run into their midst, if such were the case. He heard sounds, but only such as are usually to be heard in the woods at night-the chirping of crickets, the buzzing of the wings of insects, and the call of nightbirds. He heard nothing that would indicate the presence of human beings. "I guess there are no redcoats in these woods," he murmured after listening a while. "The British haven't advanced this far yet, likely. I'll go ahead, but will be exceedingly careful." He moved forward slowly, and cautiously made his way down the south slope of the wooded hill. He paused every few moments and listened. He was not going to take any chances of discovery and capture, if he could avoid it by exercising care. Somehow Dick's heart thrilled with pleasure, even though he were on a perilous undertaking. He was working for General Washington, trying to do something that would be of benefit to the great Cause of Liberty, and this made him experience a feeling of happiness. The danger did not have any effect on him, save to, if anything, add to the zest. He was a brave youth, though not a foolhardy one, and the danger made the work all the more interesting and exhilarating. On he went down the slope, slowly and cautiously. He had to practically feel his way, for in under the trees it was very dark and he could not see to pick a path. This made it slow work, but he had all night for his task, if he wished so much time, and so he did not worry because he could not proceed at a swift pace. "`Slow but sure,' is a good motto," he told himself. "There will be times, doubtless, when it will pay me to move swiftly, but this is not one of the times." Suddenly Dick paused and stood stock still, his every nerve tense, his every sense on the alert. He thought that he had heard the sound of voices! He listened intently, and presently his heart gave a leap. Yes, he had not been mistaken. Over to the right, and not very far distant, he had heard someone talking. At least two men were there, engaged in conversation, their voices being pitched low. Dick strained his eyes, but could not catch sight of the speakers. He could only judge of their location and distance from him by the sound of their voices, and he judged that they were perhaps a dozen yards from him. This was rather close, if they were British soldiers, as he had no doubt they were, and he decided that the best thing for him to do was to get away from their vicinity as quickly as possible. It would be well to be silent about it, too, for if they should discover his presence, they would doubtless make a great outcry and try to capture him. He began edging away, toward the left. Every once in awhile he paused to listen. The voices could still be heard, but not so plainly as at first. He was gradually getting farther and farther away from the speakers, and would have been successful in escaping from the vicinity without his presence having been discovered, but for an accident. He struck his foot against a good-sized stone, which was lying right on the edge of a rather steep slope, and the rock, becoming dislodged, went tumbling and plunging downward through the underbrush, making what seemed to be a great noise, coming as it did in the midst of the night stillness. It sounded as loud as thunder in Dick's ears. "Now I've done it!" he murmured, in some dismay. "That will rouse them sure." He was right, for instantly there came the challenge, loud and clear: "Halt! Who comes there?" There could be no doubt regarding the matter, now; the men Dick had heard talking were British soldiers doing picket duty. Dick's first impulse was to take to his heels and run at the top of his speed, but his second thought was that perhaps if he were to stand perfectly still, the redcoats would come to the conclusion that there was no one in the vicinity save themselves, and would go ahead with their conversation after a few minutes of listening. But it did not work out that way. After a few moments of silence there came the command, in a stern voice: "Who is there? Answer, or I will fire!" Dick did not like the idea of being fired at, even in the darkness. He knew the soldier could not see to take aim, but a chance shot might be as successful as one that was aimed. Dick did not care to take the chance, anyway, and he quickly, but very cautiously shifted his position and got a tree between himself and the redcoats. "Now, he won't be able to hit me, even if he does fire," thought the youth with a feeling of relief. "Now if he will just make up his mind that there is no one here and resume the conversation with his comrade, I shall be able to slip away and escape, doubtless." But the redcoats were evidently not satisfied to let the matter go thus. "Let's investigate, comrade," Dick heard a voice say. And then he heard another in reply: "All right. If there is anybody round here, we will either run him down or frighten him out of his boots." "That's what we will, comrade." "And I feel confident there is somebody near here. What else would make the noise that we heard?" "I don't know, comrade. I think it likely that somebody is about." "I am positive, sure of it as can be." "Well, come on, then. Let's search all around. We ought to be able to lay him by the heels, for we can hear him if he tries to run away." "True. Come, comrade. We'll quickly have the fellow, if he's here." Then Dick heard the trampling of feet, which sounded closer and closer, and he realized that he must get away from there at once, or the redcoats would be upon him. Having so decided, he lost not time, but moved away as cautiously as possible. He went a bit faster than he should have done, to maintain a noiseless movement, however, for he stepped on a fallen branch, which broke with a cracking sound, and the very next step he stumbled over a log, and fell into a brushpile, making considerable noise. "A spy!" he heard one of the redcoats cry. "There's somebody there, sure!" "Halt!" cried the other soldier, loudly. "Stop, or I'll fire!" But Dick, fearing to remain, as he would almost certainly be found and captured, leaped to his feet and took to his heels, running as fast as he dared; to run too fast, would have been to break his head against a tree, more than likely. The British soldiers heard him, evidently, for one cried, excitedly: "There he goes! I hear him running!" "Yes," cried the other, "but I'll put a stop to his running, or know the reason why. Here goes to wing the rebel." The next instant the loud crack of a musket rang upon the still night air. At the same instant Dick Dare fell sprawling upon his face on the ground, and lay still. Chapter VIII Tom Dare Acts On the afternoon of the second day after the departure of Dick Dare from patriot headquarters in New York, Tom Dare appeared there, and to the orderly at the door said: "I wish to see General Washington, sir." "Oh, you do, eh?" was the query. The orderly could not imagine what business this sixteen-year-old boy could have with the commander-in-chief. "Yes, sir. Show me to his presence, please." The orderly looked at the eager, bright face of the boy with more of interest. "Who are you?" he queried. "My name is Tom Dare." "Tom Dare!" in surprise. "Why, there was a young fellow here a couple of days ago whose name was Dare-Dick Dare, I believe it was." "Yes," quietly; "he is my brother." "Ah, your brother! Are you a member of the patriot army, also?" "Yes, sir. I'm in Colonel Morgan's regiment." The orderly stared. "Well!" he murmured; "the Dares seem to be pretty well represented in the Continental Army." "Yes, sir. Our father was captured by Tories, and Dick and I made up our minds that we would join the patriot army and do all we could to bring about the defeat of the British and Tories, and if possible rescue our father." "Well, that is the right spirit, certainly." "Will you show me to the presence of the commander-in-chief, sir?" questioned Tom, eagerly. "I am very desirous of seeing him," he added, earnestly. "Come with me," was the reply; "I will speak to the commander-in-chief, and if he is willing, I will conduct you to his presence." Tom accompanied the orderly along the hall, pausing presently when told to do so. The orderly said he would be back in a few moments, and disappeared in a room at one side. He quickly returned and said that General Washington would see the youth. The next moment he ushered Tom into the presence of the commander-in-chief, announcing: "Master Tom Dare." The general looked up from some papers he was examining, and gave Tom a keen, searching glance. "You are Master Tom Dare," he said. "Yes, your excellency," saluting. "Brother to Dick Dare?" "Yes, sir." "Very good. What can I do for you, my boy?" The great man's air and tone were kindly, and Tom, encouraged, said: "I have come to ask a favor, sir." "What is the favor? Be brief, as my time is of value, my boy." "Very well, sir. I have come to ask that you let me go over onto Long Island, the same as you have done with Dick." General Washington looked at the boy in surprise. "Why do you want to do that?" he queried. "I want to be with Dick, sir, or near him, all the time, if possible. I promised my mother that I would stay at Dick's side and fight side by side with him, and if I stay here, when he is over on Long Island, I won't be keeping my word, sir. Something might happen to Dick. He might get into trouble with the British, and if I was near at hand, I could render him assistance, and if he were captured, I might be able to rescue him. I hope you will let me go, sir." The commander-in-chief looked thoughtfully at the boy. There was a look of admiration in his eyes, and to himself he said: "A brave pair of lads are those two Dares, I feel certain." Aloud he said, after a few moments: "I don't know whether to grant your request or not, my boy. I have sent Dick over to Long Island on a spying expedition, and if you were to go also and join him, it might hamper him in his work. At the same time, I dislike to refuse your request, since you made your mother the promise that you would stay by your brother's side. Still, you can hardly hope to be always together. War is cruel, and one can not always do as one would like, or be where one would wish to be. We must all go where we think we can be of the most benefit to the Cause, and do that which will be most beneficial. Do you think you could do Dick any good, if I were to let you go, my boy?" "I think it possible, sir. He is going into great danger, as I understand it, and I might render him very valuable assistance. At any rate, if you will let me go, I will promise that at least I will not in any way interfere with his work or do anything to cause him to fail in the task he has before him." "Very good. Then I will grant your request. Go, my boy; but be careful. I will give you a note to General Putnam, on Brooklyn Heights, and he will tell you which way to go to find your brother." "Thank you, sir. You are very kind, and I will try to do nothing to cause you to regret that you let me go." "That is right." The commander-in-chief wrote a brief note, addressed it to General Putnam and handed it to Tom. "There. Now go, my boy, and may you succeed in joining your brother and benefit to him in his work. Good-bye," and he gave the boy's hand a friendly grasp. "Good-bye, your excellency," and saluting, Tom took his departure. He hastened down to the East River dock and got a boatman to take him across to the east shore, after which he made his way as quickly as possible to the patriot quarters on Brooklyn Heights. When he presented himself before General Putnam, and handed over the note, the officer, after a perusal of the few words written there, looked at the boy in some surprise and with no little interest. "Another one," he said, with something like a grim smile. "The Dares certainly seem to be in evidence to-night." "Dick was here, then, sir?" eagerly. "Yes, he was here." "How long has he been gone?" "Oh, about an hour, I should judge. He had to remain here until this evening on account of the storm." "Please direct me how to go in order to overtake him, General Putnam." "I will do so as nearly as possible, my boy." Then the general gave Tom all the directions possible, and the boy said: "Thank you, sir. I will try to join my brother to-night." "You had better keep your eyes open, Master Dare," cautioned General Putnam. "You are going where redcoats are thicker than mosquitoes, and that is saying a good deal." "I'll look out for them, sir," with a smile. "Good-bye, and thank you, General Putnam." "That's all right. You are welcome. Good-bye and good luck." Tom took his departure, and as soon as he was out of the patriot encampment, he hastened away in the direction that he had been told Dick had undoubtedly gone. "Perhaps by hurrying I may be able to overtake Dick," was his thought. He walked swiftly, at times running, and came to the wooded hills much quicker than Dick had done. He climbed the hill quickly, and was soon making his way down the other side. He had gone only a few steps when he heard the report of the musket-shot, sounding close at hand and almost in front of him. Instantly Tom was greatly excited. The thought came to him at once that a redcoat had fired that shot and that it had been fired at Dick, and with wildly-beating heart he ran forward, at the same time drawing a pistol from his belt. Tom was excited, but not at all frightened. His only fear was that perhaps Dick had been wounded or killed by the bullet from the musket, and he was eager to get a shot at the person who had just done the shooting. Suddenly he heard voices, and paused, listening intently. "I wonder if I got the rebel?" he heard one say. "Likely you did," replied another voice. "I don't hear the sound of running feet any more." "Served the rascal right if I put a bullet through him," said the first voice. "Yes. That is what ought to happen to all rebels." Tom heard these words, and his heart sank, and then a feeling of anger blazed up in his heart. What if Dick was killed, as these soldiers surmised. It was terrible to contemplate, and acting on the spur of the moment, Tom leveled his pistol, pointing in the direction from which the voices sounded, and pulled the trigger. Crack! went the pistol, and a howl of pain, rage and surprise commingled went up on the night air. "Oh--ow!--ouch! I'm shot!" cried one of the voices. "There are other rebels at hand, comrade! Perhaps we're surrounded!" This gave Tom an idea, and he at once acted upon it. If he could make the redcoats think there were a number of patriot soldiers around, they might be put to flight, and then he could look for Dick, and learn whether he were injured. "Come on, boys!" he yelled loudly. "Charge the scoundrelly redcoats! Kill them! At them, I say!" And then, drawing his other pistol, he fired another shot. He had no way of knowing whether this bullet hit either of the redcoats, but he had evidence that it was effective in one way, for he heard the British soldiers going tearing down the slope, through the underbrush at a great rate. They had undoubtedly been seized with a panic and taken to their heels. Tom waited till he could no longer hear any sounds of the fleeing redcoats, and then he called out: "Dick! Oh, Dick!" Chapter IX The Brothers Together Almost at once came the reply: "Tom! Oh, Tom, is that you?" "Yes, Dick. I'll be right with you." He hastened in the direction from which Dick's voice sounded, and a few minutes later was at his side. "What in the world brought you here, Tom?" queried Dick. "I was never so surprised in my life as when I heard your voice." "I'll tell you why I come, Dick. After you left your quarters in New York, I got to thinking, and I remembered what I had told mother-that I would go to war with you and fight side by side with you, you know, and I thought of how I had let you go away on a dangerous spying expedition alone, and I decided to follow you. I went and asked permission of General Washington to come over here, and he gave it." "He was willing for you to come, then, was he?" "Yes. He held back a little at first, but when I told him about having promised mother I would stick by you, he then said I might come." "Well, it has been all right, so far. You got here just in time to frighten those redcoats away, but I don't believe that two can do spy-work successfully." "We don't need to both actually do the spy-work, Dick. You can do that, and I'll stay back and wait and watch, and then if anything should happen to you, I would perhaps be able to render you some assistance." "True. Well, now that you are here, you may as well stay with me. We'll go on down in the neighborhood of the British encampment together, and then you can hunt at hiding-place and I will go ahead and see what I can do in the way of spying." "Very well, Dick. That will suit me." "Come, then." "You were not hit by the bullet from the redcoat's musket, Dick?" somewhat anxiously. "No, Tom. At the very moment he fired I tripped over a vine and fell headlong to the ground. I was still lying there when I heard you fire your pistol, and then I heard you yell, `Come on, boys', and recognized your voice; but I was sorely puzzled. I didn't know what to think. I almost thought I must have dreamed it." Tom laughed. "I hit one of the rascals, Dick," he chuckled. "I'll warrant you he did not think it was a dream." "Likely no," with an answering chuckle. "Well, let's move." They set out down the slope, moving at a fair pace, pausing occasionally to listen. All was quiet, however. The redcoat pickets had evidently retreated to the British encampment. When Dick and Tom emerged from the timber, at the foot of the slope, they were able to go at a faster pace, and they set out in the direction in which they believed the enemy's camp to be. They walked onward about half an hour, and then came upon a little clump of trees. Feeling certain that they must be in the vicinity of the British encampment, they went in among the trees and stopped. "Wait here a few minutes, Tom" said Dick. "I'm going to climb a tree and see if I can see the campfires of the enemy." "All right." Dick climbed a tree on the south side of the clump, and looked toward the south. He was rewarded by seeing the twinkling lights of the campfires, seemingly at no very great distance. "There is the encampment, sure enough," he murmured. "Well, now, the question is, How am I to get into the camp and secure information regarding the plans of the British?" This was a poser. It certainly seemed like a hopeless task, but Dick Dare was not a youth to be easily discouraged. He had come here to spy on the British and learn their plans, and he would do so, if such a thing were possible. He climbed down and told his brother that he had seen the campfires of the British. "Good," said Tom. "But, what are you going to do next, Dick? How are you going to get into their encampment?" "I decided on my course, Tom," he said, "before I started out." "What are you going to do?" eagerly. "I'm going to enter the British encampment boldly and tell them that I want to join the army." "Goodness! That will be dangerous, brother!" "Yes, but one can't do spy-work without encountering danger." "I know that. Do you think that you can succeed, Dick?" "I'm going to try." "Will they take you into the army-a boy like you?" "General Washington did." "But the British army may be different. They may think that they don't need help badly enough for them to accept boys as recruits." "Well, even if that is the case, I will succeed in entering the British encampment, Tom." "That's so. That part will be all right." "Yes." "When are you going to approach the encampment? Now?" "Yes, I don't see any use of waiting." "What shall I do?" "You had better stay right here or in this vicinity." "All right. When do you think you will be back?" "I don't know. Possibly to-morrow night." "I'm to wait till you come?" "Yes." "But, I'll get hungry before to-morrow night." "Go to a farmhouse in the morning and get some food. There must be farmhouses near." "That's so. I can do that." "Well, I may as well be going. Good-bye, Tom." "Good-bye, Dick; and-be careful, brother! If anything should happen to you, it would break mother's heart." "I'll be careful, Tom. You had better keep your eyes open, too, for the redcoats may come prowling around here to-morrow, and you must not let them capture you." "I'll not let them get me, brother." Then Dick took his departure. He had some time since decided upon his course, and as soon as he was a short distance away from the clump of trees, he set out at a brisk walk, and made no effort at concealment. He did not care, now, if he were halted by a British picket or sentinel. He walked swiftly onward, and about twenty minutes later was hailed: "Halt! Who comes there?" Dick's heart leaped, and he felt that he was soon to be submitted to an ordeal, but he did not hesitate, and answered firmly and promptly: "A friend." "Advance, friend, and give the countersign," was the command. Dick advanced till within a few yards of the sentinel, whose form he could make out, it being outlined against the light background made by the campfires. "Halt!" ordered the sentinel. "Give the countersign before you come any further." "I don't know the countersign," replied Dick, quietly. "But I am a friend, and I wish to see the commander in charge of this army." "Humph. What do you want to see him for?" "I want to offer my services to fight for the king." "Oh, you do, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You are a loyal king's man, then, are you?" "Would I be anxious to join the king's army if I were not?" questioned Dick. He had decided that there could be no harm in deceiving the enemy. In spy-work it would be absolutely necessary to use this means. His conscience did not reproach him in the least, for he felt that he was making the pretense of being a king's adherent in a good cause-that of Liberty. "What is your name?" the soldier asked. Dick had decided that it would be best to give a fictitious name, so he gave the first one that came into his mind: "Harry Fuller," he said. "Harry Fuller, eh? Well, Harry Fuller, since you are a loyal king's man and wish to join his army, I will see that you have the opportunity. I'll summon the officer of the guard and he will conduct you to the commander of the force." "This isn't the full army, then?" queried Dick. "One division of it," was the curt reply. "There's enough of it here for you to join, I guess, if you really mean business." The sentinel summoned the officer of the guard, explained matters to him, and then the officer conducted Dick into the encampment, and to a tent near its center. This was occupied by General Percy, and the officer of the guard entered and exchanged a few words with the general, who was writing at a little, portable desk, by the light of a candle, and then he emerged and said to Dick: "The general will see you." Then he ushered the youth into the tent, at the same time announcing: "Harry Fuller, General Percy." The British general looked up, eyed Dick sharply for a few moments, and then said: "Well, Harry Fuller, so you wish to join the British army and fight for the king, eh?" Dick had met the searching gaze of the officer unflinchingly, and now he answered promptly and firmly: "Yes, sir; such is my wish." "Humph. How old are you?" "Eighteen, sir." "Rather young, but no matter. You can hold a musket and shoot as good as a man, without doubt, so should make a good soldier. I accept your offer, and will assign you to Colonel Harker's regiment." Then he scribbled a brief note, handed it to Dick and said: "Give that to the colonel. He will take care of you." Lifting his voice, he called out: "Orderly!" An orderly entered at once, and saluted. "Conduct this young man to Colonel Harker. That is all. Good-night, young man." "Good-night, sir," replied Dick, and followed the orderly from the tent and to the point where Harker's regiment was stationed, and to that officer he handed the note from the general. "Ah, a new recruit," said the colonel, when he had read the note. "Very well, Harry Fuller, you are a member of Company H. That is it, yonder. Take your place there." He pointed to the company in question, and Dick saluted and joined the company, taking a seat with the soldiers of Company H, some of whom greeted him with nods, and many looking at him with a slight show of curiosity, but saying nothing. One or two said: "How are you, comrade?" "I'm all right, I guess," Dick replied to these, smiling. The soldiers smoked and talked, and Dick sat quietly there and listened. He had an eager interest in all that was said, for he wished to learn all he possibly could. That indeed was what he had come there for. Dick felt that he had been fortunate in getting within the British lines so easily. And, too, he was lucky to have been accepted as a soldier. He naturally had feared that his youth would be against him, and that he would be refused on that account. But such had not been the case, his youth had not counted against him, and he was now in the British camp, playing the part of a British soldier. Chapter X In the Enemy's Camp Dick Dare had accomplished what had seemed to be the most difficult part of the task that he had come here to accomplish, viz.: Gotten within the British lines, had become, in fact, a member of the British army. So far so good. Now to secure information that would be of value to General Washington and a benefit to the great Cause of Liberty. "What's your name?" asked one of the British soldiers. "Harry Fuller," Dick replied "Where do you live?" "Oh, about ten miles from here," replied the youth "Parents living." "Yes," replied Dick. "And so you have joined the king's army and are going to help make it hot for the rebels, hey" with a chuckle. "Good for you." "Yes," said Dick, "I am eager to get a chance to strike blows against the rebels. How soon do you think that will happen? When are we likely to get into a battle with them?" "Hard telling, young man. That's for the generals to say. What their plans may be is more than I can say." "I have heard it rumored in our part of the country that he British will make an attack on the rebels soon. That's the reason I came here to-night. I thought maybe the attack might be made to-morrow, and if I didn't get here to-night, I would not arrive in time for the fight." "We might be ordered to move against the rebels to-morrow, for all I know," was the reply. "And then again we might be left sitting here a week or a month. I haven't any idea when the move will be made." "I hope it will be soon," declared Dick, with a view to keeping up the pretense of being imbued with an intense desire to get at the rebels. "You'll get a chance to do all the fighting you care for, one of these days, young fellow," said another soldier. "Don't worry on that score." "I'm not worrying about it, sir," said Dick. "Do you think you will fight when the time comes?" half-sneered another, rather evil-featured fellow, leering at Dick. "I'd be willing to wager that you'll do more running than fighting." "You might lose your money if you wagered it that way," said Dick, quietly, gazing steadily at the speaker. "I might, but I don't think I would," with a harsh laugh. "I don't think much of the bravery of the Americans, whether rebels or king's men. They are not the kind that make good soldiers." "I suppose you think that you are," said Dick, calmly. "I know it, sonny!" fiercely. "I've been tried in the fire, do you hear? I'm a veteran, and have seen service in the fields of Europe, India and Africa." "You seem to be great at blowing your own horn, at any rate," said Dick, quietly. And several of the other soldiers sitting near snickered, which seemed to anger the other very much. "Do you mean to insult me?" he cried, glancing fiercely at Dick. "Oh, no," coolly. "I was simply stating a fact, that is all." "Well, you had better be careful, that's all I have got to say!" snarled the redcoat, viciously. "If you weren't a boy, I would give you a thumping for what you have already said." "Don't let my youth hinder you," retorted Dick. "I will say this, that I think you will find the people of America as brave as those of your country or any other, and I think, too, that they will make as brave and effective soldiers." "That's right, youngster, hold up for your own people," said one of the soldiers approvingly. "The boy's all right, Coggins," to the ill-natured soldier. "You had no business talking as you did." "Bah!" sneered Coggins. "I meant what I said, but as the young fellow is not yet out of his teens, I'll pay no attention to his words. It wouldn't look well for me to thrash a boy." "You might find that you had your hands full if you tried it," said Dick, coldly. He had taken a dislike to the boastful redcoat, and as he was a brave youth, and also had always found himself a match for any man he had ever engaged in a physical struggle with, he had no fear of this fellow. "There's good nerve, for you!" remarked a soldier, admiringly. "How do you like it, Coggins?" It was evident that this particular soldier, Coggins, was not very well liked by his comrades. "Do you think I'm a fool, to get myself laughed at for engaging in a fight with a green country boy?" growled Coggins. "I'll do no such thing." Rising, he walked away with a swagger, but he gave Dick a look of hatred as he did so. A number of the soldiers grinned, and two or three chuckled aloud, and unless Coggins was deaf, he must have heard them. "Would you really have fought him?" queried a soldier, looking at Dick keenly, when Coggins was gone. "If he attacked me, I should have protected myself," was the reply. "But you couldn't have done much against him. You're only a boy." "I don't know about that. I am pretty strong and am also rather active, and I have wrestled with a number of grown men, and never found one yet that I couldn't down." "Well, you might have held your own with Coggins, but I doubt it a little." "Better be a bit careful how you ruffle him, young man," said another soldier. "He's a vicious chap when his anger is aroused, and he would not hesitate to do you serious injury. He gave you a look I noticed that was not exactly friendly, as he left." "I noticed that, too," smiled Dick. "But I do not fear him. I shall not try to anger him, but if he annoys me, I will take my own part, that is certain. I won't let him run over me." "That's right, of course," approvingly. "But don't get into trouble with him if you can avoid it without discredit to yourself." "I won't, sir, and thank you for your friendly words." "You're welcome. I don't like Coggins myself, and I don't care who knows it. He knows it, all right, I guess," with a short laugh. The fact was, though of course Dick knew nothing of it, that this soldier, whose name was Ferguson, and the other, Coggins, were enemies, having had an encounter once, in which Ferguson had gotten rather the best of it, though the fight did not go to a finish, it having been stopped by order of the colonel. Soon the soldiers stretching themselves on blankets and going to sleep. Dick was given a blanket, and he also lay down, being quite tired by this time, and was soon asleep. The fact that he was in the encampment of the enemy did not have any effect on Dick's nerves at all. He was a brave and matter-of-fact youth, and felt the boldest plan was the safest, and so he was enabled to act with as much _sang froid_ as if he were really an adherent of the king and sincere in his desire to fight for him. Dick ate breakfast with the rest of the soldiers of his company, then he looked about them, and over the encampment, with interest. It was very interesting indeed to the boy patriot spy and he was eager to see all that there was to be seen. He noted that this was in itself quite an encampment, but realized that it was only one portion of the whole. He wished to get the other divisions located, and desired also to learn how many soldiers there were in the entire British army. He asked questions, carefully, in such a manner as not to create suspicion, and gradually became possessed of considerable information that he felt must be reliable, since there could be no occasion for those who gave him the information to deceive him, they believing him to be loyal to the king and a soldier the same as they were. About nine o'clock Company H. was ordered to proceed to the beach for the purpose of allowing the soldiers to bathe, and they set out at once, Dick accompanying them, of course. On the way they passed another division of the British army, and Dick was informed by a companion that it was the main body. When they neared the beach, Dick caught sight of several old hulks of vessels at anchor near the shore, and he inquired what they were. "Old hulks of dismantled ships," was the reply. "We use them for prisons for those of the rebel army that we capture." "Are there any rebels in there now?" queried Dick, making his tone as careless as possible, though having his father in mind, his heart was throbbing with eagerness. "Yes, there are a number in there-fifteen or twenty, I should judge. They are in the hulk farthest to the north. Among them are three or four rebel spies who will likely be shot or hanged sooner or later." Dick's heart thrilled as he heard this news. Perhaps he might be able to rescue all those poor, suffering patriot prisoners! He made up his mind that he would try, at any rate. And again the thought struck him that his father might be imprisoned there. He at once decided that he would visit the prison ship and rescue the prisoners, if possible. Chapter XI Tom in Trouble Dick Dare eyed the British fleet with interest. It lay in the roadstead, just off York Bay, and the sight of the warships was indeed alluring. He asked questions about the fleet, being careful to inquire as if actuated merely by curiosity, and he also managed to secure information as to the number of soldiers in the army on shore. He was told that the army, as a whole, had about twenty-four thousand men in its ranks. "Phew, that outnumbers our army considerably!" thought Dick. "Well, no matter, when it comes to battle, I'll wager that we will give the redcoats all they can do." When Company H. had finished bathing, the soldiers marched back to the encampment, and other companies were met on their way to the beach to take their turn in the water. Dick was on the alert for information all the rest of that day. He did not learn much more, for he found that there was no intention of attacking the patriot force on Brooklyn Heights very soon, exactly the point on which General Washington wished to be informed. He became convinced that it would be useless to remain longer in the hope of securing further information, as no date for an attack had been decided upon. He turned his attention therefore to the problem of how if possible to rescue the patriot spies and soldiers that were in the old hulk used for a prison. "I must rescue them!" was his thought. "I will rescue them!" he decided, and he began figuring on the matter in earnest and laying his plans. About half-past one o'clock in the afternoon, however, he was given a shock: He saw half a dozen British soldiers approaching the encampment from the north, and in their midst was-his brother Tom! "They've captured Tom!" he exclaimed mentally, in dismay. "Goodness, that is bad! I wonder how it happened?" This was a simple matter. The half dozen redcoats had been up in the hills nearby the Heights, where Dick and Tom had had the adventure the night before, when in passing the clump of trees, some one of them happened to catch a glimpse of Tom, who was seated under a tree, eating some food that he had procured t a farmhouse early that morning. The soldiers had advanced, and their sudden appearance had startled Tom to such an extent that when they asked who he was and what he was doing there, he stammered and was unable to make a satisfactory reply offhand, with the result that the redcoats seized him and made him a prisoner, their idea being that even though he were a boy he might be a "rebel" spy. As may well be supposed, when Dick saw the redcoats approaching with his brother a prisoner in their midst, his heart sank. He had been figuring on getting his brother to help him in rescuing the patriot spies and soldiers, and here was Tom in the enemy's hands, a prisoner. "I'll have to begin by rescuing Tom, I guess," was Dick's thought. The soldiers entered the encampment, with the youth in their midst, and conducted him to where in front of his tent the general was sitting on a camp-stool. The officer looked up as the party approached, and he eyed the prisoner in some surprise. Dick had drawn near as the soldiers entered the camp, and had managed to catch Tom's eye and give him a warning look. He hoped that his brother would be very careful, and not let it be seen that they were known to each other. "Whom have you there?" queried General Percy, as the party came to a halt in front of him. "We found this youngster over yonder in that bit of woods, General Percy," said one of the soldiers. "He was sitting there, eating a lunch, and when we appeared and asked him who he was and where he came from, he seemed frightened and could make no satisfactory answer." "I wasn't frightened, any such thing!" said Tom, his eyes flashing. "I am not frightened even now, sir. I was surprised, for they came upon me so suddenly, and the leaped at me as if I were a desperado, and naturally I may have seemed a bit confused in my answers to their questions. But I wasn't frightened, sir." Something like a grim smile appeared for an instant on the general's face, as he looked at the bright face of the boy. "So you were not afraid, eh?" he remarked. "Well, if you are not a rebel spy or an enemy to the king, there is no reason that you should be afraid. What is your name?" "Tom Dare, sir." Tom had given his real name to the soldiers, but had wished afterward that he had given a fictitious one. Now he could do nothing other than give his own name. "Tom Dare, eh? Well, Master Tom Dare, where do you live?" The boy hesitated an instant, and then said: "I live over in New Jersey." "Ah, in New Jersey? Well, what are you doing over here on Long Island?" "I wanted to see the British army, sir, and so I came over here." "Ah, indeed? Why did you wish to see the British army?" "Just out of curiosity, sir. I have never before seen an army, and I wanted to see one." General Percy eyed the boy searchingly for a few moments, and then said: "It seems to me you have come good ways to satisfy a feeling of curiosity. Your action is a little bit unusual. You appear to have an inquiring mind." There was something in his tone that Tom did not just like. It had a threatening sound. However, he kept a bold face, and said as calmly as possible: "Yes, sir." "I suppose," said the general after a few moments, "that you have so much curiosity, you would like to see all that you possibly can." Tom still did not fancy the general's tone and air, but he answered: "True, sir. So I would." "Very well. Such being the case, I have no doubt that you would like to see the interior of one of the old hulks down at the bay, that we use as prisons for rebel spies and other prisoners. I am going to send you down there, my boy, and I hope you will like the looks of things there, for you will probably be there some time." Tom started and turned slightly pale. "Surely you are not going to make me a prisoner there, sir!" he exclaimed in dismay. "That is just what I am going to do, Master Tom Dare!" was the reply in a stern tone. "The fact is, I believe you are a rebel spy. Your explanation of your presence here, when your home is over in New Jersey is not satisfactory at all. I am certain that you have an ulterior motive in coming, and the only motive that I can think of is that you came to engage in spy-work. Take him to the prison at once, men," this last to the soldiers. Poor Tom! He knew it would be hopeless to expostulate. He felt that he was doomed to become an inmate of one of the prison-ships, and as he thought it would be useless he said not a word, but accompanied the soldiers without making any show of resistance. "Take him past the other encampments and let him see the whole army," called General Percy after them. "When one has as much curiosity as he seems to be possessed of, it should be satisfied." This was sarcasm and intended to hurt Tom's feelings and humiliate him, but instead it only aroused a feeling of resentment in his breast, and almost before he realized what he was saying, he exclaimed aloud: "I'd like to kick him!" "Who, the general?" queried one of the soldiers. "Yes," said Tom, boldly. "You'd better not let him hear you say anything like that, sonny!" "Say, comrades," remarked another, maliciously, "let's go back and tell the general what he said." "No, let's not," said another. "The general would whip out his sword and cut the boy's head off. Come on; it will be punishment sufficient to be incarcerated in the old prison-ship, even if he is a spy." "I guess you're right about that, comrade." "If it was me," spoke up another, "I believe I'd rather have my head cut off and be done with it, than to be imprisoned in that old hulk." "I guess you're about right," agreed the first speaker. "I certainly would hate to have to change places with you, my boy." Tom decided that the prison-ship must be a terrible place, and he was destined to soon find that such was really the case. They passed the main encampment of the British, as they went to the beach, and the patriot youth thought that the British would be hard to defeat, with such a strong army. "There must be fifteen or twenty thousand soldiers there" was his estimate. Soon the little party was at the beach, and getting into the old row-boat, the soldiers rowed out to the hulk furthest north, and assisted Tom to the deck. Here they found a British soldier on guard. "What have you got there, comrades?" this soldier asked, looking at Tom in surprise. "Another prisoner, Hawkins. He is only a boy, but the general is of the opinion that he is a rebel spy, so down he goes into the hold with the rest of the rebels." "All right; down with him. But I wouldn't think the rebels would send out such a young one to do spy-work." "Well, the general thinks he's a spy, and that settles it." "It certainly does so far as I am concerned. Down with him." The hatch was opened, and Tom was assisted down the ladder to the bottom of the hold, and then leaving him there, with his hands still tied together behind his back, the soldiers mounted the ladder and put the hatch in place, leaving Tom in complete darkness. As he realized his situation, a shudder went over the youth's form. "I don't like this!" he murmured. Chapter XII Dick Does Wonderful Work Dick Dare had been afraid that General Percy might connect him with Tom, and suspect that they were in the neighborhood together, but such a thought evidently did not come to the commander, for happily he seemed to dismiss the matter from his mind when the soldiers departed with the boy. He again busied himself with some writing. When Dick noted this, he breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been bad indeed had he been then suspected and made a prisoner, the same as had been the case with Tom. With them both in the old prison-hulk, escape would have been difficult, in fact well-nigh impossible, but with Dick free to work from the outside, it was different. The youth believed that he might be able to rescue his brother and the other prisoners in the prison-ship, and he was fully decided to make the attempt that very night. The afternoon dragged slowly along. Dick could hardly wait for nightfall, for he was eager to get to work. He thought the afternoon never would end. But it did, at last, and after he had eaten supper, he began mentally reviewing the task that lay before him. The first thing to do would be to get away from the encampment, and he decided to do this at once. He had laid his plans, and going to the colonel, he asked permission to take a walk. "I am not used to camplife, sir," he said; "and I feel the need of a little exercise. If not contrary to the rules, I would like to take a walk of a mile or so in the country." "I guess it will be all right," was the reply. "Go ahead, but don't stay too long." "I won't, sir. Thank you." Dick walked boldly out of the encampment, and in order to disarm suspicion, in case his action should occasion comment, he went toward the east. To have started north might have aroused suspicion that he was heading for New York. "Where away, comrade?" queried the sentinel at the east side of the encampment. "Oh, out for a little walk for exercise," replied Dick, carelessly. "All right. The Countersign is `The King Rules'." "Thank you," said Dick. "I'll not forget." He walked slowly on, as if merely taking a leisurely stroll, but as soon as he was out of sight of the sentinel and others, he changed to a swift pace, and turning, headed toward the prison-ships in the bay. "Now for business!" he murmured, grimly. "I'll have the patriot prisoners out of that old hulk before many hours, or I'll know the reason why!" He hastened onward, but paused frequently and listened intently. He did not want to meet any force of British soldiers then for it would have been awkward work explaining his presence. He was fortunate, however, in that he did not encounter any redcoats, and in considerably less than an hour he was at the shore, near where the prison-ships were anchored. "Now the next thing is to get aboard the hulk," was Dick's thought. This would be difficult, for the reason that there was a sentinel on the deck. To reach the hulk and climb aboard without being seen by this sentinel was a task that would be hard to accomplish. But Dick did not hesitate. He was brave, and eager to rescue his brother and the other patriot spies and soldiers, and so he located an old boat, got in, and then pulled slowly and carefully toward the prison-ship, which could be faintly seen looming up a couple of hundred yards distant on the water. Dick felt that the chances were that the sentinel would have his attention directed toward the shore, and so he made a half-circuit and approached from the other side. He rowed slowly and cautiously, making scarcely any noise at all, and was successful in reaching the hulk without having been discovered. Dick had rightly guessed that the sentinel was at the other side, doubtless keeping a lookout shoreward. Dick felt around in the boat, and found a rope-ladder, with hooks on one end, and with the aid of a boathook, he managed to get the hooks caught over the ship's rail. This accomplished, he stood there and listened intently. He feared he might have been heard by the sentinel. Such did not seem to be the case, however, for all was quiet aboard, and presently the youth began making his way slowly and cautiously up the ladder. He kept on till his head was even with the top of the rail, and then he gazed about, trying to locate the sentinel. It was so dark, however, that he could not see the redcoat, and feeling that the coast was reasonably clear, Dick climbed on up, and over the rail, and a moment later stood on the deck. So far all was well. He had escaped from the British encampment, had reached the prison-hulk, and was on board. Now to overpower the sentinel and rescue the prisoners. The youth paused only long enough to tie the boat's painter to the rail, and then he slowly and cautiously made his way along the deck, going toward the bow. He reached the end of the cabin, moved quietly around it, and then started in the other direction. He went with still greater caution now, for he realized that at any moment he might come upon the British sentinel. Dick knew that there were two soldiers on board all the time, and that they took turns at standing guard, so one would be on deck and the other would likely be in the cabin asleep. To capture the one guard, without making a noise that would be heard by the other would be a difficult matter, but Dick was not the kind of youth to be dismayed by difficulties. Their presence only made him the more determined. He advanced carefully, and suddenly he caught sight of a shadowy form a few feet ahead of him. It was the sentinel, undoubtedly, and luckily for Dick, the redcoat's back was partially toward him, and the soldier was gazing in almost the opposite direction from that in which Dick was approaching. The youth, after a keen survey of the form, decided that the redcoat's back was toward him, and so advanced a couple of steps, as silently as a shadow. He was now close upon the man, and reaching out suddenly, he grasped the fellow by the throat with both hands, and raising his knee quickly, struck the soldier in the small of the back, and threw him with a twisting motion to the deck; then dropping upon the fallen man, Dick compressed his windpipe, gripping it with all his might. Although but eighteen years of age, Dick Dare was stronger than the majority of men. He was naturally powerful, and his life on the farm had been such as to develop his strength and endurance, and so it happened that he was easily more than a match for the British soldier. The fact that this fellow had been taken completely by surprise worked to his disadvantage, too, and although he struggled hard, he was unable to do anything, and the gripping fingers, compressing his windpipe like bands of steel, gradually weakened him, for he was unable to get his breath. Neither could he cry out, and the result was that in about three minutes from the time Dick had seized the redcoat, the fellow was lying unconsciously on the deck-choked into insensibility. Feeling confident the sentinel would remain unconscious some time, Dick left the form lying there, and entered the cabin in search of the other soldier. A snore sounding from a stateroom at one side guided the youth, so he entered the compartment, and seizing this redcoat by the throat, as he had the other, Dick quickly choked him into limp insensibility. This accomplished, he went out on deck, dragged the other redcoat into the cabin, and into the stateroom. Closing the door, he locked them in. "I don't think they will be able to get out of there, even if they regain consciousness before I get to the prisoners," thought Dick. Then he went out on deck again and hunted around till he found the hatchway. Removing the covering, he looked down into the hold, but could see nothing, the darkness there being even greater than on the deck. "Hello, down there!" he called. "Are you there, Tom!" "Dick! Oh, is it really you?" came the reply, in the excited voice of Tom Dare. "Yes, it is I," was the reply. "How many are there with you, Tom? Is father there?" "No, Dick, father isn't here. Come down and free us, quick!" eagerly. "There are twelve of us here, it is a terrible place,-slimy and foul-smelling, and there are rats, insects and worms, ugh!" "Climb up the ladder," instructed Dick. "Surely you are not bound." "Our hands are tied. That's what I meant by telling you to come down and free us, Dick." "I'll be with you in moment, Tom." Dick hastened down the ladder, and was soon standing beside Tom, who had scrambled to his feet. He quickly cut the rope binding his brother's wrists, and then asked where the other prisoners were. "Here," replied a hoarse voice. "We are right at hand, Dick Dare, and glad to welcome you. Your brother has told us about you, and we have been hoping you would succeed in freeing us, though we feared you might not be able to do so. But you seem to have succeeded, thank God! I am Joseph Boswick," he continued, "one of the spies sent down here by General Washington to secure information regarding the British. There are three more spies, and seven patriot soldiers and all of us are eager to get out of this terrible hole, as you may well believe." "I can easily believe it, Mr. Boswick, and I'll have your hands free in a jiffy, and then you can climb the ladder to the deck, and we will go ashore in the boat. The two British guards are insensible, and locked in a stateroom." "You are a wonder, Dare!" said Boswick, admiration in his tone. "Well, cut our bonds quickly and we'll try to get out of here." This was speedily done, and a few minutes later the entire party was on the deck. To climb down into the boat was a simple matter, but it had only just been accomplished when there came the noise of oars in rowlocks, from the other side of the hulk, followed by the sound of voices. "Some redcoats have come off to the ship, from the shore!" whispered Dick, to Boswick. "We must get away from here in a hurry, for your escape will be discovered very quickly!" Chapter XIII General Washington is Pleased "We had better get to the shore at once," was the reply. "This boat is so heavily loaded that it would be dangerous to try to go to New York in it." "Yes, and it is old and leaky, anyway. We'll go ashore and then head for Brooklyn Heights." Dick turned the oars and rowed cautiously toward the island. The boat moved very slowly, for it was deep in the water, and rapid progress was impossible. The shore was reached presently, however, and at the same instant there came out of the darkness excited yells from the direction of the prison-ship. "They've discovered your escape," said Dick. "Get ashore, men, as quickly as possible." The rescued patriots leaped ashore as fast as they could, and then with Dick in the lead, they set out northward. "By keeping over pretty close to the water, I think we shall be able to keep clear of the redcoats," said Dick. "Likely," agreed Tom. "We mustn't let them capture us now." "I'll never go back to that terrible prison-pen alive!" declared Boswick. "I would much rather die fighting." "We'll get to the Heights and then over to New York in safety," assured Dick. The excited voices of the British who had discovered the escape of the prisoners could be heard for some time, but gradually grew fainter, until at last no sound could be heard. The little party kept steadily onward, and managed to get past the left end of the British army and an hour or so later arrived at the patriot encampment on Brooklyn Heights. They paused there only long enough to rest a bit and apprise the officer in command of their escape from the prison-ship, then they went down to the shore and were taken across to the New York side in boats. They went direct to patriot headquarters, and were quickly ushered into the presence of the commander-in-chief. When he saw Dick and Tom, and also Boswick and the other spies and the patriot soldiers that had been prisoners, his face lighted up with pleasure. "You surely have succeeded well, Dare!" he exclaimed. "You have rescued the patriot prisoners from the British prison-ship, and I hope you have as well secured some important information." "I have secured some information, your excellency," replied Dick. "And I am pleased because I was able to free the patriots from the prison-ship." "You have done well, Dick-wonderfully well. I congratulate you, my boy." Then he shook hands with Boswick and the other spies and the soldiers and asked them about their experience in the prison-ship. According to their words, the prison-ship was a terrible place, the bottom of the hold being water-soaked and slimy, and infested by myriads of insects and worms, which crawled over the prisoners' bodies, stinging and biting them and almost driving them wild. There were large and vicious rats also. The prisoners were thin and gaunt, and it was evident that they had suffered indeed. "You have had a very unpleasant experience, men," said the commander-in-chief; "but now you are free and will soon be your old selves again. Go to your quarters, get some food and then rest up and regain your lost strength." The soldiers obeyed, all going save Dick, who remained at the command of General Washington. When the others had gone, he turned inquiringly at Dick. "What did you learn, my boy?" he queried. "Have you secured any information of value?" "I haven't secured a great deal of information, your excellency," was the reply. "I learned the numerical strength of the British army, for one thing." "That is important. What is the number?" "Twenty-five thousand." A sober, thoughtful look settled over the face of the commander-in-chief. "That is about five thousand more than I figured on," he murmured. "Well, I am glad to have knowledge of their strength, even though it is greater than I had expected it to be." "I learned also, that an attack on Brooklyn Heights, while a probability at some future time, is not contemplated at an early date." "That is important also, Dick. Well, did you learn anything else?" "Nothing else, sir. But, if you desire it, I will go back over onto Long Island and will keep watch on the British and do my best to learn of any intended move early enough to get the news to you, so that you will have time to make a move that will check the enemy." "We will wait a few days, Dick, and then I may send you again. I congratulate you on the success of your first attempt at spying. You did well, Dick, exceedingly well, and I shall doubtless make use of you frequently in the future, if you care to undertake the work." "I shall be glad to do so, your excellency. My only wish is to do all in my power to aid the people of America to secure their independence, and if I can be of value by doing spy-work, then I shall take pleasure in doing it." "That is the right spirit, my boy, and I shall call upon you whenever I have work that I think you can do better than an older man could do it." Then he dismissed Dick, who saluted and withdrew, going to his quarters. He found Tom there, engaged in telling the story of his and Dick's adventures over on Long Island, and Ben and the other soldiers were listening eagerly, their eyes shining. They greeted Dick joyously. "Say, I wish I had been with you two fellows, old man," said Ben Foster. "You have got the bulge on the rest of us, and that isn't fair. You have already encountered the redcoats and had adventures with them, while the rest of us have had to stay cooped up here in the city." Ben pretended to be vexed with Dick and Tom, but it was only pretense. "You boys will get all the adventure you want, one of these days, I think," smiled Dick. "There is going to be a battle over on Long Island sooner or later, and then you will get all the fighting you want." "Hurroo!" cried Tim Murphy, "shure an' thot is phwat we are afther wantin', Oi dunno. It's all av us wull foight to the last gasp, sure an' we wull." "Yah, ve vill fighd lige eferyting," declared Fritz Schmockenburg. "Ve are nod avraid uf der retgoads, und dot is so." "How soon will the battle take place, Dick?" queried Ben Foster. Dick shook his head. "As to that I cannot say, Ben," he replied. "But it will come soon enough, without doubt, for the British have twenty-five thousand soldiers, while we have not more than eighteen thousand." "That is pretty big odds," said Ben, with a shake of the head. "So it is," agreed Dick. "But the patriots will give a good account of themselves when the time comes, I feel certain." "Yah, ve vill gif ein goot accound mit mysellufs," said Fritz, the Dutch soldier. "Just listen to thot, wull yez?" remarked Tim, scathingly. "Shure an' there is agotism fur yez!" "Well, I hope all of us will always give a good account of ourselves," said Dick, quietly. "And I believe we will." "We'll try to, Dick," said Ben, earnestly. A few days later General Washington again summoned Dick and told him to go over on Long Island and see if he could learn anything regarding the intentions of the British. "You will have to be very careful, this time, however, Dick," he cautioned; "for you are known to many of the British, and if they should see you, they would capture you, and that would be bad." "True, sir," said Dick. "I will be very careful. I will not let them capture me, if I can help myself." Then, after receiving his instructions, Dick saluted and withdrew. After supper he set out, and crossing the East River, made his way in the direction of the British encampment, which was about five miles distant, to the southward. He did not need to go to Brooklyn Heights to see General Putnam, for the reason that he now knew more about the location of the enemy than Putnam did. Dick did not walk rapidly, for he felt that it were better to proceed with caution, for if he went too swiftly he could not exercise much care, and the result might be unpleasant, as there was danger that he might run into a party of British. By going slowly he could avoid this danger. Two hours from the time he crossed the East River, he was in the vicinity of the British encampment, and he moved slowly around it, trying to figure out some way to get where he could secure information, but to no avail. He could not devise any means of doing this. To enter the lines was out of the question, for there would likely be some of the soldiers who would recognize him as the youth who had joined the British army a few days before and then deserted. Doubtless the British were aware of the fact, also, that the same youth had set the prisoners free from the prison-ship. Dick remained near the British encampment till after midnight, but could do nothing to further the purpose for which he had come, and so he retired to a clump of trees situated about a quarter of a mile from the edge of the encampment, and hunting up a place under some bushes, lay down and went to sleep. He slept soundly till morning, and then got up and took a survey of the British encampment. The sun was just rising, and everything was quiet in the camp. The soldiers were still asleep, with the exception of the sentinels, who could be seen slowly pacing their beats. Dick had nothing to eat, but did not let that bother him. He was prepared to go without food all day, if by so doing he would have a better chance of securing information regarding the enemy. He watched till the British soldiers got up and ate their breakfast, and then as he saw small groups moving about, some coming almost to the clump of trees, he decided that it would be best to climb up into a tree and conceal himself amid the leaves, and selecting a tree with very heavy foliage, he climbed well up into it. Here he took up as comfortable a position as possible, watching the enemy and awaiting developments. All was quiet till noon, and then as he saw the soldiers eating their dinners, he was assailed by a feeling of hunger. He resolutely dismissed the thought of food, however, and stuck to his position. He was determined to stay till evening, at any rate, and then if he had not secured any information, he would go to a farmhouse which he saw about a mile distant, to the eastward, and get something to eat, after which he would return to his post. He was determined to remain in the vicinity of the army till he learned something of value in the way of news regarding the intentions of the British, if it took him a week. He climbed down out of the tree presently and walked about, in the thicket, stretching in legs and feeling much better afterward, for his position had been a cramped one at the best. When the British soldiers began moving around again, after dinner, Dick climbed up into the tree once more, for some of the redcoats might visit the clump of trees at any time. A party of four of the soldiers did enter the thicket an hour or so later, and throwing themselves down in the shade, talked and laughed for some time, but although Dick listened with intense eagerness, no words were spoken that gave him any information. If the soldiers knew of any intended move on the part of the British army, they did not mention the fact in their conversation, which was made up of idle talk, of the kind as such men would naturally indulge in. When they left and returned to the encampment Dick drew a breath of relief, for he felt that every minute they remained in the clump of trees he was in danger of discovery. He might make a noise, in shifting his position, and be heard, or he might have to sneeze, or cough. And if he were to be discovered, it would go hard with him, for he would undoubtedly be deemed a spy. After the redcoats returned to the encampment, Dick descended to the ground and walked about a while, being careful to keep the most of the thicket between himself and the enemy. After half an hour on the ground, he again climbed up into the tree. Dick began to think the day was to be barren of results, as evening drew near; but a little while before sundown he caught sight of a couple of soldiers approaching the clump of trees. As the two drew near, he got a fair view of their faces, and he had all he could do to keep from uttering an exclamation, for-the two approaching British soldiers were no others than Zeke Boggs and Lem Hicks, Dick's enemies, the Tory youths from over in New Jersey! "Well, this is a surprise!" thought Dick. "But I remember now, that Ben said Zeke told him he and Lem were going to join the British army and be British soldiers, that they were not going to let Tom, Ben, and myself get ahead of them. I wonder what they would say if they knew I was so near them?" Zeke and Lem, dressed in the uniform of British soldiers, entered the clump of timber and seated themselves on the moss under the tree next to that Dick was in. They had no suspicion that there was anyone other than themselves present, and talked freely of their plans. "How do ye like army life, anyhow, Zeke?" asked Lem, as they lolled on the grass. "Oh, pretty well, Lem," was the reply. "How do ye like et?" "Oh, only so-so, Zeke. They're too strict ter suit me. I don't like ter hev ter come an' go just ez sumbuddy tells me, do you?" "No, I don't. But when er feller enters the army, that's jest whut he hez ter do." "Yes, thet's so. Well, I guess I'll git used ter et." "I'll be glad when we git inter a bettle with the rebels, Lem, won't you?" "Yes, I guess so." The tone was not very decided or enthusiastic. "I hope thet ef we do git inter a battle, we'll meet up with Dick an' Tom Dare an' Ben Foster." "So do I. I'd like ter giv' 'em a thrashin' in a battle." "So would I. An' I guess thet we'll hev a chance to fight the rebels afore so very long, fur I heerd our colonel tell another officer thet et hez be'n decided ter make an attack on Brooklyn Heights the twenty-fourth." "Yes, I heard 'im say thet." Dick made mental note of this date. He had learned something of value, and from the lips of his enemies, Zeke and Lem. How angry they would be if they knew they had done Dick Dare a kindness! "Thank you, Zeke and Lem," he murmured. "You are very kind, and have done me quite a favor." The two Tory youths remained there half an hour or so, and then returned to the encampment. Their conversation had held nothing further of interest to Dick, but what he had learned was sufficient. He had learned when the British intended to make the attack, and that was just what he had come over there to try to learn. Now he was eager to get back to New York and tell the commander-in-chief the news. As soon as it was dark, he set out for New York, and reached there a couple of hours later. He went at once to headquarters, where he told General Washington what he had learned. The commander-in-chief complimented Dick on his success in securing the information, and next morning he sent three thousand troops over to reinforce General Putnam's force on Brooklyn Heights. To the delight of Dick, Tom and Ben, Colonel Morgan's regiment was among those sent, and the youths would thus be able to take part in the battle. When the 24th arrived, however, the British did not make the expected attack, and about mid-day General Washington came over to the Heights and conferred with Putnam, and Dick was asked his opinion regarding the non-appearance of the British. "I don't understand it, sir," he replied. "I heard the two Tory youths say that an attack would be made on the twenty-fourth. Perhaps the British have learned that you were expecting them, and have postponed the attack on that account." "That is possible," agreed General Washington. "Well, the only thing to do, now, is to keep constantly on the lookout and be ready all the time to repulse an attack." "That is the proper course, your excellency," said General Putnam. So it was decided to remain in readiness, and to keep out double the usual number of sentinels, so as to avoid being taken by surprise. This course was adopted, and the patriots kept in readiness for instant battle, and waited with what patience they could muster, pestered as they were by the hot weather and myriads of mosquitoes, for the British to make an attack. Chapter XIV The Haunted House Life in the patriot camp often grew irksome to the volunteers of Washington's army. All were eager to meet their red-coat foes, and prove their mettle in a real battle. Thus far the troops gathered in New York, had been forced to content themselves with occasional skirmishes with the British outposts, which little affairs only served to increase their eagerness to "have it out" with the invaders. To make the long days of waiting pass more pleasantly, frequent excursions were made into the surrounding country in search of adventures and to pick up whatever delicacies in the way of fruit and fowl that the outlying farms afforded. Tom appointed himself a committee of one to supply the company to which he and his friends belonged. He had exhausted most of the well-known haunts about camp, and was in the habit of going off on long tramps to find the coveted fruit. One evening toward dusk Tom was sauntering along a quiet country road hunting for apples. In the course of his wanderings he came upon a well laden tree standing on the grounds of a neglected estate. Far back amongst the trees was the deserted mansion-house, looking desolate and forbidding in the rays of the sinking sun. About this old place many stories clung of mystery and violent death. From the time of its erection by a runaway nobleman the families who had unfortunately occupied it had either left in extreme haste and terror for some far removed section of the country, or had met with foul play at the hands of a band of Gypsies, who appeared in the neighborhood only when a new occupant moved into the fated homestead. The last family that had lived there had suddenly left the house one night. Two grown up sons, however, returned and told the inquisitive farmers that although their folks had been frightened away, they proposed to remain until they had solved the mystery of the place. This perhaps they did the next night, but they both paid for their curiosity with their lives, for the neighbors found their bodies suspended from the upper floor over the Main Stairway. Since this last fatality, the house had been deserted, its bad name growing with each recounting of its dark history. A little youngster scarce four years old, was playing under the tree. Tom helped himself to some apples as was his wont, and speaking cheerily to the boy, learned that his name was "Jackie." A stick of candy from Tom's pocket was greedily accepted by Jackie. Tom was feeling blue that day thinking of his father from whom had come no word, of his mother and sister, and his old home. He wandered on unobservant of the fact that it was growing dark, and that a storm was fast approaching. He was suddenly called to a sense of his surroundings by hearing a cry behind him, and turning back saw that little Jackie was dogging his footsteps. The youngster was tired out now, and wanted "home and mother," so Tom spoke a soothing word or two and they commenced to retrace their footsteps. He noted now that the storm was soon to break, and Jackie was too tired to hurry, so he gathered the little fellow into his strong arms, and made fast time for home. By the time they had reached the apple tree it was quite dark. Large drops of rain, the roar of thunder, and the glare of lightning told Tom that he was none too soon. He ran through the unkempt garden, and was quickly at the door. A sinister looking place it was even in daylight, and now revealed by an occasional lightning flash, the house seemed but a wreck of former stateliness. Not a light was visible within, and to Tom's loud and hurried rappings on the door, there was no response. A flash of lightning however, showed Tom that the door was unlatched, and with the rain now descending in torrents, he hesitated no longer, but stepped within. There was a rush of wind, a rattle of shutters, a deafening peal of thunder as if close at hand, and with a crash the great door suddenly closed. It did not take Tom long to determine that he and his little charge were alone in a deserted mansion. "Is this your home, Jackie?" inquired Tom. The little fellow whom Tom had placed upon the floor was thoroughly terrified, and could only grasp his answer. "It is the haunted house, let me go home." "Nonsense, Jackie, don't be afraid, but where is your home?" Meantime Tom had turned about and was searching for the handle of the great door. There was none. It had been broken off, and this means of egress was unavailable. "Let's see if we can find a window," suggested Tom, but Jackie clung closer to his rescuer and began to cry wildly. "There is a ghost, it's coming," shrieked the little fellow. Tom looked along the depth of the long hall, and at first saw nothing, then at the next flash of lightning he was startled to see two green and glaring eyes fixed upon him. No thought of such a thing as a ghost entered his mind, he was far too sensible for that, and had no fear of spirits. If they were good spirits, he argued, of course they would not hurt, if they were bad, he might hurt them. He was for advancing at once to investigate, but his little charge clung to him in desperate terror. Then there came another crash of thunder, and at the same instant a noise as of an overturned table, and the rattle of pans and pots upon the floor. But the eyes, they were gone-no, they were close upon the floor, and coming toward them. Tom could not deny that he felt a creeping feeling, and poor Jackie, always observant of the goings on, was simply overcome with fright, and buried his head in Tom's side to shut out the dreaded sight. "Come, Jackie, let's get out of here," encouraged Tom, and having observed a window in the room to the left, he once more took up his charge and made for it. Halfway to his objective point, however, he was startled for a moment to see revealed by a lantern the whiskered face of a man on the other side of the window. Tom stopped short an instant, but not so Jackie, who struggled from his protector's embrace calling out, "There's papa!" In a brief interval Jackie was in his parent's arms, and as they lived next door to the deserted mansion, Tom was soon being thanked time and again for the rescue of the little runaway. "And is the house really haunted?" asked Tom, and then without waiting for a reply he answered his own question "but of course I know it is not." "No," was the laughing response, "but it has been unoccupied except by cats, and in some way has gotten that name." "And then the eyes we saw-?" "Quite likely a stray cat, but still it would not be wondered at if your nerves got on edge. You are a brave boy, Tom Dare, and I know I shall hear of brave deeds of yours in the future." The storm had moderated, and Tom now had to hasten back to camp where he was welcomed for he had for distribution a large bag of apples, given him by Jackie's father. That evening about the camp-fire Tom recounted his adventures to his friends, and a trip was planned for the next day to explore the secrets of the old house. The following morning, after drill and the camp duties had been performed, Tom, Dick and Ben set out for the scene of the previous day's excitement. "I don't believe half of these `haunted house' stories," said Tom, "ever since-," and here he stopped. "Yes, ever since you thought we had a real ghost, and suggested leaving the poor spirit to its own reflection while you and the rest of us made for home," broke in Dick. "When was that?" questioned Ben. "Why, about a year ago," Dick responded, "four of us spent a night in a house with a `haunted' reputation, and after numerous fake alarms, caused by the wind shaking the windows or banging the shutters, we at last got track of the real disturber, who happened along the very night we were on watch." "Who was it?" questioned Ben, eagerly, while Tom, remembering his temporary terror on that night, grew suspiciously red in the face. "None other than a marauding cat," Dick replied, "whose head had stuck in a can it was drinking from, and who knocked the unwelcome helmet on the floor in an effort to disengage it." The boys had now reached the old mansion, and a trip through its ruined rooms failed to reveal anything unusual, so after gathering another supply of apples, the three returned to camp. Chapter XV Dick Again Does Spy-Work As the days and weeks dragged slowly past and the British did not make an attack on the patriot force on Brooklyn Heights, General Washington became somewhat impatient. He was puzzled by the action, or rather lack of action of the enemy, and was desirous of learning what it meant. There was only one way that this could be done-by sending a spy to venture among the enemy and spy upon them, and as Dick Dare had done good work for him on two former occasions, the commander-in-chief decided to try him again. He had been on the Heights, conferring with General Putnam, on the afternoon of August 20th, and presently he summoned an orderly and told him to tell Dick Dare to come to headquarters. The orderly saluted and went in search of the youth, whom he found in company with his brother Tom, and Ben Foster and two or three other soldiers, talking listlessly and wondering when the British would make an attack. "Dick Dare, you are wanted at headquarters," said the orderly. "The commander-in-chief sent me to inform you." Dick leaped up with alacrity. "I'll go at once," he said. "Maybe he is wanting you to do some more spy-work, Dick," suggested Ben. "I hope so. I would like to get away from camp and circulate around awhile." "So would I," said Tom. "Yes, and get captured again," grinned Ben. "You are not cut out for spy-work, Tom. You are too impulsive." "Oh, I don't know about that," demurred Tom. "I'd like to try spying, on my own hook, once, like Dick does." "I don't think either of us would be as successful as Dick," remarked Ben. "That is phwat Oi think," said Tim Murphy, the Irish soldier. "Av inywan, now, could come innywhere near bein' as good at spyin' as Dick, phwy Fritz here," he continued with a grin, "would be the mon, Oi'm thinkin'." Fritz Schmockenburg, the Dutch soldier, grunted. "I bet me dot I vould mage ein better sby as vot your vould, Tim Murphies," he said placidly. And then ensued a good-natured dispute between the two, who, although they quarrelled frequently, and to one who did not understand them would seem to be very angry at each other and enemies in fact, were the best of friends. And Tom and Ben egged the two on, for they liked to hear them talk, it affording something in the way of amusement to pass away the time, which was beginning to hang heavy on their hands, camp-life being rather dull and trying, especially to youths like them, who had always been used to an active life in the open fields. Dick had gone to headquarters, and on reaching there, he was given a cordial greeting by Generals Washington and Putnam. "You sent for me, your excellency?" said Dick, after saluting. "Yes, Dick," was the reply. "I think that I shall again call you into requisition. How wold you like to again venture out toward the British lines in search of information?" Dick's face lighted up eagerly. "I would like it first rate, sir," he said. "I thought so, and that is the reason I sent for you. Well, Dick, the fact is, that we are beginning to grow weary of this state of affairs, and would like to learn what is detaining the enemy and causing them to hold back from making an attack. And we wish to learn, if possible, if an attack is intended soon, and if so, on what date. You wish to try your hand at the work of learning this, my boy?" "I shall be glad to make the attempt to secure the information you wish, General Washington," was the prompt and earnest reply. "Very well, Dick. Then the matter is settled. You will leave this evening, as soon as darkness has come, and will visit the special spot in the vicinity of the enemy's camp, and learn all that you possibly can. There is no need of my giving you other than these general instructions, for you have had sufficient experience as a spy to know how to go about it yourself." "Yes, your excellency. I will leave as soon as it is dark, and will do my best to secure some information of value." "I hope that you may succeed, my boy." "I hope so, sir." After a little further conversation Dick took his departure, and rejoined his comrades, who looked at him inquiringly. "Spy-work again, Dick?" queried Ben. "Yes, Ben," was the reply. "That's what we guessed. When do you start?" "This evening." "I wish I could go with you!" said Tom. "I think it will be better for me to go alone," said Dick. "I can do better work alone than if somebody is with me. The general selected me because I have a likely place to hide." "How would it do to take Dootchy wid yez, Dick?" grinned Tim. "He thinks he would be a foine spy." Dick laughed. "I don't know how Fritz would make out in that field of endeavor," he said. "He is so big he couldn't get within a mile of the redcoats without their seeing him," commented Ben. "Yes, that's the only trouble with Fritz," said Tom. "He is too big to be a success as a spy." "I didn't said dot I vould be a goot sby, Dick," responded Fritz. "I said dot I vould be as goot a sby as vot Tim Murphies vould be, see? und I vill stand me by dot statements, alretty." "Wull, Oi have not said thot Oi would make a good spy, Dootchy," said Tim, "so you wouldn't have to be much in thot line to aquil me. But whin it comes to foightin', now, it's mesilf belaves Oi have yez bate, Fritz, me bye." "Oh, I don'd vos know abouid dot, Tim," was the reply. "I think dot I vill do some fighdin' myselufs alretty, ven ve get der retgoads at, yahs." "Maybe so," grinned Tim. "We wull wait an see how yez act whin we come face to face wid the ridcoats." "Oh, you'll both be brave soldiers, no doubt," said Tom. "But, you won't be any ahead of Dick, Ben and myself. We intend to do some fighting, too, when the time comes." "Oi'm bettin' thot yez presint a bold face to the inimy," nodded Tom, who liked the youths immensely. "An' sure, it's meself is wishin' thot we get a chance at the ridcoats before very long." "I hope so, Tim," said Dick. Soon after supper, that evening, Dick made his preparations for going on the expedition. Tom cautioned him again and again to be careful, and not take too great risks. "I won't be there to help you, and you will have to depend on yourself," he said. "I shall be careful," said Dick. "But I'm going to find out when the British intend to make an attack, that is, if such a thing is possible." "I hope that you may succeed, Dick," encouraged Ben. "I'll do my best," and then saying good-bye to his friends, Dick left the works and set out down the slope, heading in the direction of the encampment of the British. He walked at a moderate pace, for there was no occasion for haste. He had the whole night before him. He walked onward an hour or more, and then stopped in the same little clump of timber which had before sheltered him. Climbing a tree, he looked toward the south, and saw, not very far distant, the campfires of the British. The enemy were still occupying their old quarters. Dick did not of course dare venture into the British encampment, for the reason that he would be recognized and placed under arrest as a spy at once, for having pretended to join the force in question only a few weeks before, and the redcoats would be only too glad to get their hands on him now. "I guess the best thing I can do is to remain here till morning," was Dick's thought. "Then I can get a good view of the encampment, and possibly some soldiers may come here to the timber during the day, as they did before, to loll in the shade, and I may again be able to hear something of interest." Dick climbed down out of the tree and lay down under some bushes and was soon sound asleep. That was one thing that made Dick a good person for work of this kind. He did not get excited, and could lie down and sleep soundly almost anywhere, and even with the redcoats in close proximity to him. He was up with the sun, next morning, and after eating a portion of the food he had brought along with him, he felt refreshed, and turned his attention again toward the British encampment. By climbing the tree, he was enabled to get a good view of the camp, and could see the British soldiers at work cooking their breakfast over the campfires. Away in the distance, toward the bay, Dick could make out another encampment, and knew that this was the main force, under General Howe in person. There was no clump of trees near that encampment, however, which made it difficult of approach for spying purposes, which was the reason he had come to this division of the army instead. Dick remained up in the tree an hour or so, and then descended and lay down under some bushes at the edge of the clump of the trees, on the side next to the encampment, and kept a sharp lookout in that direction, watching eagerly for the coming of some of the soldiers. One, two hours passed, and then Dick's patience was rewarded. He saw a couple of British soldiers have the encampment and come strolling in the direction of the clump of trees. Dick would have liked to remain on the ground, but feared that he might be discovered in case he did so, and thinking it better to be careful, he once more careful a position as possible, feeling up as comfortable a position as possible, owing to the fact that the foliage was very thick. The two British soldiers came strolling along, talking and laughing, and presently they entered the clump of trees and sat down under the very tree that Dick was in. Here they made themselves as comfortable as possible, and lighting their pipes, smoked and talked lazily. Dick listened eagerly, hoping to hear something that would be in the nature of news, and of value to General Washington, but the soldiers kept their conversation in personal channels, which was not of much interest to Dick. "I wish they would talk about the army, and what it intends to do," was Dick's thought. But the redcoats did not do this. They talked of matters of no importance or interest to Dick, and after staying an hour or so, they get up and returned to the encampment. Dick was disappointed. "I was in hopes that I would learn something from their conversation," he muttered. "Well, perhaps some more soldiers will visit the clump of trees to-day, and in that case I may succeed in securing some information. I hope that such will be the case, anyway." Noon came, and no other soldiers had visited the clump of trees. Dick was not discouraged, however. He felt that he would likely get a chance to hear other soldiers talk that afternoon. He ate the rest of his food, and then sat down beside a tree and took it easy for a while. He knew that the soldiers were busy cooking their dinners, and that none would likely come to the timber for quite a while. As he sat there, gazing idly over toward the encampment, however, he suddenly heard footsteps behind him, and turned his head quickly, and saw a British soldier standing within a few paces of him, musket in hand, eyeing him suspiciously. "Hello," greeted the redcoat. Dick was surprised and somewhat dismayed as well, but he was a cool youth, and did not let the fact that he was flustered show on his face. Instead, he affected a cool and careless air, and replied: "Hello. Good afternoon, sir." The soldier stood there, keeping a keen eye on the youth. "Who are you?" he queried. "My name is Dick Morris." Dick gave the first name that came to his mind. "Humph. What are you doing here?" "Nothing. Just sitting here." "Why are you sitting here?" Dick believed the soldier was suspicious of him. "I'm resting," replied the youth. "Resting, eh?" "Yes, sir." "What made you tired?" "I have come quite a distance. I walked here from nearly twenty miles east, and I'm resting in the shade, before continuing my journey. No objection is there?" "Humph. Where are you bound for?" "Over on the shore of the bay." "What are you going there for?" "To work for a man, sir." "Who?" "An old fisherman." "Humph. You seem to be interested in the army, yonder, judging by the way you were looking that way when I came up." "Yes, sir," replied Dick, quietly. "When one has never seen an army before, it does interest one." The redcoat eyed Dick searchingly. "I'm almost inclined to believe that you are not what you make out yourself to be," he said, after a few moments. "Why so, sir?" Dick opened his eyes as if surprised and puzzled and looked at the soldier inquiringly. "Because-in these times of war, it is often the case that anyone like yourself may turn out to be a spy." "A spy?" exclaimed Dick, assuming a most astonished expression. "Yes, and you may be a spy for all I know." Dick shook his head. "Oh, no, you've got another guess," he said. He felt that he was doing no wrong in denying being a spy, to a British soldier. "I'm not so sure of it," was the stubborn reply. "I think that I shall have to take you into camp and see what General Percy has to say about the matter." Dick's heart sank. General Percy was the officer he had seen, a few weeks before, when he had pretended to join the British force, and the officer would recognize him at once, without doubt. It would not do to permit himself to be taken into the camp, a prisoner. It would result disastrously, as he would likely be shot as a spy, for it was known that he had rescued the patriot prisoners out of the old prison-ship in the bay, and he would be handled severely. Even though only a boy in years, he had proven himself capable of doing a man's work. "Oh, I wouldn't do that, if I were you," said Dick, calmly. The soldier smiled grimly. "I suppose you do not view the matter favorably," he replied. "But, I think it my duty to take you into camp, for you may be a dangerous spy." Dick had been doing some swift thinking, and he had made up his mind that he must not permit himself to be taken into the encampment a prisoner. He must manage in some way to prevent the soldier from accomplishing this. The only way, so far as he could see, was to engage the soldier in a struggle, and overpower him, and as the redcoat looked a pretty husky fellow, this would likely not be an easy thing to accomplish. But Dick was more than ordinarily strong, and he was quick and athletic, and a good wrestler, and he believed he could overpower the soldier. He felt confident he could do so, if he could succeed in taking the redcoat by surprise. Dick, busy thinking, made no reply to the redcoat's last remark, and the soldier, after waiting a few moments, said sharply: "Get up, young fellow." Dick rose to his feet, slowly and quietly. His actions were such as would cause the redcoat to think he did not contemplate offering any resistance, and this was done purposely, so as to throw the redcoat off his guard. And it worked that way, for the soldier, with a careless wave of the hand, said: "March along in front of me to the encampment, young fellow. We'll see what General Percy thinks about you." But Dick did not march, as ordered to do. Instead, he suddenly leaped upon the amazed soldier, and seizing him by the throat, so as to prevent his crying out, tripped him, throwing him to the ground heavily, and then, seated astride the redcoat's body, and holding him pinned to the earth in spite of his struggles. The soldier was a pretty strong man, but he had been taken at a disadvantage and by surprise, and so was not in a position to exercise his full powers, and the result was, that although only a youth of eighteen years, Dick managed to choke the soldier into a state of insensibility in a very few minutes. And then, when confident that the redcoat was unconscious, Dick let go his hold, and proceeded to bind the redcoat's hands and feet, and gag him. This accomplished, the youth dragged the soldier into the deepest and thickest clump of bushes and concealed him there, so that in case any soldiers came to the timber, later on, they would not discover his presence. Having accomplished this task, Dick sat down beside the tree and drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction. "There, that turned out all right, after all," he murmured. "But, I thought at first that I might be taken into camp a prisoner, and that would have been bad indeed." Dick looked toward the encampment keenly, as he spoke, and noted that all was quiet there, and that none of the soldiers were as yet evincing any disposition to visit the clump of timber. At least an hour passed, and then Dick saw a couple of soldiers leave the encampment and come toward the timber. As soon as he was certain they were coming to loll in the shade of the trees, Dick climbed the tree. From there he could hear the conversation of the redcoats, and there was not much chance that they would discover his presence, the foliage in the tree as has been noted, being quite thick. The two soldiers entered the edge of the timber and seated themselves under a tree close to the one Dick was in, and sat there, smoking and talking, their conversation being mainly personal, as had been the case with the two that had been there in the forenoon. But, after a while they got to talking about the army, and finally touched upon the very matter that Dick wish to hear discussed. In a general way they commented upon the bustle, stir and preparation that indicated some important move. "I'm glad of it," remarked one. "I am getting tired of being cooped up in camp. I'd rather do some marching and fighting." "So would I. Well, I think it likely that we will have fighting to do in a few days, if the colonel knew what he was talking about, and I suppose he did." "He had the news from General Percy?" "I suppose so. The general was over to the main encampment yesterday, you know, and likely they held a council of war and decided to make an attack." Dick was straining every nerve to hear distinctly. Just then a groan sounded, from amid the clump of bushes in which Dick had placed the soldier he had overpowered. The soldiers heard it, and looked at each other wonderingly and inquiringly and then gazed keenly toward the clump of bushes. Dick had heard the groan also, and his heart sank, for he thought that if the soldiers found and released the other redcoat, a search might be instituted for him, and result in his discovery and capture. "What does that mean, comrade?" remarked one of the soldiers. "Somebody groaned," was the reply. "Let's take a look in that clump of bushes and see who is there, and what ails him." They leaped to their feet, and drawing pistols, strode to the edge of the clump of bushes, and stooping, pushed their way through between the bushes. A few moments later Dick heard an exclamation from the lips of one of the soldiers, and knew they had discovered the bound redcoat. The youth had thought of slipping down out of the tree and trying to make his escape, but did not do so, for he realized that the chances were that he would be seen and either shot or captured. So he decided to remain where he was, and risk being discovered. A few minutes later the three redcoats emerged from amid the bushes, the two having freed the redcoat from his bonds. They paused underneath the tree Dick was in, and the redcoat explained about his encounter with and capture by the person he had suspected of being a spy and had intended to march into the camp, a prisoner. To Dick's amusement, the redcoat described him as being a big, ferocious-looking fellow, a six-footer, and very strong. Evidently the soldier did not want his comrades to know that he had been overpowered and mad a prisoner by a youth of eighteen years, and smaller than himself. "I suppose the rascally spy isn't still in this clump of timer, eh?" remarked one of the soldiers, with a glance around. "No, not likely," was the reply of the one who had been made a prisoner. "Probably he got away from here as quickly as possible, after making a prisoner of me." "Luckily he was not here to listen to what we were saying," remarked one, and he looked significantly at the other who agreed. Then one suggested that they go into the encampment and make a report of the affair to the general. The other two assented to this proposition, and they at once left the clump of trees and made their way to the encampment. Dick was eager, now, to get away from there. He felt that he had important if not really definite information and wished to get it to General Washington as quickly as possible. He knew that he might succeed in getting away from the clump of timber without being discovered, but again there was a chance that he would be seen and captured, and so he decided to wait till nightfall, when he could slip away in safety, and without being in any danger of being seen. True, the redcoats might come and search the clump of timber, for the spy the soldier had had the encounter with, but the youth did not believe they would do so, as they would not think him likely to linger thereabouts after having had the struggle with the British soldier there. So Dick remained in the timber, and the result justified his judgment, for the soldiers did not come out again to make a search. Evidently it was thought that the spy had taken his departure. When night came, Dick slipped away and started in the direction of the patriot encampment on Brooklyn Heights. He reached there in safety, a couple of hours later, and at once went to headquarters and made his report, General Washington being there, conferring with General Putnam. When Dick told them of the unwonted activities in the British lines they were well pleased, and said that if an attack were made they would be able to hold their position on the Heights, in spite of the superior numbers of the enemy. Next day preparations were begun for the reception of the British, and all was done that could be to make it possible to offer strong and successful battle to the enemy. Then the patriots waited, as patiently as possible for the coming of the British, who might now come at any time. The days dragged slowly by, however, and it was not until the morning of the 27th of August that the British advanced to attack. Seated in their quarters on the Heights, Dick, Tom and Ben, and the other soldiers were discussing the matter and wishing that the redcoats would do something, when suddenly the rattle of musketry was heard, coming from down on the Narrows road, near the bay, where General Stirling's division was stationed. "To arms!" at once shouted General Putnam. "The British are beginning the attack!" Instantly all was excitement. The soldiers grabbed their muskets and took their places, ready for battle, and down where Stirling's force was there sounded the rattle of musketry, as volleys were exchanged. It was indeed exciting, and Dick, Tom and Ben, their eyes shining, could scarcely contain themselves. They wanted to be at the front, helping fight the redcoats. "Say, Dick, ask General Putnam to let us go down there," pleaded Ben Foster. "I want to help fight the redcoats!" "Yes, do ask him, Dick," urged Tom. "I can't stand staying here, doing nothing, when there is fighting going on. Get him to let us go down there." "All right, I'll try," said Dick. "I would like it myself. But, I'm afraid he won't be willing to let us go." "Ask him, anyway," said Tom. "I will," and Dick hastened to General Putnam and made his wish known. General Putnam listened, but shook his head. "No, I can't permit you to go down there," he said. "You must stay here with your company. If it should go, of course you would go too. But I don't think it will leave the works." Dick nodded, a disappointed look on his face. "Very well, sir," he said, and turning, started to rejoin his comrades. "It is possible that I may make use of you boys as messengers during the battle, Dick," the general said. He had noted the disappointed look on the youth's face, and doubtless thought the idea of being used as messengers would please the boys. It evidently pleased Dick, for he turned a beaming face toward the general and said: "Thank you, General Putnam. If you have any messages to send to the commanders of the other forces, at the front, we will be glad to take them." "Very well, Dick. It is likely that I shall want to send some messages. You boys hold yourselves in readiness to take them." "We will do so, sir." Then Dick hastened back to his comrades and told them the result of the interview. They were slightly disappointed because of not being permitted to go and join the troops already engaged in fighting the British, but were pleased with the idea of being sent to the commanders with orders. "I hope General Putnam will have a lot of messages to send," said Tom Dare, his eyes shining with excitement. "So do I," said Ben Foster. Chapter XVI The Battle of Long Island Down on the Narrows Road, General Stirling's force was holding its own against the British. The patriot soldiers were steady and calm, and loaded and fired regularly and with considerable effect, and had fortune gone well with Sullivan's division, the Continental soldiers would probably have won the battle. But General Sullivan, stationed on the hills south of Bedford, was attacked fiercely in front by a strong force of British, and another force under Generals Howe and Cornwallis, having marched around to the north of this position, by way of the Jamaica Road, attacked Sullivan from the rear, and his force, thus caught between two fires, was driven back and forth among the trees, with disastrous results. General Putnam, watching the battle from the Heights, through his glass, saw that Sullivan was in difficulties and in danger of capture, and he decided to send a message to Stirling, warning him of this fact, and ordering him to retreat toward the Heights as quickly as possible-for as soon as Sullivan's force was overpowered, the British would sweep on across the fields and fall upon the rear of Stirling's force and capture it. So, having written a brief note, General Putnam summoned Dick Dare. "Do you think you can find General Stirling?" the general asked. "I think so, sir," was the reply. "He is over on Narrows Road. You will know him, because he will be mounted on a large bay horse. Get to him as quickly as possible, and hand him this message," and he gave Dick the slip of paper. "I will do so, General Putnam," said Dick, firmly. "Very good. Now hurry. Get there as quickly as possible." Dick hastened away, running swiftly, and as he passed where Tom and Ben were stationed, he called out: "I'm taking a message to General Stirling." "Good for you," cried Ben. "Go it," from Tom. Dick vaulted over the breastworks and then ran down the slope at the top of his speed. "I'm a messenger from General Putnam," he called to the sentinel, as he approached the soldier on duty partway down the slope, and then on he dashed, without slackening speed in the least. Soon he was in among the trees and out of sight of the patriot soldiers on the Heights. He knew the direction to go in order to reach General Stirling, and he headed in that direction and kept up his speed. Dick heard the firing over to his left, and knew this was where General Sullivan was having such a hot fight with the enemy. The youth would pass within two or three hundred yards of the left wing of the attacking British, and he kept a sharp lookout in that direction, for he did not want to get shot by any of the British soldiers. Presently he caught sight of the right wing of Sullivan's force, and saw the patriot soldiers firing at the British as rapidly as possible, and then he saw the redcoats, who were attacking the patriots from both the front and the rear. Dick wished that he might be able to help the patriot soldiers fight the British, but he had business of his own to attend to, and so he kept onward, running at the top of his speed. Suddenly, however, when he was perhaps halfway to the point where General Stirling's army was fighting so bravely, he was given a surprise, and a most unpleasant one-for he found himself confronted by a force of British soldiers, which was making a flank movement, with the intention, doubtless, of falling upon Sullivan's right wing. Doubtless another force was executing a similar movement on the opposite side, to attack Sullivan's left wing, and when this movement was finished, the soldiers under Sullivan would be surrounded. Dick halted instantly, on catching sight of the approaching soldiers. He had seen them while still they were a couple of hundred yards distant, they being easy to see owing to the brilliant red of their coats, which stood out plainly between the trees. He wondered if he had been seen. If not, it might be possible to escape capture by hiding-if a hiding-place could be found. If he were to turn to the right and run in that direction, with the purpose of getting around the end of this advancing force, he would be almost certain to be seen and either shot down or captured. Evidently, therefore, the proper thing for him to do was to hide if he could find a place of concealment. But could he do this? He glanced around him, eagerly and anxiously. He was determined to get through the British ranks and deliver the message to General Stirling, if such a thing were possible. It would never do to fail in the very first work that he was given to do in a battle with the British. No, he must reach General Stirling. General Putnam had shown confidence in Dick, and the youth was not going to give the general reason to think his confidence had been misplaced. But, where could he hide? While pondering this matter, Dick was standing behind a larger tree, and on glancing around this tree, to see how close the redcoats were, the youth noted an interesting fact: The tree was hollow. There was an opening at least two feet high by a foot and a half wide, at the bottom, but halfway around to the other side. In order to enter this opening, Dick would have to take the chance of being seen by the approaching British soldiers. It seemed to be his only chance, however, for he could not hope to run around the end of the force and escape without being shot down, and to remain where he was would be to be discovered the instant the soldiers came up to him. This being settled, Dick did not hesitate, but acted at once. He dropped to the ground, and lying on his stomach, wriggled his way around the tree-trunk, much after the fashion of a huge snake. He glanced toward the approaching redcoats, and while he could see them plainly, they being within seventy-five yards of him, they had not as yet, he felt certain, discovered him. This gave him courage, and quickly he reached the opening and crawled through it and into the hollow within. Crouching back as far from the opening as possible, Dick waited anxiously for the coming of the British soldiers. Had they seen him as he crawled through the opening? Would he be hauled out of the hollow tree and made a prisoner? Dick could not say. All he could do was to wait and see what would happen. If the redcoats had seen him, he would certainly be captured, but if they had not, then he stood a chance of escaping discovery, and when they passed, he could continue on his way and deliver the message to General Stirling. How Dick wished that this might be the case! The moments that intervened before the redcoats reached the vicinity of the tree were anxious ones for Dick. He sat there, crouching back as far as possible from the opening, and waited, and as he heard the footsteps and voices of the British soldiers, his heart came up into his throat. It was indeed a critical moment. It was a situation to try the nerve of the bravest person. Louder sounded the footsteps, plainer the voices of the redcoats. Closer and closer the soldiers came, and then some of them appeared opposite the opening. Dick's heart was in his mouth. He held his breath and wondered if some of the redcoats would stop and haul him out from his hiding-place. But no, nothing of the kind occurred. It was now evident that he had not been seen as he was entering the hollow tree, and the redcoats merely walked past, without looking through the opening, and Dick was not discovered. Eagerly and thankfully he saw the soldiers pass, and when they had all gone by, and had gotten perhaps fifty yards beyond, he stuck his head out through the opening and took a look after his enemies. They were walking swiftly onward, their faces to the front. Not one was looking back, and deeming it was safe, Dick crawled out of his hiding-place, and heaving a sigh of relief, he again set out in the direction of the point where Stirling's force was giving such valiant battle to the British. On Dick ran, at top speed, and presently he emerged upon the Narrows Road, and caught sight of the patriot force, and also of the British. The battle between these two divisions of the armies was still going on, and Dick quickly caught sight of General Stirling, who was seated on his big bay charger, watching the progress of the battle. Dick hastened up to the general, and saluting, said: "I have message for you, General Stirling, from General Putnam." General Stirling took the message and quickly read the few words written there. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Sullivan is in sore straits, being attacked from both front and rear, and I must retreat, or my force will be treated to the same fate." Then he turned to Dick, and said: "Tel General Putnam I will begin retreating toward the Heights at once." "Yes, General Stirling," said Dick, and then he moved away, in the direction from which he had come, while General Stirling gave the order for his force to beat a retreat. They obeyed, though reluctantly, for they did not know that Sullivan's force was practically in the hands of the British, and so could not understand why the order to retreat was given. They knew there was a strong force of redcoats over to their left hand, however, and so they kept a sharp lookout in that direction as they fell back. They were attacked from that side, by a part of the force, and General Stirling, while fighting valiantly, was surrounded and made a prisoner. Dick, from quite a distance, saw the capture of General Stirling, and he remained where he was for a little while, until he saw that the main force under Stirling succeeded in getting past the British and were coming toward the Heights, which they would undoubtedly succeed in reaching, and then he turned and hastened on up to the Heights, and made his way to General Putnam. "I delivered the message to General Stirling, sir," the youth said, "and he told me to say to you that he would begin a retreat at once." "Very well, Dick," said Putnam. "You did well to deliver the message." "I saw his force retreating, sir, from down the slope a ways," went on Dick, "and I saw some of the redcoats make a prisoner of General Stirling." "So you say, my boy?" exclaimed Putnam. "That is bad. Well, it cannot be helped. But, I think the major portion of his force will succeed in reaching the Heights." "Yes, I think so, General Putnam. The soldiers are coming steadily, and have got past the main part of the British force." "Thanks for the information, Dick," said the general, and then the youth rejoined his comrades at the breastworks. Tom and Ben had many questions to ask, and he told them briefly the story of his trip with the despatch. The soldiers of Stirling's force reached and entered the works on the Heights by the time Dick had finished his story, and the battle of Long Island was practically ended, the firing ceasing very soon afterwards. The British army now advanced till in front of Brooklyn Heights, but it did not attempt to storm the defenses. Doubtless General Howe remembered Bunker Hill, and felt that a repetition of that experience would be disastrous to the king's cause. General Washington sent over two thousand more soldiers, from New York, which made the force ten thousand strong within the patriot works of Brooklyn Heights, and he was positive, as was General Putnam also, that the Heights could be held, that if the British made an attack it would be disastrous for them. The action of General Howe showed that he thought so too, for instead of getting ready to attack, he stretched his force around the Heights, from the East River on the north to the East River again, on the south, in a semicircle, and it was plain that his intention was to establish a siege. General Washington realized at once that it would not do to stay on Brooklyn Heights, under such circumstances, for if the British fleet were to come up the East River and cut off the patriot army's retreat in that direction, the only result possible would be the surrender of the Continental army on the Heights. As he had no intention of surrendering, he decided to evacuate the position, and that night all the boats that could be gathered together were secured and the patriot army was removed across the river to New York. Also all the arms, ammunitions, provisions of every kind, and the heavy artillery, were ferried over. Nothing was left, and when next morning the British looked up at the works on the Heights, they were amazed to see no signs of life there-for so silently and cautiously had the patriots worked during the night that the British had not gotten an inkling of the movement. The redcoats pushed up the hill, and climbed over the works, only to stare around in dismay. Nothing was left of the big army that had been there only the evening before. This achievement of General Washington, this wonderful feat of withdrawing an entire army of ten thousand men, with all the arms, including heavy artillery, and the ammunitions and provisions from right under the very nose of the enemy, and without the enemy even suspecting what was going on, will always be considered one of the greatest triumphs of generalship the world has ever known. This feat, when it became known in England, caused some of the greatest soldiers, and generals, and over in Europe as well, to shake their heads and declare that General Washington was a commander who would cause the British a great deal of trouble. And after events proved that they were right in their prophecies. General Putnam must have told General Washington about Dick Dare having carried a message practically through the lines of the British, to General Stirling, during the battle of Long Island, for the commander-in-chief, happening to see Dick the day after the army took up quarters in New York, spoke to him about the matter, and complimented him on having successfully delivered the message, thus probably saving Stirling's force from capture. To say that Dick was well pleased at receiving words of praise from the lips of the commander-in-chief is stating it mildly. And when he told Tom and Ben what General Washington had said, they were well pleased also, and declared that the commander-in-chief should have cause to be satisfied with all three of them many times before the end of the war, and, as friends will find, if they read the succeeding volume of the Dare Boys Series, which will be entitled, "The Dare Boys on The Hudson," the brothers kept their word, and performed many, many wonderful deeds of daring while fighting for Liberty. The British commander-in-chief now put in a week trying to get the patriot commander-in-chief to agree to peace, he stating that the king would make certain concessions, but as in accordance with the Declaration of Independence this was not to be thought of for a moment, the interviews came to naught, and so the British commander-in-chief began making preparations to continue the war. His next move, undoubtedly would be to capture New York City, and General Washington knew this would be an easy matter, so he made preparations to retreat to Harlem Heights, on the banks of the Hudson at the north end of Manhattan Island, where he would occupy a strategic position. On the fifteenth of September the British made the move that was expected. Warships from Admiral Howe's fleet ascended the Hudson river as far as Bloomingdale, and the East River as far as Blackwell's Island, and while they bombarded the north end of the island, General Howe brought his army across from Brooklyn in boats, and landed at Kipp's Bay, near what is now the foot of 34th Street. General Washington came down from the Heights with two brigades of patriot soldiers, with the purpose of holding the British in check long enough for General Putnam to evacuate the lower part of the city with the four thousand soldiers under him at that point. This was accomplished, and when Putnam and his men were safe on the Heights, the two brigades retired to the Heights also. The British then took possession of New York City, and so the two armies lay, the Continental on the Heights and the British in the city, confronting each other, on Manhattan Island. It was an interesting situation, and especially so to Dick and Tom Dare and Ben Foster, who were now just beginning to feel that they were soldiers in the patriot army. One evening, a few days after the British took possession of New York and the patriots took up their station on Harlem Heights, the commander-in-chief of the patriot army made the soldiers a stirring speech, as they were assembled at the center of the encampment, saying that he expected each and every soldier to do his full duty, and support the cause of Liberty with his life if need be. The speech made a great impression on Dick, Tom and Ben, and when they went to their quarters, they were enthusiastic about it. "I'll tell you what, boys," said Tom Dare, "it was wonderful, the way General Washington talked, wasn't it?" "Yes, Tom," agreed Dick, "and we'll come up to his expectations, too, or know the reason why." And in enthusiastic unison Tom and Ben exclaimed: "Yes, yes! That we will, Dick!" And when the time came, they kept their word. 
43989	----	THE TRAIL OF THE BADGER [Illustration: "DICK PUSHED HIS RIFLE-BARREL THROUGH A CREVICE IN THE ROCKS."] The Trail of The Badger _A STORY OF THE COLORADO BORDER THIRTY YEARS AGO_ BY SIDFORD F. HAMP _Author of "Dale and Fraser, Sheepmen," "The Boys of Crawford's Basin," etc._ ILLUSTRATED BY CHASE EMERSON [Illustration: logo] W. A. WILDE COMPANY BOSTON CHICAGO _Copyrighted, 1908_ BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY _All rights reserved_ THE TRAIL OF THE BADGER PREFACE In writing the adventures of the boys who followed "The Trail of the Badger" down into that part of Colorado where the fringes of two discordant civilizations overlapped each other--the strenuous Anglo-Saxon and the easygoing Mexican--the author has endeavored to show how two healthy, enterprising young fellows were able to do their little part in that great work of Desert Reclamation whose importance is now as well understood by the general public as it always has been by those whose lot has been cast to the west of meridian one hundred and five. To some it may appear that the boys are ahead of their time, but to the author, whose introduction to "the arid region" dates back thirty years and more, remembering the conditions then prevailing, it seems no more than natural that they should recognize the unusual opportunity presented to them of making a career for themselves, and even that they should be dimly conscious of the fact that if they "could make two ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of ground where only one grew before" they would be deserving well of the infant community of which they formed a part. That in making this attempt they would meet with adventures--in fact, that they could hardly avoid them--the author, recalling his own experiences in that country at that time, feels well assured. CONTENTS I. DICK STANLEY 11 II. SHEEP AND CINNAMON 32 III. THE MESCALERO VALLEY 51 IV. RACING THE STORM 68 V. HOW DICK BROUGHT THE NEWS 87 VI. THE PROFESSOR'S STORY 102 VII. DICK'S DIPLOMACY 116 VIII. THE START 129 IX. ANTONIO MARTINEZ 147 X. THE PADRON 165 XI. THE SPANISH TRAIL 179 XII. THE BADGER 191 XIII. THE KING PHILIP MINE 203 XIV. A CHANGE OF PLAN 221 XV. DICK'S SNAP SHOT 241 XVI. THE OLD PUEBLO HEAD-GATE 259 XVII. THE BRIDGE 276 XVIII. THE BIG FLUME 294 XIX. PEDRO'S BOLD STROKE 313 XX. THE MEMORABLE TWENTY-NINTH 333 ILLUSTRATIONS "Dick pushed his rifle-barrel through a crevice in the rocks" (_Frontispiece_) 42 "It was a splendid chance; nobody could ask for a better target" 57 "Passing on our way through the town of Mosby" 137 "Behind him, stood the squat figure of Pedro Sanchez" 213 "I could not think what he was doing it for" 286 The Trail of the Badger CHAPTER I DICK STANLEY "Look out! Look out! Behind you, man! Behind you! Jump quick, or he'll get you!" It was a boy, a tall, spare, wiry young fellow of sixteen, who shouted this warning, his voice, in its frantic urgency, rising almost to a shriek at the end; and it was another boy, also tall, spare and wiry, to whom the warning was shouted. The latter turned to look behind him, and for one brief instant his whole body stiffened with fear--his very hair stood on end. Nor is this a mere figure of speech: the boy's hair did actually stand on end: he could feel it "creep" against the crown of his hat. _I know_--for I was the boy! That I had good reason to be "scared stiff" I think any other boy will admit, for, not thirty feet below me, coming quickly and silently up the rocks, his little gleaming eyes fixed intently upon me, was a grim old cinnamon bear, an animal which, though less dangerous than his big cousin, the grizzly, is quite dangerous enough when he is thoroughly in earnest. But for my companion's warning shout the bear would surely have caught me, and my story would have come to an end at the very beginning of the first chapter. It was certainly an awkward situation, about as awkward, I should think, as any boy ever got himself into; and how I, Frank Preston, lately a schoolboy in St. Louis, happened to find myself on a spur of Mescalero Mountain, in Colorado, with a cinnamon bear charging up the rocks within a few feet of me, needs a word of explanation. I will therefore go back a few steps in order to give myself space for a preliminary run before jumping head-first into my story, and will tell not only how I came to be there, but will relate also the curious incident which first brought me into contact with my future friend, Dick Stanley; an incident which, while it served as an introduction, at the same time gave me some idea of the resourcefulness and promptness of action with which his very peculiar training had endowed him. It was in the last week of October, 1877, that I was seated one evening in my room in St. Louis, very busy preparing my studies for next day, when the door opened suddenly and in walked my Uncle Tom. When, at the age of seven, I had been left an orphan, Uncle Tom, my mother's brother, though himself a bachelor, had taken charge of me, and with him I had lived ever since. He and I, I am glad to say, were the best of friends--regular chums--for, though twenty years my senior, he seemed in some respects to be as young as myself, and our relations were more like those of elder and younger brother than of uncle and nephew. Uncle Tom was rather short and rather fat, and he was moreover one of the jolliest of men, being blessed with a disposition which prompted him always to see the bright side of things, no matter how dark and threatening they might look. Having at a very early age been pitched out into the world to "fend for himself," and having by square dealing and hard work done remarkably well, he had imbibed the idea that book-learning as a means of getting on in the world was somewhat overrated; an idea which, right or wrong--and I think myself that Uncle Tom carried it rather too far--was to have a decided effect in shaping my own career. As it was against the rule, laid down by Uncle Tom himself, for any one to disturb me at my studies, I naturally looked up from my books to ascertain the cause of the intrusion, when, with a cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, he came bulging in, half filling the little room. That there was something unusual in the wind I felt sure, and my guardian's first act went far to confirm my suspicion, for, removing one hand from his pocket, he quietly reached forward and with his finger tilted my book shut. "Put 'em away," said he. "You won't need them for a month or more." As the fall term of school was then in full swing, this declaration was a good deal of a surprise to me, as any one will suppose, and doubtless I showed as much in my face. "I have a scheme in my head, Frank," said he, with a knowing wag of that member, in reply to my look of inquiry. "I know _that_," I replied, laughing; for there never was a moment when Uncle Tom had not a scheme in his head of one sort or another. "You spider-legged young reptile!" cried he, with perfect good humor, but at the same time shaking a threatening finger at me. "Don't you dare to laugh at my schemes; especially this one. For this is a brand-new idea, and a very important one--to you. I'm leaving to-morrow night for Colorado." "Are you?" I cried, a good deal surprised by this sudden announcement. "When did you decide upon that?" "To-day. I got a letter this afternoon from my friend, Sam Warren, the assayer, written from Mosby--if you know where that is." I shook my head. "I didn't suppose you did," remarked Uncle Tom. "It is a new mining camp on one of the spurs of Mescalero Mountain in Colorado, and in the opinion of Sam Warren--my old schoolmate, you know--it has a great future before it. So he has written me that if I have the time to spare I had better come out and take a look at it." Uncle Tom's business was that of a mining promoter, the middle man between the prospector and the capitalist, a business in which his ability and his honorable methods had gained for him an enviable reputation. "So you have decided to go out, have you?" said I. "Yes," he replied. "I leave to-morrow evening--and you are coming with me." As may be imagined, I opened my eyes pretty widely at this unfolding of the "brand-new idea." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Look here, Frank, old chap," said he, seating himself on the edge of the table and becoming confidential. "You've stuck to your books very well--if anything, too well. Now, I've had my eye on you ever since the hot weather last summer, and it strikes me you need a change--you are too pale and altogether too thin." Being fat and "comfortable" himself, Uncle Tom was disposed to regard with pity any one, like myself, whose framework showed through its covering. "But----" I began; when Uncle Tom headed me off. "Now you be quiet," said he, "and let me finish. I've had some such idea brewing in my head for some time; it isn't a sudden freak, as you imagine. I've considered the matter carefully, and I've come to the conclusion that you'll lose nothing by the move. In fact, what you will lose by missing a month or so of schooling will be more than made up to you by the eye-opener you will get in making this expedition." "How so?" I asked. "You will make the acquaintance of a young State just learning to walk alone--for, as you know, it was only last year that Colorado came into the Union; you will see a new mining camp, and rub up against the men, good, bad and indifferent, who go to make up the community of a frontier town; and more than that, you will get at first hand, what you never could get by sitting here and reading about it, a correct idea of the country traversed by the explorers--Pike, Frémont and the rest of them. "I am honestly of opinion, Frank," he went on, seriously, "that this is an opportunity not to be neglected. At the same time, old fellow, as it is your education and not mine that is under discussion, I consider that you have a right to a voice in the matter; so I'll leave you to think it over, and to-morrow at breakfast you can tell me whether you are coming or not." With that, Uncle Tom slipped down from the table, walked out and shut the door behind him. That was his way: he was always as sudden as a clap of thunder. Anybody will guess that my books did not receive much more attention that evening. For an hour I paced up and down the room, considering Uncle Tom's proposition. It was true that I did feel pulled down by the effects of the hot weather, combined with a pretty close application to my books, and I had no doubt that the expedition proposed would do me a world of good; though whether my education would be benefited in like manner I was not so sure as Uncle Tom seemed to be. But though I did my best honestly to consider the question in all its aspects, there can be little doubt that my inclinations--whether I was aware of it or not--colored my judgment, so that my final decision was just what might have been expected in any active boy of sixteen. As the clock struck ten I ran down-stairs and informed Uncle Tom that I was going with him. It is not necessary to go into all the details of our journey, though to me, who had never before been a hundred miles from home, everything was new and everything was interesting. It is enough to say that, leaving the train at the foot of the mountains--for the railroad then went no further--we engaged places in the mail-carrier's open buckboard, and after a very rough and very tiring drive of a day and a half we at last reached our destination and were set down at the door of a house outside which hung a "shingle" bearing the legend, "Samuel Warren, Assayer and U. S. Dep. Min. Surveyor." It will be remembered that one of Uncle Tom's reasons for breaking into my school term was that I should rub up against the citizens comprising a frontier settlement. He could hardly have contemplated, however, that I should come in contact with quite so many of them quite so early in the day as I did. We had hardly sat down to the refreshments spread before us by our host--a big, bearded man, clad in a suit of brown canvas--when we, in common with the rest of the community, were startled by the sudden shriek of a woman in distress. To rush to the door was the work of a moment, when, the first thing we caught sight of was a man, clad only in his nightshirt, running like a madman up the street, while far behind him, and losing ground at every step, ran a woman, calling out with all the breath she had to spare--which was not much--"Stop him! Stop him!" "It's Tim Donovan!" shouted the assayer. "He's sick with the mountain-fever! He's crazy! Head him off! Head him off! The poor chap will die of exposure!" Warren's house was near the upper end of the street, and just as we three jumped down the porch steps, the demented fugitive passed the door, going like the wind. At once we set off in pursuit, while behind us came all the rest of the population and most of the dogs, by this time roused to action by the cries of the sick man's wife. Nobody knows until he has tried it how hard it is to run up-hill at an elevation of nine thousand feet, especially to one unaccustomed to such altitudes. Uncle Tom, who was not built for such exercise, fell out in the first fifty yards, while, of the others, the short-winded barroom loafers--of whom, as is always the case in a new camp, there were more than enough--gave out even more quickly, their habits of life being a fatal handicap in a foot-race. One by one, nearly all the rest came down to a walk, until presently the only ones left with any run in them were Jake Peters and Oscar Swansen, both timber-cutters from the hills, Aleck Smith, a wiry little teamster, and myself. As for me, having the advantage of a good start over everybody else, being only sixteen years old, and having a reputation at school as a long-distance runner, it seemed as though I ought to be able to catch the unfortunate fugitive, who, having run a quarter of a mile already, should by this time be out of breath. Indeed, I believe I should have caught him at the first dash had he not resorted to tactics which made me chary of coming near him. Not more than thirty yards separated us and I was gaining steadily, when he, barefooted himself and making no noise, hearing the clatter of my shoes behind him, suddenly stopped, picked up a stone and hurled it at me. It would have taken me square in the chest had I not jumped aside; when, finding that the man was really dangerous, and knowing very well that I should have no chance whatever in a personal struggle with him--for he was a stout young Irish miner with a fore-arm like a leg of mutton--I contented myself with trotting behind and keeping him in sight; trusting to the able-bodied men following me to do the tackling when the opportunity should arise. The town of Mosby consisted of one steep street about half a mile long and two houses thick; for it was situated in a valley, or, rather, in a gorge, so narrow that there was no room for it to spread except at the two ends. In truth, there was no room for it to grow except southward, for at the upper, or northern, end the mountains came together, forming an inaccessible cañon through which rushed the little stream of ice-cold water coming down from Mescalero. From the lower end of this cañon the stream fell perpendicularly into a great hole in the rocks--a sort of natural chimney, or well, about sixty feet deep. The down-stream side of this "chimney" was split from top to bottom, and through the narrow crack, only four or five feet wide, the water leaped foaming down in a series of miniature cascades. The only way of getting into this deep pit was by taking to the water, scrambling up the steep, step-like bed of the stream and passing through the crack, when, once inside, a man might defy the world to come and get him out. This was exactly what Tim Donovan did. Seeing that he could follow the stream no further, I was wondering whether he would take to the mountain on the right or the one on the left, when he suddenly jumped into the water, ran up the smooth, wet "steps," and disappeared from sight through the crevice. In ten seconds, however, he showed himself again. He had found in the driftwood a ragged branch of a pine tree about three feet long, and with this in one hand and a ten-pound stone in the other he stood at bay, regardless of the icy water which poured over his feet, or of the spray from the fall behind him, which in half a minute had wet his thin single garment through and through. It was an impregnable stronghold. No one could get in from the rear, and the place could not be rushed from the front--the ascent was too steep and slippery and the entrance too narrow. If Tim were determined to stay there and perish with cold, it appeared to me that nobody could do anything to prevent him. One by one the pursuers joined me before the entrance, when Mrs. Donovan, who was among the last to arrive, advanced as near as she could without getting into the water, and besought her errant husband to come down. But Tim was deaf to entreaty; all the blandishments of his anxious wife were without effect, and if she could not get him to come down it appeared as though nobody could. Tim, though, was a popular young fellow, and it was not in the nature of a Colorado miner, or of an Irishman either--for they hold together like burrs in a horse's tail--to desert a comrade in distress. So, Mrs. Donovan having failed, there stepped to the front a short, thick-set, red-haired man, Mike O'Brien by name, Tim's partner and particular crony, who, talking pleasantly and naturally to him, as though his friend were quite sane and rational, stepped into the water and waded carefully up the steep slope. "How are ye, Tim, me boy?" said he, with off-hand cordiality. "It's glad I am to see ye out again. It's me birthday to-day, Tim; I'm having a bit of a supper at home an' I come up to ask ye----" Whack! came the stone from Tim's hand, breaking to pieces against the rocky wall within an inch of Mike's head. The invitation was declined. Mike himself, in his effort to dodge the missile, missed his footing, fell on his back, and in a series of dislocating bumps was swept down the "steps" to the starting place, wet, as he declared, right through to his bones. Up to this time the demented man had kept silence, but on seeing Mike go tumbling down-stream, he shook his fist after him and cried out: "Come back and try again, ye devouring baste! Come on, the whole pack of yez! Don't stand there howling, ye cowardly curs; come up and get me out--if ye dare!" "I believe he thinks we are a pack of wolves," said Mr. Warren. "That's it, Mr. Warren, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, turning to the assayer. "That's it, entirely. He heard a wolf howl last night, and it was hard wor-rk I had to kape him from jumping out of his bed and running off right thin. He thinks it's a pack of them that's hunting him." "Poor fellow! No wonder he refuses to come down. What are we going to do? We _must_ get him out." Then ensued an eager debate, in which everybody took a share except Uncle Tom and myself, who, standing a little apart from the rest on the sloping bank of the stream, were listening and looking on, when some one touched me on my arm, and a boyish voice said: "What's the matter? What's it all about?" Turning round, I saw before me a tall young fellow about my own age, with reddish hair, very keen gray eyes and a much-freckled face, carrying in one hand an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, nearly as long as himself, and in the other three grouse which he appeared to have shot. Wondering who the boy might be, I explained the situation, when he cried: "What! Tim Donovan! Why he'll die if he's left in there. Poor chap! We must get him out." "Yes," said Uncle Tom. "That's just it. But how? The man won't be persuaded to come out, and no one can get in to drag him out--so what's to be done?" The young fellow stood for a minute thinking, and then, suddenly lifting his head, he exclaimed, with a half laugh: "I know! I know what we can do! He can't be persuaded out or dragged out, but he can be driven out." "How?" asked Uncle Tom. "If you'll come with me," replied the boy, "I'll show you in two minutes." So saying, he jumped across the creek and set off straight up the almost perpendicular side of the mountain, we two following. Uncle Tom, however, finding the climb too steep for him, very soon turned back again, so we two boys went on alone. About three hundred feet up my companion stopped, and it was well for me he did, for I could hardly have gone another step, so desperately out of breath was I. "Not used to it, are you?" said the boy, who himself seemed to be quite unaffected. "Well, we don't have to go any higher, fortunately. Look over there. Do you see that stubby pine tree growing out of the rocks and overhanging the waterfall?" "Yes, I see it," I replied. "And what's that big round thing hanging to it?" "A wasps' nest." "A wasps' nest?" "A wasps' nest," repeated my new acquaintance with peculiar emphasis and with a twinkle in his eye. "Ah!" I exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. "I see your little game. Good! You propose to knock down the wasps' nest into the 'well,' and then poor Tim will just have to vacate." "That's my idea." "Great idea, too. But, look here! Are the wasps alive at this time of year?" "They are this year. We've had such a wonderfully warm season that they are just as brisk as ever." "Well, but there's another thing: how are you going to do it? You can't get at it: the rocks are too straight-up-and-down; and you can't come near enough to knock it off with a stone. How are you going to do it?" The young fellow smiled and patted the stock of his gun. "Shoot it down!" I exclaimed. "Do you think you can? It won't be any use plugging it full of holes, you know; you'll have to nip off the little twig it hangs on. Can you do that?" "I think I can." "All right, then, fire away and let's see." I must confess I felt doubtful. The boy did not look nor talk like a braggart, but nevertheless, to cut with a bullet the slim little branch, no bigger than a lead-pencil, upon which the nest hung suspended looked to me like a pretty ticklish shot. My companion, however, seemed confident. Cocking his gun, he kneeled down, and using a big rock as a rest he took careful aim and fired. It was a perfect shot. The big ball of gray "paper" dropped like a plumb, struck the rim of the "well," burst open, and emptied upon the head of the unfortunate Tim about a bucketful of venomous little yellow-jackets, each and every one of them quivering with rage, and each and every one bent on taking vengeance on somebody. The people below were still debating how to get the sick man out of his fortress, when the sound of the rifle-shot caused them all to look up; but only for an instant, for the echoes had not yet died away, when, with a startling yell, out came Tim, frantically waving his club above his head, seemingly more crazy than ever. Supposing that he was making a dash for liberty, half a dozen of his particular friends flung themselves upon him, and down they all went in a heap together. But this arrangement was of the briefest. In another moment, with shrieks and yells and whirling arms, the whole population went charging down the street, Uncle Tom in the lead, running--breath or no breath--as he had never run before. Never was there a more complete victory: besiegers and besieged flying in one general rout before the assaults of the new enemy. And never did I laugh so extravagantly as I did then, to see the enraged yellow-jackets "take it out" on an unoffending community, while the real culprits were all the time sitting safely perched on the mountainside looking down on the rumpus. "Well, we got him out all right," remarked my companion, as he calmly reloaded his rifle. "I thought we could. You're a newcomer, aren't you? My name's Dick Stanley; I live up-stream, just at the head of the cañon. Are you expecting to make a long stay?" "Two or three weeks, I think," I replied. "My uncle, Mr. Tom Allen, is here to inspect the mines, and he brought me with him. We come from St. Louis. My name's Frank Preston. We're staying at Mr. Warren's house." "Well, come up to our house some day. It is in a little clearing just at the head of the cañon--you can't miss it--and we'll go off for a day's grouse-shooting up into the mountains if you like." "All right, I will. That would just suit me. To-morrow?" "Yes, come up to-morrow, if you like. I'll be on the lookout for you. I suppose you are going home now," he continued, as we rose to our feet. "If I were you, I'd keep up here on the side of the mountain--the street will be full of yellow-jackets--and then, when you come opposite the assayer's house, make a bolt for his back door, or some of them may get you yet." "That's a good idea. I'll do it. Well, good-bye. I'll come up to-morrow then, if I can." CHAPTER II SHEEP AND CINNAMON "That was the funniest thing I ever saw," exclaimed Uncle Tom, laughing in spite of himself, while at the same time, with a comically rueful twist of his countenance, he rubbed the back of his neck where one of the wasps had "got" him. "The way poor Tim bolted out of his stronghold after defying the whole population to come and get him out, was the very funniest thing I ever did see. That was a smart trick of that young rascal; though I wish he had given me notice beforehand of what he intended to do. I'd have started to run a good five minutes earlier if I'd known what was coming. Who is the boy, Warren?" "Well, that is not easy to say," replied our host, "for, as a matter of fact, he does not know himself. His history, what there is of it, is a peculiar one. He lives up here at the head of the cañon with an old German named Bergen--commonly known as the Professor--and his Mexican servant, a man of forty whom the professor brought up with him from Albuquerque, I believe. If Frank's object in coming here was to rub up against all sorts and conditions of men, he could hardly have chosen a better place. Certainly he cannot expect to find a more remarkable character than the professor. "The old fellow is regarded by the people here as a harmless lunatic--which, in a community like this, where muscle is at a premium and scientific attainments at a discount, is not to be wondered at--for it is incomprehensible to them that any man in his right mind should spend his life as the professor spends his. "The old gentleman is an enthusiastic naturalist. He is making a collection of the butterflies, beetles and such things, of the Rocky Mountain region, and with true German thoroughness he has spent years in the pursuit. Choosing some promising spot, he builds a log cabin, and there he stays one year--or two if necessary--until that district is 'fished out,' as you may say, when he packs up and moves somewhere else, to do the same thing over again." "Well, that is certainly a queer character to come across," was Uncle Tom's comment. "But how about the boy, Sam? How does he happen to be in such company?" "Why, about twelve or thirteen years ago, old Bergen was 'doing' the country somewhere northwest of Santa Fé, when he made a very strange discovery. It was a bad piece of country for snowslides, which were frequent and dangerous in the spring, and one day, being anxious to get to a particular point quickly, the professor was crossing the tail of a new slide--a risky thing to do--as being the shortest cut, when his attention was attracted by some strange object lodged half way up the great bank of snow. Climbing up to it, he found to his astonishment that the strange object was a wagon-bed, while, to his infinitely greater astonishment, inside it on a mattress, fast asleep, was a three-year-old boy--young Dick!" "That was an astonisher, sure enough!" exclaimed I, who had been an eager listener. "And was that all the professor found?" "That was all. The running-gear of the wagon had vanished; the horses had vanished; and the boy's parents or guardians had vanished--all buried, undoubtedly, under the snow." "And what did the professor do?" "The only thing he could do: took the boy with him--and a fortunate thing it was for young Dick that the old gentleman happened to find him. But though he inquired of everybody he came across--they were not many, for white folks were scarce in those parts then--the professor could learn nothing of the party; so, not knowing what else to do, he just carried off the youngster with him, and with him Dick has been ever since." "That's a queer history, sure enough," remarked Uncle Tom. "And was there nothing at all by which to identify the boy?" "Just one thing. I forgot to say that in the wagon-bed was a single volume of Shakespeare--one of a set: volume two--on the fly-leaf of which was written the name, 'Richard Livingstone Stanley, from Anna,' and as the boy was old enough to tell his own name--Dick Stanley--the professor concluded that the owner of the book was his father. Moreover, as the boy made no mention of his mother, though he now and then spoke of his 'Daddy' and his 'Uncle David,' the old gentleman formed the theory that the mother was dead and that the father and uncle, bringing the boy with them, had come west to seek their fortunes, and being very likely tenderfeet, unacquainted with the dangerous nature of those great snow-masses in spring time, they had been caught in a slide and killed." "Poor little chap," said Uncle Tom. "And he has been wandering about with the old gentleman ever since, has he? He must be a sort of Wild Man of the West in miniature." "Not a bit of it. The professor is a man of learning, and he has not neglected his duty. Dick has a highly respectable education, including some items rather out of the common for a boy: he speaks German and Spanish; he has a pretty intimate knowledge of the wild animals of the Rocky Mountains; and he is one of the best woodsmen and quite the best shot of anybody in these immediate parts." "Well, they are an odd pair, certainly. I should like to go up and see the professor--that is, if he ever receives visitors." "Oh, yes. He's a sociable old fellow. He and I are very good friends. I'll take you up there and introduce you some day. He is well worth knowing. If there is any information you desire concerning the Rocky Mountain country from here southward to the border, Herr Bergen can give it you. You are to be congratulated, Frank, on making Dick's acquaintance so early: he will be a fine companion for you while you stay here. You propose to go grouse-shooting to-morrow, do you? Well, you can take my shotgun--it hangs up there on the wall--and make a day of it; for your uncle and I are proposing to ride up to inspect a mine on Cape Horn, which will take us pretty well all afternoon." I thanked our host for his offer, and next morning, gun in hand, I set off immediately after breakfast for Dick's dwelling. Passing the "well" where Tim Donovan had taken refuge the day before, I ascended by a clearly-marked trail to the edge of the cañon, and following along it through the woods for about a mile, I presently came in sight of a little clearing, in which stood a neat log cabin of two or three rooms. Outside was a Mexican, chopping wood, while in the doorway stood Dick, evidently looking out for me, for, the moment I appeared, he ran forward to meet me. "How are you?" he cried. "Glad you came early: I have a new plan for the day, if it suits you. I've been spying around with a field-glass and I've just seen a band of sheep up on that big middle spur of Mescalero; they are working their way up from their feeding-ground, and I propose that we go after them instead of hunting grouse. What do you say?" "All right; that will suit me." "Come on, then. Just come into the house for a minute first and see the professor, and then we'll dig out at once." From the fact that Mr. Warren had so frequently spoken of the professor as "the old gentleman," I was prepared to see a bent old man, with a white beard and big round spectacles--the typical "German professor," of my imagination. I was a good deal surprised, then, to find a small, active man of sixty, perhaps, a little gray, certainly, but with a clear blue eye and a wide-awake manner I was far from anticipating. He was in the inner room when I entered--evidently the sanctum where he prepared and stored his specimens--but the moment he heard our steps he came briskly out, and, on Dick's introducing me, shook hands with me very heartily. "And how's poor Tim this morning?" he asked, as soon as the formalities, if they can be called so, were over. "He is all right, sir," I replied. "I went down there before breakfast this morning at Mr. Warren's request to inquire. In fact, Tim was so much better apparently that Mrs. Donovan declares that if he ever gets the fever again she intends to apply iced water to his feet and wasp-stings to the rest of his anatomy, as being a sure cure. She is immensely grateful to Dick for having discovered and applied a remedy that has worked so well." "Then if Tim is wise," remarked the professor, laughing, "he won't get the fever again, for I should think the cure would be worse than the disease. But you want to be off, don't you? Do you understand the working of a Winchester repeater? Well," as I shook my head, "then you had better take the Sharp's and Dick the Winchester. And, Dick, you'd better have an eye on the weather. Romero says there is a change coming, and he is generally pretty reliable. So, now, off you go; and good luck to you." Leaving the cabin, we went straight on up the narrow valley for about three miles--the pine-clad mountains rising half a mile high on either side of us--going as quickly as we could, or, to be more exact, going as quickly as I could. For the elevation, beginning at nine thousand feet, increased, of course, at every step, and I, being unused to such altitudes, found myself much distressed for breath--a fact which was rather a surprise to me, considering that in our track-meets at school the mile run was my strong point. I did not understand then that to get enough oxygen out of that thin mountain air it was necessary to take two breaths where one would suffice at sea-level. We had ascended about a thousand feet, I think, when, at the base of the bare ridge for which we had been making, we slackened our pace, and my companion, who knew the country, taking the lead, we went scrambling up over the rocks and snow for an hour or more. The quantity of snow we found up there was a surprise to me, for, from below the amount seemed trifling. There had been a heavy fall up in the range a month before, and this snow, drifting into the gullies, had settled into compact masses, the surface of which, on this, the southern face of the mountain, being every day slightly softened by the heat of the sun, and every night frozen solid again, made the footing exceedingly treacherous. Whenever, therefore, we found it necessary to cross one of these steep-tilted snow-beds we did so with the greatest caution. We had been climbing, as I have said, for more than an hour, and were nearing the top of the ridge, when Dick stopped and silently beckoned to me to come up to where he lay, crouching under shelter of a little ledge. "Smell anything?" he whispered. I gave a sniff and raised my eyebrows inquiringly. "Sheep?" said I, softly. My companion nodded. "They must be somewhere close by," said he, in a voice hardly audible. "Go very carefully and keep your eyes wide open. If you see anything, stop instantly." We were lying side by side upon the rocks, Dick considerately waiting a moment while I got my breath again, and were just about to crawl forward, when there came the sound of a sudden rush of hoofs and a clatter of stones from some invisible point ahead of us, and then dead silence again. "They've winded us and gone off," whispered Dick. But the next moment he added eagerly, "There they are! Look! There they are! Up there! See? My! What a chance!" Immediately on our left was a deep gorge, so narrow and precipitous that we could not see the bottom of it from where we lay. The sheep, having seemingly got wind of us, with that agility which is always so astonishing in such heavy animals, had rushed down one side of the precipitous gorge and up the other, and now, there they were, all standing in a row--eleven of them--on the opposite summit, looking down, not at us, but at something immediately below them. "What do you suppose it is, Dick?" I whispered. "Don't know," my companion replied. "Mountain-lion, perhaps: they are very partial to mutton. Anyhow," he continued, "if we want to get a shot we must shoot from here: we can't move without the sheep seeing us, and they'd be off like a flash if they did. You take a shot, Frank. Take the nearest one. Sight for two hundred yards." "No," I replied. "You shoot. I shall miss: I'm too unsteady for want of breath." "All right." Raising himself a fraction of an inch at a time until he had come to a kneeling position, Dick pushed his rifle-barrel through a crevice in the rocks, took aim and fired. The nearest sheep, a fine fellow with a handsome pair of horns, pitched forward, fell headlong from the ledge upon which he had been standing and vanished from our sight among the broken rocks below; while the others turned tail and fled up the mountain, disappearing also in a minute or less. "Come on!" cried Dick, springing to his feet. "Let's go across and get him. Round this way. Don't trust to that slope of ice: you may slip and break your neck." "But the mountain-lion, Dick," I protested. "Suppose there's a mountain-lion down there." "Oh, never mind him!" Dick exclaimed. "If there was one, he's gone by this time. And even if he should be there yet, he'd skip the moment he saw us. We needn't mind him. Come on!" Away we went, therefore, Dick in the lead, and scrambling quickly though carefully down the rocky wall, we made our way up the bed of the ravine until we found ourselves opposite the ledge upon which the sheep had been standing. Here we discovered that the wall of the gorge was split from top to bottom by a narrow cleft--previously invisible to us--filled with hard snow, and whether the sheep had been standing on the right side or the left of this crevice, and therefore on which side the big ram had fallen, we could not tell; for the wall of the gorge, besides being exceedingly rough, was littered with great masses of rock against any of which the body of the sheep might have lodged. "I'll tell you what, Frank," said my companion. "It might take us an hour or two to search all the cracks and crannies here. The best plan will be to climb straight up to the ledge where the sheep stood and look down. Then, if he is lodged against the upper side of any of these rocks, we shall be able to see him. But as we can't tell whether he was standing on the right or the left of this crevice, suppose you climb up one side while I go up the other." "All right," said I. "You take the one on the left and I'll go up on this side." It was a laborious climb for both of us--and how those sheep got up there so quickly is a wonder to me still--but as my side of the crevice happened to be easier of ascent than Dick's I got so far ahead of him that I presently found myself about fifty yards in the lead. At this point, however, I met with an obstruction which at first seemed likely to stop me altogether. The fallen rocks were so big, and piled so high, that I could not get over them, and for a moment I thought I should be forced to go back and try another passage. Before resorting to this measure, though, I thought I would attempt to get round the barrier by taking to the snow-bank, supporting myself by holding on to the rocks. To do this I should need the use of both my hands, so, as my rifle had no strap by which to hang it over my shoulder, I took out my handkerchief, tied one end to the trigger-guard, took the other end in my teeth, and slinging the weapon behind me, I seized the rock with both hands and set one foot on the snow. It was at this moment that Dick, down below me on the other side of the crevice, while in the act of crawling up over a big rock, caught a glimpse of something moving over on my side, and the next instant, out from between two great fragments of granite rushed a cinnamon bear and went charging up the slope after me. The bear--as we discovered afterward--had found our sheep, and was agreeably engaged in tearing it to pieces, when he caught a whiff of me. He was an old bear, and had very likely been chased and shot at more than once in the past few years--since the white men had begun to invade his domain--and having conceived a strong antipathy for those interfering bipeds which walked on their hind legs and carried "thunder-sticks" in their fore paws, he decided instantly that, before finishing his dinner, he would just dash out and finish me. And very near he came to doing it. It was only Dick's quick sight and his equally quick shout that saved me. My companion's warning cry to jump could have but one meaning: there was nowhere to jump except out upon the snow-bank; and recovering from my first momentary panic, I let go my rifle and sprang out from the rocks. My hope was that I should be able to keep my footing long enough to scramble across to the rocks on the other side; but in this I was disappointed. The snow-bed lay at an angle as steep as a church roof, and while its surface was slightly softened by the sun, just beneath it was as hard and as slippery as glass. Consequently, the moment my feet struck it they slipped from under me, down I went on my face, and in spite of all my frantic clawing and scratching I began to slide briskly and steadily down-hill. The bear--most fortunately for me--seemed to be less cunning than most of his fellows. Had he paused for a moment to reason it out, he would have seen that by waiting five seconds he might leap upon my back as I went by. Luckily, however, he did not reason it out, but the instant he saw me jump he jumped too, and he, too, began sliding down the icy slope ahead of me; for being, as I said, an old bear, his blunted claws could get no hold. It was an odd situation, and "to a man up a tree," as the saying is, it might have been entertaining. Here was the pursuer retreating backward from the pursued, while the pursued, albeit with extreme reluctance, was pursuing the pursuer--also backward. It was like a nightmare--and a real, live, untamed broncho of a nightmare at that--but luckily it did not last long. Finding that no efforts of mine would arrest my downward progress, and knowing that the bear, reaching the bottom first, need only stand there with his mouth wide open and wait for me to fall into it, I whirled myself over and over sideways, until presently my hand struck the rocks, my finger-tips caught upon a little projection, and there I hung on for dear life, not daring to move a muscle for fear my hold should slip. But from this uncomfortable predicament I was promptly relieved. I had not hung there five seconds ere the sharp report of a rifle rang out, and then another, and next came Dick's voice hailing me: "All right, Frank! I've got him! Hold on: I'm coming up!" Half a minute later, as I lay there face downward on the ice, I heard footsteps just above me, a firm hand grasped my wrist, and a cheerful voice said: "Come on up, old chap. I can steady you." "But the bear, Dick! The bear!" I cried, as I rose to my knees. "Dead as a door-nail," he replied, calmly. "Look." I glanced over my shoulder down the slope. There, on his back among the rocks, lay the cinnamon, his great arms spread out and his head hanging over, motionless. As the snarling beast had slid past him, not ten feet away, Dick, with his Winchester repeater, had shot him once through the heart and once in the base of the skull, so that the bear was stone dead ere he fell from the little two-foot ice-cliff at the bottom of the slope. As for myself, I had had such a scare and was so completely exhausted by my vehement struggles during the past couple of minutes, that for a quarter of an hour I lay on the rocks panting and gasping ere I could get my lungs and my muscles back into working order again. As soon as I could do so, however, I sat up, and holding out my hand to my companion, I said: "Thanks, old chap. I'm mighty glad you were on hand, or, I'm afraid, it would have been all up with me." "It was a pretty close shave," replied Dick; "rather too close for comfort. He meant mischief, sure enough. Well, he's out of mischief now, all right. Let's go down and look at him." "I suppose," said I, "it was the bear that the sheep were looking down at when they stood up there on the ledge all in a row." "Yes, that was it. If I'd known it was a bear they were staring at I'd have left them alone. A mountain-lion I'm not afraid of: he'll run ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But a cinnamon bear is quite another thing: the less you have to do with them, the better." "Well, as far as I'm concerned," said I, "the less I have to do with them, the better it will suit me. If this fellow is a sample of his tribe I'm very willing to forego their further acquaintance: my first interview came too unpleasantly near to being my last. Come on; let's go down." CHAPTER III THE MESCALERO VALLEY It had been our intention to take off the bear's hide and carry it home with us, but we found that he was such a shabby old specimen that the skin was not worth the carriage, so, after cutting out his claws as trophies, we went on to inspect our sheep. Here again we found that "the game was not worth the candle," as the saying is, for the bear had torn the carcass so badly as to render it useless, while the horns, which at a distance and seen against the sky-line, had looked so imposing, proved to be too much chipped and broken to be any good. My rifle we found lying beside the bear, it also having slid down the ice-slope when I dropped it. "Well, Frank," remarked my companion, "our hunt so far doesn't seem to have had much result--unless you count the experience as something." "Which I most decidedly do," I interjected. "You are right enough there," replied Dick; "there's no gainsaying that. Well, what I was going to say was that the day is early yet, and if you like there is still time for us to go off and have a try for a deer. I should like to take home something to show for our day's work." "Very well," said I. "Which way should we take? There are no deer up here among the rocks, I suppose." "Why, I propose that we go up over this ridge here and try the country to the southwest. I've never been down there myself, having always up to the present hunted to the north and east of camp; but I've often thought of trying it: it is a likely-looking country, quite different from that on the Mosby side of the divide: high mesa land cut up by deep cañons. What do you say?" "Anything you like," I answered. "It is all new to me, and one direction is as good as another." "Very well, then, let us get up over the ridge at once and make a start." Having discovered a place easier of ascent than those by which we had first tried to climb up, we soon found ourselves on top of the ridge, whence we could look out over the country we were intending to explore. It was plain at a glance that the two sides of the divide were very different. Behind us, to the north, rose Mescalero Mountain, bare, rugged and seamed with strips of snow. From this mountain, as from a center, there radiated in all directions great spurs, like fingers spread out, on one of which we were then standing. Looking southward, we could see that our spur continued for many miles in the form of a chain of round-topped mountains, well covered with timber, the elevation of which diminished pretty regularly the further they receded from the parent stem. On the left hand side of this chain--the eastern, or Mosby side--the country was very rough and broken: from where we stood we could see nothing but the tops of mountains, some sharp and rugged, some round and tree-covered, seemingly massed together without order or regularity. But to the south and southwest it was very different. Here the land lying embraced between two of the spurs was spread out like a great fan-shaped park, which, though it sloped away pretty sharply, was fairly smooth, except where several dark lines indicated the presence of cañons of unknown depth. The whole stretch, as far as we could distinguish, was pretty well covered with timber, though occasional open spaces showed here and there, some of two or three acres and some of two or three square miles in extent. "Just the country for black-tail," said Dick, "especially at this time of year--the beginning of winter. For, you see, it lies very much lower on the average than the Mosby side, and the snow consequently will not come so early nor stay so late. It ought to be a great hunting-ground." "It is a curious thing to find an open stretch like that in the midst of the mountains," said I. "What is it called?" "The Mescalero valley. The professor says it was once an arm of the sea--and it looks like it, doesn't it? Over on the Mosby side the rocks are all granite and porphyry, tilted up at all sorts of angles; but down there it is sandstone and limestone, lying flat--a sure sign that it was once the bottom of a sea." "Is the valley inhabited?" I asked. "Down at the southern end, about fifty miles away, there is a Mexican settlement, at the foot of those twin peaks you see down there standing all alone in the midst of the valley--the Dos Hermanos: Two Brothers, they are called--but up at this end there are no inhabitants, I believe." "Well, there will be some day, I expect," said I. "It ought to be a fine situation for a saw-mill, for instance." "I don't know about that. There would be no way of getting your product to market. Old Jeff Andrews, the founder of Mosby, told me about it once--he's been across it two or three times--and he says that the country is so slashed with cañons that a wheeled vehicle couldn't travel across it, and consequently the expense of road-making would amount to about as much as the value of the timber." "I see. And, of course, the streams are much too shallow to float out the logs. Well, let us get along down." "All right. By the way, before we start, there was one thing I wanted to say:--If we should happen to get separated, all you have to do is to turn your face eastward, climb up over the Mosby Ridge, and you'll find yourself on our own creek, either above or below the town. It's very plain; you can hardly lose yourself--by daylight at any rate. So, now, let's be off." The climb down on this side we found to be very much steeper than the climb up on the other had been. We dropped, by Dick's guess, about three thousand feet in the three miles we traversed ere we found ourselves in the midst of the thick timber, walking on comparatively level ground. Keeping along the eastern side of the valley, in the neighborhood of the Mosby Ridge, we made our way forward, steering by the sun--for the trees were so thick we could see but a short distance ahead--when we came upon one of the little open spaces I have mentioned. We were just about to walk out from among the trees, when my companion, with a sudden, "Pst!" stepped behind a tree-trunk and went down on one knee. Without knowing the reason for this move, I did the same, and on my making a motion with my eyebrows, as much as to say, "What's up?" Dick whispered: "Do you see that white patch on the other side of the clearing? An antelope with its back to us. I'll try to draw him over here, so that you may get a shot." So saying, Dick took out a red cotton handkerchief, poked the corner of it into the muzzle of his rifle, and standing erect behind his tree, held out his flag at right angles. At first the antelope took no notice, but presently, catching a glimpse of the strange object out of the corner of his eye, he whirled round and stood for a moment facing us with his head held high. A slight puff of wind fluttered the handkerchief; the antelope started as though to run; but finding himself unhurt, his curiosity got the better of his fears, and he came trotting straight across the clearing in order to get a closer view. At about a hundred yards distance he stopped, his body turned broadside to us, all ready to bolt at the shortest notice, when Dick whispered to me to shoot. [Illustration: "IT WAS A SPLENDID CHANCE; NOBODY COULD ASK FOR A BETTER TARGET."] It was a splendid chance; nobody could ask for a better target; but do you think I could hold that rifle steady? Not a bit of it! Instead of one sight, I could see half a dozen; and finding that the longer I aimed the more I trembled, I at length pulled the trigger and chanced it. Where the bullet went I know not: somewhere southward; and so did the antelope, and at much the same pace, if I am any judge of speed. "Never mind, old chap," said Dick, laughing. "That is liable to happen to anybody. Most people get a touch of the buck-fever the first time they try to shoot a wild animal. You'll probably find yourself all right the next chance you get." "I'm afraid there's not likely to be a 'next chance,' is there?" I asked. "Won't that shot scare all the deer out of the country?" "I hardly think so: the deer are almost never disturbed down here; it isn't like the Mosby side, where the prospectors are tramping over the hills all the time." "Don't they ever come down here, then?" "No, never. There is a common saying, as you know, perhaps, that 'gold is where you find it'; meaning that it may be anywhere--one place is as likely as another. But, all the same, the prospectors seem to think the chances are better among the granite and porphyry rocks on the other side, where the formation has been cracked and broken and heaved up on end by volcanic force. They never trouble to come down here, where any one can see at a glance that the deposits have never been disturbed since they were first laid down at the bottom of a great inlet of the ocean." "I see what you mean: and as nobody ever comes down here the deer are not fidgety and suspicious as they would be if they were always being disturbed." "That's it, exactly. They are so unused to the presence of human beings that I doubt if they would take any notice of your shot except to cock their ears and sniff at the breeze for a minute or two. Anyhow, we'll go ahead and find out. Let us go across this clearing and see if there isn't a spring on the other side. That antelope was drinking when we first saw him, if I'm not mistaken." Sure enough, just before we entered the trees again, we came upon a pool of water around the softened rim of which were many tracks of animals. "Hallo!" cried Dick. "Just look here! See the wolf tracks--any number of them. It must be a great wolf country as well as a great deer country--in fact, because it is a great deer country. I shouldn't like to be caught here in the winter with so many wolves about; they are unpleasant neighbors when food is scarce." "Are they dangerous to a man with a gun?" I asked. "Yes, they are. One wolf--or even two--doesn't matter much to a man with a breach-loading rifle; but when a dozen or twenty get after you, you'll do well to go up a tree and stay there. A pack of hungry wolves is no trifle, I can tell you." "Have you ever had any experience with them yourself?" "I did once, and a mighty distressing one it was, though it didn't hurt me, personally. I was out hunting with my dog, Blucher, a little short-legged, long-bodied fellow of no particular breed, and was up among the tall timber east of the house, going along suspecting nothing, when Blucher, all of a sudden, began to whine and crowd against my legs. I looked back, and there I saw six big timber-wolves slipping down a hill about a quarter of a mile behind me. They stopped when I stopped, but as soon as I moved, on they came again--it was very uncomfortable, especially when two of them vanished among the trees, and I couldn't tell whether they might not be running to get round the other side of me. I went on up the next rise, the wolves keeping about the same distance behind me, and as soon as we were out of their sight, Blucher and I ran for it. But it was no use: the wolves had taken the same opportunity, and when I looked back again, there they were, all six of them, not a hundred yards behind this time. "It began to look serious; for though it was possible that they were after Blucher, and not after me at all, I couldn't be sure of that. So, first picking out a tree to go up in case of necessity, I knelt down and fired into the bunch, getting one. I had hoped that the others would turn and run, but the shot seemed to have a directly opposite effect: the remaining five wolves came charging straight at me. "I gave the dog one kick and yelled at him to 'Go home!'--it was all I could do--dropped my rifle, jumped for a branch, and was out of reach when the wolves rushed past in pursuit of Blucher. "Poor little beast! Though he was a mongrel with no pretence at a pedigree, he was a good hunting dog and a faithful friend. But what chance had he in a race with five long-legged, half-starved timber-wolves? It happened out of my sight, I am glad to say; all I heard was one yelp, followed by an angry snarling, and then all was silent again." Dick paused for a moment, his face looking very grim for a boy, and then continued: "I've hated the sight and the sound of wolves ever since. Of course, I know they were only following their nature, but--I can't help it--I hate a wolf, and that's all there is to it." "I don't wonder," said I. "Any one----" "Hark!" cried Dick, clapping his hand on my arm. "Did you hear that? Listen!" We stood silent for a moment, and then, far off in the direction from which we had come, I heard a curious whimpering sound, the nature of which I could not understand. "What is it?" I whispered, involuntarily sinking my voice. "Wolves--hunting." "Hunting what?" "I don't know; but we'll move away from here, anyhow. Come on." Dick's manner, more than his words, made me feel a little uneasy and I followed him very willingly as he set off at a smart walk through the timber. "You don't suppose they are hunting us, Dick, do you?" I asked, as we strode along side by side. "I can't tell yet. It seems hardly likely--in daylight, and at this time of year. I could understand it if it were winter. If they are hunting us, it is probably because they, like the deer, are unacquainted with men, and never having been shot at, they don't know what danger they are running into. Still, I feel a little suspicious that it is our trail they are following. They are coming down right on the line we took, at any rate. We shall be able to decide, though, in a minute or two. Look ahead. Do you see how the trees are thinning out? We are coming to another open space, a big one, I think; I noticed it when we were up on the ridge just now." "What good will that do us?" I asked. "We shall be able to get a sight of them. Come on. I'll show you." True enough, we presently stepped out from among the trees again and found ourselves on the edge of another open, grassy space, very much larger than the last one. It was about three hundred yards across to the other side, and a mile in length from east to west. We had struck it about midway of its east-and-west length. Out into the open Dick walked some twenty yards, and there stopped once more to listen. We had not long to wait. The eager whimper came again, much nearer, and now and then a quavering howl. I did not like the sound at all. I looked at Dick, who was standing "facing the music" and frowning thoughtfully. "Well, Dick!" I exclaimed, getting impatient. "I think they are after us," said he. "And what do you mean to do? Not stay out here in the open, I suppose." "Not we; at least, not for more than five minutes. Look here, Frank," he went on, speaking quickly. "I'll tell you what I propose to do. We'll keep out here in the open, about this distance from the trees, and make straight eastward for the Mosby Ridge; it is only half a mile or so to the woods at that end of the clearing and we can make it in five minutes. Then, if the wolves are truly hunting us, they will follow our trail out into the open, when we shall get a sight of them and be able to count them. If they are only three or four we can handle them all right, but if there is a big pack of them we shall have to take to a tree. Give me your rifle to carry--my breathing machinery is better used to it than yours--and we'll make a run for it." It was only a short half-mile we had to run--quite enough for me, though--and under the first tree we came to, Dick stopped. "This will do," said he, handing back my rifle. "We'll wait here now and watch. Hark! They're getting pretty close. Hallo! Hallo! Why, look there, Frank!" That Dick should thus exclaim was not to be wondered at, for out from the trees, scarce a hundred paces from us, there came, not the wolves, but a man! And such an odd-looking man, riding on such an odd-looking steed! "What is he riding on, Dick?" I asked. "A mule?" "No; a burro--a jack--a donkey; a big one, too; and it need be, for he is a tremendous fellow. Did you ever see such a chest?" "Is he an Indian?" "No; a Mexican. An Indian wouldn't deign to ride a burro. I understand it all now. The wolves are not hunting us at all: they are after the donkey. And the man is aware of it, too: see how he keeps looking behind. What is that thing he is carrying in his left hand? A bow?" "Yes; a bow. And a quiver of arrows over his shoulder." "So he has! He doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry, does he? Evidently he is not much afraid of the wolves. Why, he's stopping to wait for them! He's a plucky fellow. Why, Frank, just look! Did you ever see such a queer-looking specimen?" This exclamation was drawn from my companion involuntarily when the Mexican, checking his donkey, sprang to the ground. He certainly was a queer-looking specimen. If he had looked like a giant on donkey-back, he looked like a dwarf on foot; for, though his head was big and his body huge, his legs were so short that he appeared to be scarce five feet high; while his muscular arms were of such length that he could touch his knees without stooping. To add to his strange appearance, the man was clad in a long, sleeveless coat made of deer-skin, with the hairy side out. We had hardly had time to take in all these peculiarities when Dick once more exclaimed: "Ah! Here they come! One, two, three--only five of them after all." As he spoke, the wolves came loping out from among the trees; but the moment they struck our cross-trail the suspicious, wary creatures all stopped with one accord, puzzled by coming upon a scent they had not expected. This was the Mexican's opportunity. Raising his long left arm, he drew an arrow to its head and let fly. I thought he had missed, for I saw the arrow strike the ground and knock up a little puff of dust. But I was mistaken. One of the wolves gave a yelp, ran back a few steps, fell down, got up again and ran another few steps, fell again, and this time lay motionless. The arrow had gone right through him! Almost at the same instant Dick raised his rifle and fired. The shot was electrical. One of the wolves fell, when the remaining three instantly turned tail and ran. But not only did the wolves run: the Mexican, casting one glance in our direction, sprang upon his donkey and away he went, at a pace that was surprising considering the respective sizes of man and beast. It was in vain that Dick ran out from under our tree and shouted after him something in Spanish. I could distinguish the word, _amigos_, two or three times repeated, but the man took no notice. Perhaps he did not believe in friendships so suddenly declared. At any rate, he neither looked back nor slackened his pace, and in a minute or less he and his faithful steed vanished into the timber on the south side of the clearing. The whole incident had not occupied five minutes; but for the presence of the two dead wolves one would have been tempted to believe it had never happened at all--solitude and silence reigned once more. "Well, wasn't that a queer thing!" cried Dick. "It certainly was," I replied. "I wonder who the man is. Anyhow, he's not coming back, so let's go and pick up his arrow." CHAPTER IV RACING THE STORM Walking over to where the two wolves lay, we soon found the arrow, its head buried out of sight in the hard ground, showing with what force it had come from the bow. It was carefully made of a bit of some hard wood, scraped down to the proper diameter, and fitted with three feathers--eagle feathers, Dick said--one-third as long as the shaft, very neatly bound on with some kind of fine sinew. "Looks like a Ute arrow," remarked my companion, as he stooped to pick it up; "yet the man was a Mexican, I am sure. I suppose he must have got it from the Indians." "Do the Utes use copper arrow-heads?" I asked. "No, they don't. They use iron or steel nowadays. Why do you ask?" "Because this arrow-head is copper," I replied. "Why, so it is!" cried Dick, rubbing the soil from the point on his trouser-leg. "That's very odd. I never saw one before. I feel pretty sure the Indians never use copper: it is too soft. This bit seems to take an edge pretty well, though. See, the point doesn't seem to have been damaged by sticking into the ground; and it has been filed pretty sharp, too; or, what is more likely, rubbed sharp on a stone. It has evidently been made by hand from a piece of native copper." "I wonder why the man should choose to use copper," said I. "Though when you come to think of it, Dick," I added, "I don't see why it shouldn't make a pretty good arrow-head. It is soft metal, of course, but it is only soft by comparison with other metals. This wedge of copper weighs two or three ounces, and it is quite hard enough to go through the hide of an animal at twenty or thirty yards' distance when 'fired' with the force that this one was." "That's true. And I expect the explanation is simple enough why the man uses copper. It is probably from necessity and not from choice. Like nearly all Mexicans of the peon class, he probably never has a cent of money in his possession. Consequently, as he can't buy a gun, he uses a bow; and for the same reason, being unable to procure iron for arrow-heads, he uses copper. I expect he comes from the settlement at the foot of the valley, for copper is a very common metal down there." "Why should it be more common there than elsewhere?" I asked. "Well, that's the question--and a very interesting question, too. The professor and I were down in that neighborhood about a year ago, and on going into the village we were a good deal surprised to find that every household seemed to possess a bowl or a pot or a cup or a dipper or all four, perhaps, hammered out of native copper--all of them having the appearance of great age. There were dozens of them altogether." "How do they get them?" I asked. "That's the question again--and the Mexicans themselves don't seem to know. They say, if you ask them, that they've always had them. And the professor did ask them. He went into one house after another and questioned the people, especially the old people, as to where the copper came from; but none of them could give him any information. I wondered why he should be so persevering in the matter--though when there is anything he desires to learn, no trouble is too much for him--but after we had left the place he explained it all to me, and then I ceased to wonder." "What was his explanation, then?" "He told me that when he was in Santa Fé about fifteen years before, he made the acquaintance of a Spanish gentleman of the remarkable name of Blake----" "Blake!" I interrupted. "That's a queer name for a Spaniard." "Yes," replied Dick. "The professor says he was a descendant of one of those Irishmen who fled to the continent in the time of William III, of England, most of them going into the service of the king of France and others to other countries--Austria and Spain in particular." "Well, go ahead. Excuse me for interrupting." "Well, this gentleman was engaged in hunting through the old Spanish records kept there in Santa Fé, looking up something about the title to a land-grant, I believe, and he told the professor that in the course of his search he had frequently come across copies of reports to the Spanish government of shipments of copper from a mine called the King Philip mine. That it was a mine of importance was evident from the frequency and regularity of the 'returns,' which were kept up for a number of years, until somewhere about the year 1720, if I remember rightly, they began to become irregular and then suddenly ceased altogether." "Why?" "There was no definite statement as to why; but from the reports it appeared that the miners were much harried by the Indians, sometimes the Navajos and sometimes the Utes, while the loss, partial or total, of two or three trains with their escorts, seemed to bring matters to a climax. Shipments ceased and the mine was abandoned." "That's interesting," said I. "And where was this King Philip mine?" "The gentleman could not say. There seemed to be no map or description of any kind among the records; but from casual statements, such as notes of the trains being delayed by floods in this or that creek, or by snow blockades on certain passes, he concluded that the mine was somewhere up in this direction." "Well, that is certainly very interesting. And the professor, I suppose, concludes that the Mexicans down there at---- What's the name of the place?" "Hermanos--called so after the two peaks, at the foot of which it stands." "The professor concludes, I suppose, that the Mexicans' unusual supply of copper pots and pans came originally from the King Philip mine." "Yes; and I've no doubt they did; though the Mexicans themselves had never heard of such a mine. Yet--and it shows how names will stick long after people have forgotten their origin--yet, just outside the village there stands a big, square adobe building, showing four blank walls to the outside, with a single gateway cut through one of them, flat-roofed and battlemented--a regular fortress--and it is called to this day the _Casa del Rey_:--the King's House. Now, why should it be called the King's House? The Mexicans have no idea; but to me it seems plain enough. The King Philip mine was probably a royal mine, and the residence of the king's representative, the storage-place for the product of the mine, the headquarters of the soldier escort, would naturally be called the King's House." "It seems likely, doesn't it? Is that the professor's opinion?" "Yes. He feels sure that the King Philip mine is not far from the village; possibly--in fact, probably--in the Dos Hermanos mountains." "And did he ever make any attempt to find it?" "Not he. Prospecting is altogether out of his line. It was only the historical side of the matter that interested him. All he did was to write to the Señor Blake at Cadiz, in Spain, telling him about it; though whether the letter ever reached its destination he has never heard." "And who lives in the King's House now?" I asked. "Anybody?" "Yes. It is occupied by a man named Galvez, the 'padron' of the village, who owns, or claims, all the country down there for five miles square--the Hermanos Grant. We did not see him when we were there, but from what we heard of him, he seems to regard himself as lord of creation in those parts, owning not only the land, but the village and the villagers, too." "How so? How can he own the villagers?" "Why, it is not an uncommon state of affairs in these remote Mexican settlements. The padron provides the people with the clothes or the tools or the seed they require on credit, taking security on next year's crop, and so manages matters as to get them into debt and keep them there; for they are an improvident lot. In this way they fall into a state of chronic indebtedness, working their land practically for the benefit of the padron and becoming in effect little better than slaves." "I see. A pretty miserable condition for the poor people, isn't it? And doesn't this man, Galvez, with his superior intelligence--presumably--know anything of the King Philip mine?" "Apparently not." "My word, Dick!" I exclaimed. "What fun it would be to go and hunt for it ourselves, wouldn't it?" "Wouldn't it! I've often thought of it before, but I know the professor would never consent. He would consider it a waste of time. It's an idea worth keeping in mind, though, at any rate. There's never any telling what may turn up. We might get the chance somehow; though I confess I don't see how. But we must be moving, Frank," said he, suddenly changing the subject. "It's getting latish. Hallo!" "What's the matter?" I asked, looking wonderingly at my companion, who, with his hand held up to protect his eyes from the glare, was standing, staring at the sun. "Why, the matter is, Frank, that the professor will say that I've neglected my duty, I'm afraid. You remember he told me to look out for a change of weather? I'd forgotten all about it." "Well," said I, "I don't see that that matters. There's no sign of a change, is there?" "Yes, there is. Look up there. Do you see a number of tiny specks all hurrying across the face of the sun from north to south?" "Yes. What is it?" "Snow." "Snow!" I cried, incredulously. "How can it be snow, when there isn't a scrap of cloud visible anywhere?" "It is snow, all the same," said Dick; "old snow blown from the other side of Mescalero." "But how can that be, Dick? All the snow we found up there was packed like ice." "Ah, but we were on the south side. On the north side, where the sun has no effect, it is still as loose and as powdery as it was when it fell." "Of course. I hadn't thought of that. There must be a pretty stiff breeze blowing overhead to keep it hung up in the sky like that and not allow a speck of it to fall down here." "Yes, it's blowing great guns up there, all right, and I am afraid we shall be getting it ourselves before long. We must dig out of here hot foot, Frank. I hope we haven't stayed too long as it is." It was hard to believe that there was anything to fear from the weather, with the unclouded sun shining down upon us with such power as to be almost uncomfortably hot; but Dick, I could see, felt uneasy, and as I could not presume to set up my judgment against his larger experience, I did not wait to ask any more questions, but set off side by side with him when he started eastward at a pace which required the saving of all my breath to keep up with him. We had been walking through the woods for about half an hour and were expecting to begin the ascent of the Mosby Ridge in a few minutes, when we were brought to a standstill by coming suddenly upon the edge of a deep cleft in the earth, cutting across our course at right angles. It was one of the many cañons for which the Mescalero valley was notorious. Looking across the cañon, we could see that the opposite wall was composed of a thick bed of limestone overlying another of sandstone, the latter, being the softer, so scooped out that the limestone cap projected several feet beyond it. It appeared to be quite unscalable, and on our side it was doubtless the same, for, on cautiously approaching the edge as near as we dared, we could see that the cliff fell sheer for three hundred feet or more. "No getting down here!" cried Dick. "Up stream, Frank! The cañon will shallow in that direction." Away we went again along the edge of the gorge, and presently were rejoiced to find a place where the cliff had broken away, enabling us, with care, to climb down to the bottom. The other side, however, presented no possible chance of getting out, so on we went, following up the dry bed of the arroyo, looking out sharply for some break by which we might climb up, when, on rounding a slight bend, Dick stopped so suddenly that I, who was close on his heels, bumped up against him. "What's the matter, Dick?" I asked. "What are you stopping for?" "Look up there at Mescalero," said he. It was the first glimpse of the mountain we had had since entering the woods at the head of the valley, and the change in its appearance was alarming. The only part of it we could see was the summit, standing out clear and sharp against the sky; all the rest of it, and of the whole range as well, was shrouded by a heavy gray cloud, which, creeping round either side of the peak, was rolling down our side of the range, slowly and steadily filling up and blotting out each gully and ravine as it came to it. There was a stealthy, vindictive look about it I did not at all like. "Snow, Dick?" I asked. "Yes, and lots of it, I'm afraid. See how the cloud comes creeping down--like cold molasses. I expect it is so heavy with snow that it can't float in the thin air up there, and the north wind is just shouldering it up over the range from behind. We've got to get out of here, Frank, as fast as we can and make the top of the Mosby Ridge, if possible, before that cloud catches us. Once on the other side, we're pretty safe: I know the country; but on this side I don't. So, let us waste no more time--we have none to waste, I can tell you." Nor did we waste any, for neither of us had any inclination to linger, but pushing forward once more along the bottom of the cañon, we presently espied a place where we thought we might climb out. Scrambling up the steep slope of shaly detritus, we had come almost to the top, when to our disappointment we found our further progress barred by a little cliff, not more than eight feet high, but slightly overhanging, and so smooth that there was no hold for either feet or fingers. "Up on my shoulders, Frank!" cried my companion, laying down his rifle and leaning his arms against the rock and his head against his arms. In two seconds I was standing on his shoulders, but even then I could not get any hold for my hands on the smooth, curved, shaly bank which capped the limestone. Only a foot out of my reach, however, there grew a little pine tree, about three inches thick, and whipping off my belt I lashed at the tree trunk with it. The end of the belt flew round; I caught it; and having now both ends in my hands I quickly relieved my companion of his burden and crawled up out of the ravine. Then, buckling the belt to the tree, I took the loose end in one hand, and lying down flat I received and laid aside the two rifles which Dick handed up to me, one at a time. Dick himself, though, was out of reach, perceiving which, I pulled off my coat, firmly grasped the collar and let down the other end to him, lying, myself, face downward upon the stones, with the end of the belt held tight in the other hand. "All set?" cried Dick; and, "All set!" I shouted in reply. There was a violent jerk upon the coat, and the next thing, there was Dick himself kneeling beside me. "Well done, old chap!" cried he. "That was a great idea. Now, then, let's be off. I'll carry the two rifles. It's plain sailing now. Straight up the Ridge for those two great rocks that stand up there like a gateway to the pass. I know the place. Only a couple of thousand feet to climb and then we begin to go down-hill. We shall make it now. Come on!" The trees were thin just here, and as we started to ascend the pass we obtained one more glimpse of Mescalero--the last one we were to get that day. The bank of cloud had advanced about half a mile since we first caught sight of it, while it had become so much thicker as the wind rolled it up from the other side of the range, that now only the very tip of the mountain showed above it. Even as we watched it, a great fold of the cloud passed over the summit, hiding it altogether. "See that, Dick?" said I. "Yes," he replied. "A very big snow, I expect. Hark! Do you hear that faint humming? The wind in the pines. We shall be getting it soon. Come on, now; stick close to my heels; if I go too fast, call out." Away we went up the pass, pressing forward at the utmost speed I could stand, desperately anxious to get as far ahead as possible before the storm should overtake us. The ascent, though very steep on this side, presented no other special difficulty, and at the end of an hour we had come close to the two great rocks for which we had been making. All this time the sun continued to shine down upon us, though with diminishing power as the hurrying snowflakes passing above our heads became thicker and thicker; while, as to the storm-cloud itself, we could not see how near it had come, for the pine-clad mountain, rising high on our left hand, obstructed our view in that direction. That it was not far off, though, we were pretty sure, for the humming of the wind in the woods--the only thing by which we could judge--though faint at first, had by this time increased to a roar. The storm was, in fact, much nearer than we imagined, and just as we passed between the "gateway" rocks it burst upon us with a fury and a suddenness that, to me at least, were appalling. Almost as though a door had been slammed in our faces, the light of the sun was cut off, leaving us in twilight gloom, and with a roar like a stampede of cattle across a wooden bridge, a swirling, blinding smother of snow, driven by a furious wind, rushed through the "gateway," taking us full in the face, with such violence that Dick was thrown back against me, nearly knocking us both from our feet. Instinctively, we crouched for shelter behind the rock, and there we waited a minute or two to recover breath and collect our senses. "Pretty bad," said Dick. "But it might have been worse: it isn't very cold--not yet; we have only about two miles to go, and I know the lay of the land. We'll start again as soon as you are ready. I'll go first and you follow close behind. Whatever you do, don't lose sight of me for an instant: it won't do to get lost. Hark! Did you hear that?" There was a rending crash, as some big tree gave way before the storm. It was a new danger, one I had not thought of before. I looked apprehensively at my companion. "Suppose one of them should fall on us, Dick," said I. "Suppose it shouldn't," replied Dick. "That is just as easy to suppose, and a good deal healthier." I confess I had been feeling somewhat scared. The sudden gloom, the astonishing fury of the wind, the confusing whirl and rush of the snow, and then from some point unknown the sharp breaking of a tree, sounding in the midst of the universal roar like the crack of a whip--all this, coming all together and so suddenly, was quite enough, I think, to "rattle" a town-bred boy. But if panic is catching, so is courage. Dick's prompt and sensible remark acted like a tonic. Springing to my feet, I cried: "You are right, old chap! Come on. Let's step right out at once. I'm ready." It was most fortunate that Dick knew where he was, for the light was so dim and the snow so thick that we could see but a few paces ahead; while the wind, though beating in general against our left cheeks, was itself useless as a guide, for, being deflected by the ridges and ravines of the mountain, it would every now and then strike us square in the face, stopping us dead, and the next moment leap upon us from behind, sending me stumbling forward against my leader. In spite of its vindictive and ceaseless assaults, though, Dick kept straight on, his head bent and his cap pulled down over his ears; while I, following three feet behind, kept him steadily in view. Presently he stopped with a joyful shout. "Hurrah, Frank!" he cried. "Look here! Now we are all right. Here's a thread to hold on by: as good as a rope to a drowning man." The "thread" was a little stream of water, appearing suddenly from I know not where, and running off in the direction we were going. "This will take us home, Frank!" my companion shouted in my ear. "It runs down and joins our own creek about a quarter of a mile above the house. With this for a guide we are all safe; we mustn't lose it, that's all. And we won't do that: we'll get into it and walk in the water if we have to. Best foot foremost, now! All down-hill! Hurrah, for us!" Dick's cheerful view of the situation was very encouraging, though, as a matter of fact, it was a pretty desperate struggle we had to get down the mountain, with the darkness increasing and the snow becoming deeper every minute. Indeed it was becoming a serious question with me whether I could keep going much longer, when at the end of the most perilous hour I ever went through, we at last came down to the junction of the creeks, and turning to our right presently caught sight of a lighted window. Five minutes later we were safe inside the professor's house--and high time too, for I could not have stood much more of it: I had just about reached the end of my tether. But the warmth and rest and above all the assurance of safety quickly had their effect, and very soon I found myself seated before the fire consuming with infinite gusto a great bowl of strong, hot soup which Romero had made all ready for us; thus comfortably winding up the most eventful day of my existence--up to that moment. CHAPTER V HOW DICK BROUGHT THE NEWS "You ran it rather too close, Dick," said the professor, with a shake of his head, when we had told him the story of our race with the storm. "I was beginning to be afraid; not so much for you as for your companion: it was too big an undertaking for him, considering that it was his first day in the mountains; even leaving out the risk of the snow-storm." "I'm afraid I was thoughtless," replied Dick, penitently; "especially in not looking out for a change of weather. It did run us too close, as you say--a great deal too close. But there is one thing I can do, anyhow, to repair that error to some extent, and I'll be off at once and do it." So saying, Dick, who by this time had finished his supper, jumped out of his chair and began putting on his overcoat. "Where are you off to, Dick?" I exclaimed. "Not going out again to-night?" "Only a little way," replied Dick. "Down to the town to let your uncle know that you are all safe. He'll be pretty anxious, I expect." I had thought of that, but I could see no way of getting over it. I could not go myself, for even if I had dared to venture I had not the strength for it, and of course I could not expect any one else to do it for me. My first thought, therefore, when Dick announced that he was going, was one of satisfaction; though my next thought, following very quickly upon the first one, was to protest against his doing any such thing. "No, no, Dick," I cried, "it's too risky--you mustn't! Uncle Tom will be worried, I know, but he will conclude that I am staying the night with you. And though I should be glad to have his mind relieved, I don't consider--and he would say the same, I'm pretty sure--that that is a good enough reason for you to take such a risk." "Thanks, old chap," replied Dick; "but it isn't so much of a risk as you think. Going down wind to the town is a very different matter from coming down that rough mountain with the storm beating on us from every side. I've been over the trail a thousand times, and I believe I could follow it with my eyes shut; and, anyhow, to lose your way is pretty near impossible, you know, with the cañon on your right hand and the mountain on your left. So, don't you worry yourself, Frank: I'll be under cover again in an hour or less." Seeing that the professor nodded approval, I protested no more, though I still had my doubts about letting him go. "Well, Dick," said I, "it's mighty good of you. I wish I could go, too, but that is out of the question, I'm afraid: I should only hamper you if I tried. I can tell you one thing, anyhow: Uncle Tom will appreciate it--you may be sure of that." In this I was right, though I little suspected at the moment in what form his appreciation was to show itself. As a matter of fact, Dick's action in braving the storm a second time that evening was to be a turning-point in his fortune and mine. "Good-night, Frank," said he. "I'll be back again in the morning, I expect. Hope you'll sleep as well in my bed as I intend to do in yours. Good-night." So saying, Dick, this time overcoated, gloved and ear-capped, opened the door and stepped out. Watching him from the window, I saw him striding off down wind, to be lost to sight in ten seconds in the maze of driving snow. "Are you sure it's all right, Professor?" said I, anxiously. "There's time yet to call him back." "It is all right," replied my host, reassuringly. "You need not fear. Dick has been out in many a storm before, and he knows very well how to take care of himself. You may be sure I would not let him go if I thought it were not all right. And now, I think, it would be well if you took possession of Dick's bed. You have had a very hard day and need a good long rest." To this I made no objection, and early though it was, I was asleep in five minutes, too tired to be disturbed even by the insistent banging and howling of the storm outside. Meanwhile, Uncle Tom, down in the town, was, as I had suspected, fretting and fuming and worrying himself in his uncertainty as to whether I was safe under cover or not. The storm had taken the town by surprise, for the morning had opened gloriously, clear and sharp and still, as it had done every day for a month past, and most people naturally supposed there was to be another day as fine as those which had gone before; little suspecting that the north wind, up there among the icebound peaks and gorges of the mother range, was at that moment marshaling its forces for a mad rush down into the valley. And how should they suspect? Of the three hundred people comprising the population, not one, not even old Jeff Andrews himself, the patriarch of the district, had spent more than two winters in the camp. In the year of its founding there were about a dozen men and no women who had braved the hardships of the first winter, but as the fame of the new camp extended to the outer world, other people began to come in, slowly at first and then in larger numbers, so that by this time the population numbered, as I said, about three hundred souls, including twenty-one women and two babies; while at a rough guess I should say there was about two-thirds of a dog to each citizen, counting in the twelve children of school age and the two babies as well. These dogs, by the way, were the chief source of entertainment in the town, for during the hours of daylight there was always a fight going on somewhere, while at night most of them, especially the younger ones, used to sit out in the middle of the street barking defiance at the coyotes, which, from the hills all round, howled back at them in unceasing chorus. This part of the programme was changed, however, later in the winter, for one half-cloudy night the blacksmith's long-legged shepherd pup, seated in front of the forge door, was barking himself hoarse at the moon when a big timber-wolf came slipping down out of the woods and finished the puppy's song and his existence with one snap. After this the other dogs were more careful about the hours they kept. But to return to the human part of the population. Considering how few of them had spent a winter in this high valley; remembering that every one of the grown-up citizens had been born in some other State, and that the very great majority were newcomers in Colorado, it is not to be wondered at that the storm should have caught them unawares. For, in Colorado, if there is one thing almost impossible to forecast it is the weather, especially in the mountains where it is made, where the snow-storms and the thunder-storms, brewing in secret behind the peaks, bounce out on you before you know it. So, on this sunshiny morning, most people went about their usual occupations unsuspicious of evil; it was only the few old-timers who divined what was coming, and their little precautions, such as shutting their doors and windows before leaving the house, merely excited a smile or a word of chaff from the "plum-sure" newcomers. For it is always the new arrival who thinks he can predict the weather; the old-stager, having had experience enough to be aware that he knows nothing about it for certain, can seldom be persuaded to venture a decided opinion. Tied to a hitching-post outside the assayer's door that afternoon were two ponies, and about two o'clock Mr. Warren, himself, and Uncle Tom, issued from the house, prepared for their ride up on Cape Horn--a big, bare mountain lying southeast of town. As they stepped down from the porch, however, Warren happened to notice old Jeff Andrews walking up the street, carrying over his shoulder a great buffalo-skin overcoat, which, considering the warmth of the day, seemed rather out of place. "Hallo, Jeff!" the assayer called out. "What are you carrying that thing for? Are we going to have a change?" Jeff, a gray-bearded, round-shouldered man of sixty, with a face burnt all of one color by years of life in the open, paused for a moment before replying, and then, knowing that the assayer was not one of those "guying tenderfeet," for whom, as he expressed it, "he had no manner of use," he answered genially: "Well, gents, I ain't no weather prophet--I'll leave that business to the latest arrival--but I have my suspicions. Just look up overhead." The old man had detected the hurrying snowflakes passing across the face of the sun, and though to Uncle Tom there was nothing unusual to be seen, the assayer understood the signs. "Wind, Jeff?" said he. "And snow," replied the old prospector. "Was you going to ride up on Cape Horn this evening, Mr. Warren? Well, if I was you, I wouldn't. Cape Horn lies south o' here, and if a storm from the north catches you up there on that bare mountain you may not be able to work your way back again. If I was you, I'd put the ponies back in the stable and lay low for a spell." "Thank you, Jeff," responded the assayer. "I believe that's a good idea. I think we shall do well, Tom, to postpone our trip. No use running the risk of being caught out in a blizzard: it's a bit too dangerous to suit me." The ponies, therefore, were taken back to the stable and the two men, returning to the house, sat down on the sunny porch to await developments. The snow-cloud was already half way down the range and it was not long ere the murmur of the wind among the distant trees began to make itself heard, giving warning of what was coming to a few of the more observant people. "It looks pretty threatening, Sam," said Uncle Tom. "I don't like the way that cloud comes creeping down. I hope those boys will notice it in time." "I don't think you need worry about them," replied the assayer. "Young Dick is well able to take care of himself. He knows the signs as well as anybody." "Well, I hope he'll notice them in time. Going indoors, are you?" "Yes; if you don't mind, I'll leave you for the present. I have some work I want to finish up. Let me know when it comes pretty close so that I may get my windows shut. It will come with a 'whoop' when it does come." As the assayer rose to his feet, he observed across the street the proprietor of the corner grocery standing in his doorway with his hands in his pockets. "Hallo, Jackson!" he called out. "You'd better take in those loose boxes from the sidewalk if you want to save them: there's a big blow coming pretty soon." "Oh, I guess not," replied the grocer, a fat-faced, self-satisfied man, one of those "dead-sure weather prophets" for whom old Jeff felt such supreme contempt. "I reckon I'll chance it." He cast a glance skyward, and deceived by the sparkling brilliancy of the sun, he added under his breath, "Big blow! As if any one couldn't see with half an eye that there isn't a sign of wind in the sky." "All right, Jackson, suit yourself," replied Warren; adding on his part, as an aside to Uncle Tom, "He'll change his mind in about half an hour, if I'm not mistaken." For about that length of time Uncle Tom continued to sit on the porch watching the approaching cloud and listening to the increasing murmur of the wind, when, on the crown of a high ridge about a mile above town he saw all the pine trees with one accord suddenly bend their heads toward him, as though making him a stately obeisance. Springing out of his chair, Uncle Tom bolted into the house, slamming the door behind him and calling out: "Here it comes, Sam! Here it comes!" It did. The roar of its approach was now plainly audible; there was a hurrying and scurrying of men and women, a banging of doors and a slamming down of windows; even the incredulous grocer, convinced at last, made a dive for his loose boxes--but just too late. With a shriek, as of triumph at catching them all unprepared, the wind came raging down the street, making a clean sweep of everything. A young mining camp is not as a rule over-particular about the amount of rubbish that encumbers its streets, and Mosby was no exception to the rule, but in five minutes it was swept as clean as though the twenty-one housewives had been at work on it for a week with broom and scrubbing-brush. Heralded by a cloud of mingled dust and snow, a whole covey of paper scraps, loose straw and a few hats, went whirling down the street, followed by a dozen or two of empty tin cans, while behind them, with infinite clatter, came three lengths of stove-pipe from the bakery chimney, closely pursued by an immense barrel which had once contained crockery. As though enjoying the fun, this barrel came bounding down the roadway, making astonishing leaps, until, at the grocery corner, it encountered the only one of the empty boxes which had not already gone south, and glancing off at an angle, went bang through the show window! It was as though My Lord, the North Wind, aware of Mr. Jackson's incredulity, had sent an emissary to convince him that he _did_ intend to blow that day. From that moment the wind and the snow had it all their own way; not a citizen dared to show his nose outside. It was an uneasy day for Uncle Tom. Knowing full well the extreme danger of being caught on the mountain in such a storm, he could not help feeling anxious for our safety, and though his host tried to reassure him by repeating his confidence in Dick Stanley's good sense and experience, he grew more and more fidgety as the day wore on and darkness began to settle down upon the town. In fact, by sunset, Uncle Tom had worked himself up to a high state of nervousness. He kept pacing up and down the room like a caged beast, unconsciously puffing at a cigar which had gone out half an hour before; then striding to the window to look out--a disheartening prospect, for not even the corner grocery was visible now. Then back he would come, plump himself into his chair before the fire, only to jump up again in fifteen seconds to go through the same performance once more. At length he flung his cigar-stump into the fire, and turning to his friend, exclaimed: "Sam, I can't stand this uncertainty any longer. I'm going out to see if I can't find somebody who will undertake to go up to the professor's house and back for twenty dollars, just to make sure those boys have got safe home. I'd go myself, only I know I should never get there." The assayer shook his head. "No use, Tom," said he. "You couldn't get one to go; at least, not for money. If it were to dig a friend out of the snow you could raise a hundred men in a minute; but for money--no. I don't believe you could get any of them to face this storm for twenty dollars--or fifty, either. They would say, 'What's the use? If the boys are in, they're in; if they're not----'" "Well, if they're not---- What? I know what you mean. You chill me all through, Sam, with your 'ifs.' Look here, old man, isn't there _anybody_ who would go? Think, man, think!" "We might try little Aleck Smith, the teamster," said the assayer, thoughtfully. "He's as tough as a bit of bailing-wire and plum full of grit. We'll try him anyhow. Come on. I'll go with you. It's only six houses down. Jump into your overcoat, old man!" The two men turned to get their coats, when, at that moment, there came a thump upon the porch outside, as though somebody had jumped up the two steps at a bound, the door burst open and in the midst of a whirl of snow there was blown into the room the muffled, snow-coated figure of a boy, who, slamming the door behind him, leaned back against it, gasping for breath. The men stared in astonishment, until the boy, pulling off his cap, revealed the face, scarlet from exposure, of Dick Stanley. "Why, Dick!" cried the assayer. "What's the matter? Where's young Frank?" "All safe, sir! Safe in our house, and in bed and asleep by this time." "And did you come down through this howling storm to tell me?" cried Uncle Tom. "Yes, sir. But that wasn't anything so very much, you know: it was down-hill and downwind, too." "Well, you may think what you like about it--but so may I, too; and my opinion is that there isn't another boy in the country would have done it. I shan't forget your service, Dick. You may count on that. I shan't forget it!" Nor did he--as you will see. CHAPTER VI THE PROFESSOR'S STORY What a change had come over the landscape when, at sunrise next morning, I jumped out of bed and went to the door to look out. Though the sky was as clear and as blue as ever, though Mescalero, swept bare by the wind, looked much as usual, all the lower parts of the range, except the crowns of the ridges, were buried under the snow. The woods were full of it; every hollow was leveled off so that one could hardly tell where it used to be; while the narrow valley itself was ridged and furrowed by great drifts piled up by freaks of the wind. It was cold, too, for with the falling of the wind and the clearing of the sky the temperature had dropped to zero. As so often happens in these parts, winter had arrived with a bang. Closing the door, I hopped back to the jolly, roaring fire of logs which Romero had started an hour before, and there finished my dressing. While I was thus engaged, the professor came out of the back room, where it was his custom to sleep--a queer choice--with a couple of thousand dead insects for company. "Well, Frank," said he, cheerily. "Here's King Winter in all his glory. Rather a rough-and-tumble monarch, isn't he? When his majesty makes his royal progress, we, his humble subjects, do well to get out of his way and leave the course clear for him." "That's true, sir," said I, laughing; and falling into the professor's humor, I added: "I never met a king before, and if King Winter is an example of the race I think we Americans were wise to get rid of them when we did." "Oh," replied the professor, "you must not judge a whole order by one specimen: there are kings and kings, and some of them are very fine fellows. King Winter, though, is rather too boisterous and inconsiderate; and to tell you the truth, Frank, you had rather a narrow escape from him yesterday. I did not like to make too much of it before Dick; I did not want him to think I blamed him for what was, after all, merely an oversight; but as a matter of fact you ran a pretty big risk, as you may easily understand when you see the amount of snow that fell in about twelve hours; for the storm ceased and the sky cleared again about three o'clock this morning." "It was nip and tuck for us, sure enough," said I; "but if our getting caught in the storm was any fault of Dick's, there is one thing certain, sir: he got us out of it in great style. I wouldn't ask for a better guide. I was pretty badly scared myself, I don't mind owning"--the professor nodded, as much as to say, "I don't wonder,"--"but Dick," I continued, "did not seem to be flustered for a moment; he knew just what to do and pitched right in and did it. It seems to me, sir--though of course I don't set up to be a judge--that the most experienced mountaineer couldn't have done any better." "Dick is a good boy," said the professor, evidently pleased at my standing up for his young friend; "and he seems to have a faculty for keeping his wits about him in an emergency. It has always been so, ever since he was a little boy. I suppose he has never told you, has he, how he once saved his donkey from a mountain-lion?" "No, sir," I replied. "How was it?" "He was about nine years old at the time, and as his little legs were too short to enable him to keep up with me, I had given him a young burro to ride. We were camped one night on the Trinchera, not far from Fort Garland, when we were awakened by a great squealing on the part of the donkey, which was tethered a few feet away, and sitting up in our beds, which were on the ground under the open sky, we were just in time to see some big, cat-like animal spring upon the poor little beast and knock it over. Instead of crying and crawling under the blankets, as he might well have been excused for doing, little Dick sprang out of his bed--as did I also. But the youngster was twice as quick as I was, and without an instant's hesitation he seized a burning stick from the fire, ran right up to the mountain-lion--for that was what it was--and as the snarling creature raised its head, the plucky little chap thrust the hot end of his stick into its mouth, when, with a yell of pain and astonishment, the beast let go its hold and fled like a yellow streak into the woods again." "Bully for Dick!" I cried. "That was pretty good, wasn't it? And was the donkey killed?" "No; rather badly scratched; but Dick's promptness and courage saved it from anything more serious." "Well, that was certainly pretty good for such a youngster," said I. "By the way, sir," I continued, "there is one thing I should like to ask you, if you don't mind, about your life in the mountains, especially back in the 'sixties' and earlier, and that is, how you managed to escape being killed and scalped by the Indians." My host laughed, and I could see by his face that he was thinking backward, as he slowly stirred his coffee round and round; for we were seated at our breakfast, Romero serving us. "That _was_ a serious question at first," he replied presently, "but I solved it very early in my wanderings; and now I--and Dick, too--may go among any of the tribes with impunity." "Will you tell me about it, sir?" I asked, full of curiosity to know how he had worked such a seeming miracle. The professor leaned back in his chair, stretched out his feet and folded his hands on the edge of the table. "I will, with pleasure," he replied; "for it is rather a curious incident, I have always thought. "Before I took up the profession of 'bug-hunting,' as the pursuit of entomology is irreverently termed by the people here, I had graduated as a physician--very fortunately for me, as it turned out, for my knowledge of medicine was the basis of my reputation among the Indians. I was down in Arizona at one time, when, on coming to a little Mexican village, I found the poor people suffering from an epidemic of smallpox. Several had died, and the survivors, scared out of their wits, had given themselves up for lost. After my arrival, however, there were no more deaths, I am glad to say, and by the end of about a month I had succeeded in putting all my patients on the highroad to recovery. "There was a little adobe ranch-house about a quarter of a mile up-stream from the village, the owner of which had died before my arrival, and this building I had utilized as a pest-house. I was on my way out to it one morning, with my little case of medicines in my hand, when I heard behind me a great crying out among the villagers, and looking back I saw them all scuttling for shelter, at the same time shouting and screaming, according to their age and sex, 'Apache! Apache!' "The next moment, right through the middle of the village, riding like a whirlwind, came ten horsemen, who, paying no attention to the frightened Mexicans, made straight for me. Doubtless they had been hiding in the creek-bed among the willows since daylight, awaiting their opportunity to dash out and capture me--for, as I found later, it was I whom they were after. "To run was useless, to fight impossible, as I was unarmed, so, there being nothing else to do, I just stood still and waited for them. In a moment I was surrounded, when one of the Indians sprang from his horse and advanced upon me. He had, as I very well remember, his nose painted a bright green--a fearsome object. This apparition came striding toward me, and I supposed I was to be killed and scalped forthwith; but instead, my friend of the green nose, in halting Spanish, and with a deference which was as welcome as it was unexpected, explained to me that the fame of the great white medicine-man had extended far and wide; that the smallpox was ravaging their village; and that they had come to beg me to return with them and drive out the enemy. "Greatly relieved to find that their mission was peaceful, I replied at once that I would come with pleasure, provided I were treated with the respect due to my quality, but that I must first visit the pest-house and leave directions for the care of my two remaining patients. To this--rather to my surprise--they readily consented, relying implicitly upon my promise to accompany them; an instance of trustfulness from which I could only infer, I regret to say, that they had had but little intercourse with white men. "The Indians had brought a horse for me, and after a long two-days' ride into the mountains, we reached the camp, consisting of about twenty lodges, where I found matters in pretty bad condition. I went to work vigorously, however, and again had the good fortune to rout the enemy without the loss of a patient; thereby, as you may suppose, gaining the lasting good will of every member of the tribe--with one exception. "This exception--rather an important one--was the local medicine-man, who, having vainly endeavored to drive out the plague by the application of bad smells and worse noises, was not unnaturally consumed with jealousy of my superior success, and with the desire to discover what charms and spells I used to that end. "On our way up from the Mexican settlement I had several times stopped to note the direction with a little pocket-compass I always carried about with me, on each of which occasions I had observed that the medicine-man, who was one of the party, had eyed the little instrument with a sort of fearful curiosity. Later, when my patients were all getting well, I had several times gone out to a distance from the camp and with the compass taken the bearings of the many mountain peaks visible in all directions, making a little map of the country. Every time I did this, the medicine-man was sure to come stalking by, watching my motions out of the corner of his eye. On one such occasion I called him to me, anxious to be on friendly terms, and showing him the instrument, tried to explain its use. But the Indian, seeing through the glass the unaccountable motion of the needle, was afraid to touch it, and my explanation, I fear, had rather the effect of misleading him, for his knowledge of Spanish was very small, while my knowledge of Apache was smaller, and eventually he went off with the idea that the compass, which I had tried to make him understand was my 'guide,' 'director' and so forth, was in fact nothing more nor less than the familiar spirit through whose aid I had ousted the evil spirit of the smallpox. "With this conviction in his mind, and supposing that the possession of the compass would confer upon him similar powers, he screwed up his courage to steal it--and a very courageous act it was, too, I consider, remembering how greatly he stood in fear of it. "It was on the eve of my departure that I discovered my loss, and going straight to my friend with the green nose I informed him of the fact, at the same time stating my conviction that the medicine-man was the thief. He was very wroth that his guest should have been so treated after having rendered such good service to the community, but feeling some diffidence about seizing and searching his medicine-man, of whom he was rather afraid, he suggested that I concoct a spell which should induce the thief to disgorge his plunder of his own accord; a course which would doubtless be a simple matter to a high-class magician like myself. "This was rather embarrassing. I did not at all like to trust to the tricks of the charlatan, but being unable to devise any other plan by which to recover my compass, an instrument indispensable to me, and impossible to replace, in that wild country, I determined to employ a device I had once read of as having been adopted by an officer in the East India Company's service to detect a thieving Sepoy soldier. Even then I should not have resorted to such a measure had I not felt convinced that the medicine-man was the thief, and that his superstitious dread of my powers would cause him to fall into my trap. "I therefore desired Green Nose to summon all the men of the village, which being done, I addressed them through him as interpreter. I told them that one of their number was a thief, and that I was about to find out which one it was--a statement which I could see had an impressive effect. "Taking two straws of wild rye, I cut them to exactly equal lengths, and then, holding them up so that all might see, I announced that the men were to come forward, one at a time, take one of the straws, step inside my lodge for a few seconds, and then bring back the straw to me. To those who were innocent nothing would happen, 'but,' said I, with menacing fore-finger, 'when the _thief_ brings back the straw it will be found to have _grown one inch_!' "I waited a minute to allow this announcement to have its full effect, and then requested that, in deference to his exalted position, my honored brother, the medicine-man, should be the first to test the potency of my magic. "I could see that he was very reluctant to do any such thing, but to decline would be to draw suspicion on himself, so, stepping from the line, he received the straw and retired with it to my lodge. "There was a minute of breathless suspense, when back he came and handed over his straw to me. My own straw, together with the hand which held it, I had covered with a large, spotted silk handkerchief, in such a manner that it was concealed from view, and slipping the medicine-man's straw into the same hand, I perceived at once that the thief had betrayed himself, just as I had hoped and expected he would. "Casting a glance along the line of silent Indians, and noting that they were all attention, I withdrew the handkerchief and held up the two straws. One of them was an inch longer than the other! "In spite of their habitual stoicism, there was a murmur and a stir along the line; but the greatest effect was naturally upon the poor medicine-man. Thrusting his hand into his bosom, he drew out the compass from under his shirt, handed it to me, and then, pulling his blanket over his head, he crept away without a word and shut himself up in his lodge." "But how did you do it?" I interrupted. "How did his straw come out longer than the other? Did you break off a piece from your own?" "No," replied the professor, smiling; "it was the medicine-man who broke off a piece from his. Knowing himself to be the thief, and fully believing that the straw would grow in his hand, he no sooner got into the shelter of my lodge than he bit off an inch from his straw, thus making sure, as he supposed, that its supernatural growth would bring it back to its original length. It was just what I had expected him to do. Nobody but myself, of course, could tell which straw was which, and when I held them up to view, one longer than the other, the whole assembly never doubted for an instant that the shorter one was mine and that it was the thief's straw that had grown--least of all the medicine-man, himself. "He, poor fellow, conscious of guilt, and being himself a dealer in charms and incantations, was more than anybody in a proper frame of mind to put faith in my magic, and when he saw, as he supposed, that his straw, in spite of his precautions, had grown the promised inch, he collapsed at once; and thinking, very likely, that it was the compass itself that had betrayed him, he handed it back to me very willingly, glad to be rid of so pernicious a little imp." "And was that the end of the matter?" I asked. "Yes, that was the end of it. Being all ready to go, I went, leaving behind me a reputation which was to be of great service to me on many a subsequent occasion; a reputation due, I am sorry to say, very much more to the clap-trap trick played upon the poor medicine-man than upon my really meritorious service in dealing with the smallpox epidemic. My fame gradually extended among all the mountain tribes, and since then I have been free to go anywhere with the assurance not only of safety but of welcome from any of the Indians, Apache, Ute or Navajo--a condition of affairs which, as you will readily understand has been of infinite service to me during my twenty years of wandering. "Ah!" casting a glance out of the window as he rose from the table. "Here comes Dick, and somebody with him; a stranger to me--your uncle, I presume." CHAPTER VII DICK'S DIPLOMACY Running to the door, I saw Dick striding down toward the cabin, while behind him on a stout pony rode Uncle Tom. Just as I stepped out, the pair approached one of the drifts of snow which ridged the valley, and into this Dick plunged at once. Though it was up to his waist, he pretty soon forced his way through, when it was Uncle Tom's turn. Evidently it was not the first time the pony had tackled a snow-drift, for he showed no disposition to shirk the task, but wading in up to his knees, he did the rest of the passage in a series of short leaps, very like buck-jumping; a mode of progression extremely discomforting to his plump, short-legged rider. "Oh! Ah!" gasped Uncle Tom at each jump. "Heavens! What a country! Dick, you imp of darkness, I thought you said it was an easy trail." At this I could not help laughing, when Uncle Tom, who had not perceived me before, transferred his attention to me. "You young scamp, Frank!" cried he, shaking his fist at me as I ran forward to meet him. "This is a nice way to treat your respected uncle--first scare him half to death and then laugh at him. Lucky for me there's only one of you: if you had been born twins I should have been worn to a rag long ago. How are you, old fellow?" he went on, reaching down to shake hands with me. "Any the worse for your adventure?" "Not a bit," I replied. "Sound as a bell, thank you." "Thank Dick, you mean. I'll tell you what, Frank," he continued, leaning down and whispering; Dick having walked on toward the house: "that's an uncommonly fine young fellow, in my opinion. His coming down in the storm last night to tell me that you were all safe was a thing that few boys of his age would have done and fewer still would have thought of doing. Ah! This is the professor, I suppose. Why, I've seen him before!" So saying, Uncle Tom jumped to the ground, and hastening forward, held out his hand, exclaiming: "How are you, Herr Bergen? I'm glad to meet you again. We are old acquaintances, though I had forgotten your name, if I ever heard it." "I believe you are right, Mr. Allen," responded the professor. "Your face seems familiar, though I am ashamed to say I cannot recall when or where we met." "I can remind you," said Uncle Tom. "It was at Fort Garland, six or seven years ago. I was on my way to investigate an alleged gold discovery in the Taos mountains, when you rode into the fort to ask the cavalry vet to give you something to dress the wounds of a burro which had been clawed by a mountain-lion. I got into conversation with you, and learning that you also wanted some cartridges for a little Ballard rifle, I gave you a box of fifty. Do you remember?" "I remember very well," replied the professor. "The cartridges were for Dick: he learned to shoot with a Ballard. Well, this is a great pleasure to meet an old acquaintance like this. Come in out of the cold. Romero will take your pony." Soon we were all seated before the fire, Uncle Tom puffing away his aches and pains with the smoke of the inevitable cigar, when the professor, turning to him, asked: "And how long do you intend to stay in camp, Mr. Allen? Will this snow drive you out?" "Not at all," replied Uncle Tom. "I expect to be here a couple of weeks, in spite of the snow. The drifts will settle in a day or two, and the miners will break trails to their claims, and then I shall be able to get about--there won't be any difficulty. Though if it were going to be as hard work as it was coming up here this morning I might as well go home again at once--it took us an hour to make the one mile from town." "You came to inspect the mines, I understand. Do you confine yourself to silver mines, or do you deal in mines of all sorts?" "Silver and gold," replied Uncle Tom. "Though, as it happens, I am on the lookout this time for a copper mine as well. Before I left St. Louis I notified a Boston firm, with whom I have frequent dealings, of my intention to come here, and received from them in reply a telegram, saying, 'Find us a good copper mine. Price no object.' There was no explanation, and I am rather puzzled to understand why they should suddenly branch out into 'coppers' in this way." "I expect the explanation is simple enough," remarked the professor. "What is it, then?" asked Uncle Tom. "To any one watching the progress of science," replied the professor, puffing away at his big porcelain pipe, "even to me, here on the ragged edge of civilization, it is obvious that a new era is close at hand; a new force rapidly coming to the front." "Electricity?" asked Uncle Tom. "Yes, electricity. The science is still in the egg, as you may say, but to those who have ears to hear, the shell is beginning to crack. I am convinced that before long we shall be lighting our streets with electricity and using it in a thousand ways as a mechanical power. The consequence will be an immense increase in the demand for copper; and that, I have no doubt, is why you have been asked to look out for a copper mine: they want to be ready when the time comes. What is this, Dick?" At the first mention of the words, "copper mine," the thoughts of Dick and myself had, of course, instantly reverted to the King Philip mine, and I was on the point of introducing the subject, when Dick, catching my eye, signed to me to keep quiet. Rising from his chair, he stepped softly to the rack where the rifles hung and took down the Mexican's arrow, which he had put there the evening before. It happened that we had not mentioned the episode of the wolves and the Mexican when describing to the professor our struggle homeward through the snow-storm, and consequently, when my companion laid the arrow on the table close to his elbow, it was only natural that the old gentleman should exclaim, "What is this, Dick?" Very briefly, Dick related how he had come by it, merely stating that we had seen a Mexican shoot a wolf; that the Mexican had run away when we hailed him; and that we had gone and picked up his arrow. I wondered rather why he did not call attention to the copper arrow-head; but Dick knew what he was about, as I very soon saw: he intended to let the professor discover it for himself, which a man of his habits of close observation was certain to do. In fact, the old gentleman had no sooner taken the arrow into his hands than he exclaimed: "Why, this arrow-head is made of copper! A Mexican, you say? Then he probably came from Hermanos. You remember, Dick, how all the people down there---- Why, Mr. Allen, here's the very thing! You want a copper mine? Well, here is a copper mine all ready to your hand! All you have to do is----" "To find it," interjected Dick, laughing. "That is true," the professor assented, laughing himself. "I had forgotten that little particular for the moment, Dick. I'm afraid it is not quite so ready to your hand as I was leading you to suppose, Mr. Allen; but that it is there, somewhere in the Dos Hermanos mountains, I feel sure." Thereupon the professor proceeded to tell the story that Dick had already told me, giving some further details of the information he had derived from the Spanish gentleman, Don Blake. "It appears to have been a mine of some consequence," said the professor. "The records covered a period of fifteen years, and during the last five years of the time the shipments were constant and large. It is fairly sure, I think, that the product was native copper----" "Sure to be," interrupted Uncle Tom. "It would never have paid to ship any waste product so far. In fact, I am surprised that they should ship even native copper such a long distance." "Yes; but as they did so, I think the inference is that the metal was plentiful and easy to mine." "That is a reasonable assumption," said Uncle Tom, thoughtfully nodding his head. "What beats me, though," he went on, "is that the memory of the spot should have been so totally lost. Considering that the mine was producing for fifteen years, there must be many traces of the work done, such as the waste dump, the old road or trail, and so forth: you can't run a mine for that length of time and leave no marks. It is a wonder to me that the place has never been rediscovered." "I don't think there is anything surprising in that," replied the professor. "The villagers of Hermanos, agricultural people, seldom go five miles from home; it is only old Galvez' _vaqueros_, his cow-men, who would be likely to come across the traces of mining, and if they did, those peons are such incurious, unenterprising people they would pay no attention. Besides which, I gathered that even the cow-men never went up into the Dos Hermanos mountains: it is not a good cattle country--rough granite and limestone, little water and scant pasturage. Consequently, the cattle range southward toward the Santa Claras, instead of westward to the Dos Hermanos, and the Twin Peaks, therefore, remain in their solitary glory, untouched by the foot of man; and probably they have so remained ever since the King Philip mine was abandoned, a hundred and fifty years ago." For a full minute Uncle Tom remained silent, thoughtfully blowing out long spirals of cigar smoke, but presently he roused up again and said: "There is one thing more I should like to ask you, Professor, and that is, why you conclude that the King Philip mine is in the Dos Hermanos mountains?" "For this reason," replied our friend: "In the first place, many of the reports were dated from the _Casa del Rey_. Of course, it is likely enough that there are other _Casas del Rey_ in other parts of the country, but besides the frequent mention of the King's House, there was also mention of Indian fights at different places: 'at the crossing of the Perdita,' for instance, and 'near the spring by Picture Buttes'; then there was the record of a snow-blockade on the Mosca Pass, in the Santa Claras; another of a terrible dust-storm on the Little Cactus Desert, 'with the loss of one man and three mules'; and so forth. Now, a line running through these and other places mentioned would bring you into the Mescalero valley at its southern end, and there is no doubt in my mind that the _Casa del Rey_ named in the reports is the King's House down there at Hermanos." "It does seem so, doesn't it?" responded Uncle Tom. "Look here, professor," he went on, suddenly jumping out of his chair and casting his cigar stump into the fire, "I must make an attempt to find that copper mine. It does, as you say, seem all ready to my hand. But how to do it, is the question. I can't go myself--can't spare the time--so the only way, I suppose, is to hire some prospector, if I can." "I don't think you can get one," said the professor, shaking his head; "at least, not here in Mosby. They are all too intent on hunting for silver, and I doubt if you could persuade one of them to waste a season in searching for a metal so commonplace as copper, the value of which is rather prospective than immediate. I doubt very much if you could get one to go." "I suppose not," replied Uncle Tom. "And you can hardly blame them, either, when you consider that by the expenditure of the same amount of labor a man may come across a rich vein of silver, every ounce of which he knows to be worth a dollar and twenty cents." "Just so," the professor assented. "What am I to do, then?" asked Uncle Tom. "Give it up? Seems a pity, doesn't it, when, more than likely, the old workings are lying there plain to view, only waiting for some one with his eyes open to pass that way. Still, if I can't get a man----" "Take a boy," suggested Dick, cutting in unexpectedly. Uncle Tom whirled round on his heels and stared at him; the professor removed his long pipe from his mouth and stared at him too; while Dick himself sat bolt upright in his chair, a broad and genial grin overspreading his countenance. For some seconds they all maintained these attitudes in silence, when Uncle Tom suddenly broke into a hearty laugh. "You young scamp!" cried he, shaking his forefinger at Dick. "I believe that's what you've been aiming at all the time." "That's just what we have, Mr. Allen," replied my companion. "Frank and I were talking about it yesterday, saying what fun it would be to go and hunt for the old mine; though we never expected to get the chance. But when you began to talk about copper mines, we cocked our ears, of course, thinking that here, perhaps, _was_ a chance after all--and--and if you _can't_ get a man, Mr. Allen, why not send a boy? Would you let me go, Professor?" Our two elders looked at each other, and very anxiously we looked at our two elders. Not a word did either of them say, until the professor, rising from his chair and knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the hearthstone, remarked quietly: "Go out and chop some wood, boys. I want to talk to Mr. Allen." Regarding this order as a hopeful sign, out we went, and for a long half-hour we feverishly hacked at the heap of poles outside, making a rather indifferent job of it, I suspect, until a tapping at the window attracted our attention and we saw Uncle Tom beckoning us to come in. How anxiously we scanned their countenances this time, any one will guess. Both men were standing with their backs to the fire, Uncle Tom smoking a fresh cigar and the professor puffing away again at his pipe, both of them looking so solemn that I thought to myself, "It's no go," and my spirits fell accordingly; but looking again at Uncle Tom I detected a twitching at the corner of his mouth which sent them up again with a bound. "Well, Uncle Tom!" I cried. "What's it to be?" "It is a serious matter," replied my guardian, with all the solemnity of a judge passing sentence. "The professor and I have discussed it very earnestly, and we have decided--that you shall go!" CHAPTER VIII THE START The delight with which this announcement was received by us two boys may be imagined, for though we had hoped for such a decision we had not dared to expect it. I, for my part, had feared that the matter of my interrupted education alone would form an insurmountable barrier; and indeed it was that subject which had proved the chief obstacle, as Uncle Tom presently informed me. All the other objections were minor ones and we discreetly refrained from asking for their recapitulation lest, in going over them again, something not thought of before should crop up to interfere. We were quite content to accept the decision without knowing how it had been arrived at. As to my interrupted schooling, though, that was a serious matter, as Uncle Tom, in spite of his original ideas about education, clearly understood. "The main question with me, you see, Frank," said he, "was whether you would benefit or otherwise by missing so much schooling, and though I believe pretty strongly in the value of learning by practice and experience, I should have felt obliged to decide against this expedition if the professor had not come to the rescue. It is to him you owe our decision to let you boys go." I looked gratefully at Herr Bergen, who serenely waved the stem of his pipe in our direction, though whether to intimate that the obligation was nothing to speak of, or as a sign to Uncle Tom to go on, I could not decide. "I find," continued the latter, "that the winter is Dick's school-time; and the professor has offered to take you in, Frank, and let you share in Dick's work, undertaking to bring you on in your mathematics in particular--which is your weak spot, you know. In the spring, when the snow clears off, you are to start for the Dos Hermanos and make a thorough search for this old copper mine; and as you will be doing it on my account, I shall bear all expenses. There, that is all, except--well, it is not necessary to mention that--but I was going to say that I rely on you, old fellow, to make the most of your opportunity and in your own person to prove the correctness of my theory that a boy may sometimes learn more out of school than in it." "I believe you may count on me, Uncle Tom," said I. "I'll do my level best. And I'm tremendously obliged to you, Herr Bergen----" "Not at all," interrupted the professor, "not at all. The fact is, I am very glad to have a companion for Dick; and as to the schooling, the obligation is not all on one side by any means, for to me it is one of the greatest pleasures possible to teach a boy who really desires to learn. I anticipate a most pleasant winter." Thus was this odd arrangement made by which I, who by right should have been attending a public school in St. Louis, became the private pupil of an eminent German professor, pursuing my studies in a little log cabin tucked away in a snow-encumbered valley of the Rocky Mountains--about as queer a piece of topsyturviness, to my notion, as ever happened to a boy, and one very unlikely to happen to any other boy, unless he chanced to be endowed with an Uncle Tom cut out on the same pattern as mine. "There's one thing, Frank," said my guardian, as we made our way down to camp later in the day, "there's one thing I didn't mention in Dick's presence, and that is that the professor laid great stress on the pleasure and advantage it would be to Dick to have a companion of his own age for once, and it was that which turned the balance with me--after the educational question had been got out of the way. For I owe Dick a good turn if I can do him one without hurting anybody else; I told him I wouldn't forget his service in coming down through the storm yesterday, and I haven't forgotten. I'm uncommonly glad to think that in consenting to your taking part in this expedition--which I believe will be a great thing for you, mentally as well as bodily--we shall be doing a service to Dick and to the old professor at the same time." "Well, Uncle Tom," said I, "you may be sure I am glad enough to stay, and I hope it will not only prove a good thing for Dick and me, but for you as well." "I hope so, too. And it will, if you can locate that old copper mine, and if it should prove to be anywhere near as good as it sounds." As things turned out, I was destined to begin my winter's schooling somewhat earlier than we had expected, for, five days after the storm, Uncle Tom received from his Boston employers a telegram, forwarded by mail from the end of the line, saying, "Come here at once. Important," when, without demur, he forthwith packed up his things and away he went; while I, taking leave of our kind host, the assayer, moved up to Herr Bergen's house. I need not go into the details of our daily life on Mosby Creek; it is enough to say that the winter was one of the pleasantest I had ever spent. Time flew by, as was only natural, for there was not an idle moment for either of us. Herr Bergen proved to be a most able instructor, not only in the matter of scholarship but in general training as well. He had served in the German army in his younger days, and the habits of orderliness, precision and promptness remained with him. We boys were made to toe the mark, and no mistake; there was a time for work and a time for play, and whether for duty or pleasure, we had to be on hand to the minute. I do not wish to imply that the professor was harsh, or anything of the sort; very far from it: he was most considerate of our shortcomings, which were doubtless plentiful enough, and with infinite patience would go over the ground again and again whenever Dick or I got ourselves tangled up; a condition of things which happened on the average about once a day to each of us. Then, every marked advance we made in any of our studies was so obviously gratifying to the kindly old gentleman that that fact alone was enough to spur a fellow on to doing his extra-best. As a consequence, I, for my part, made very notable progress, and it was with great pleasure, as you may suppose, that I was able later on to write to Uncle Tom my conviction that I had gained rather than lost by my winter's work. One thing, at least, which I should not have acquired in school, I gained by my association with the professor's household: I learned to speak Spanish. Herr Bergen made a great point of it that I should do so, as it would be pretty sure to come in useful during the ensuing summer. He and Dick--and Romero, of course--all spoke it very well, so that my opportunity for picking it up was excellent, and I made rapid progress; my knowledge of Latin, which, though very far from profound, was up to the average of a schoolboy of my age, being an immense help. All this time we did not lack exercise--the professor was just as particular about that as he was about our work--and Dick and I had many a jolly outing on our snow-shoes, the management of which was another thing I learned. I should not omit to mention also that I spent a good deal of time and a liberal number of cartridges practising with a rifle, thereby becoming a very fair shot; though, of course, I could not compete with Dick, who, having learned as a mere child, seemed, almost, to shoot straight by nature. The weather on the average was splendid that winter, and there were but few days when we could not get out. Four or five times, perhaps, during the months I spent in the valley a snow-storm came raging down on us, shutting us up for a day or two, after which the jovial sun would turn up smiling again just as though nothing had happened. It was toward the end of April that Dick and I began to get ready to leave. The increasing power of the sun had cleared off all the snow below eleven thousand feet, the green grass was beginning to show in many places, and it was fair to suppose that by the time we reached the Dos Hermanos we should find pasturage enough for our animals--two ponies and a mule. Dick already had his own pony, while the mule, a tough little beast by name Uncle Fritz, was provided by the professor, both animals having passed the winter on a ranch about a couple of thousand feet lower down. Before he left, Uncle Tom had suggested hiring them for the season, but the professor would not consent to his paying anything, saying that the animals might just as well be put to some use as to waste their time doing nothing all summer. Consequently, about the only expense to which my guardian was put, besides furnishing provisions and tools for the expedition, was the purchase of a pony and a rifle for me. This was a very moderate outlay, and I was glad to think that Uncle Tom would get off so cheaply, if our search should turn out a failure; and no one was more ready to recognize that possibility--probability, I should rather say, perhaps--than Uncle Tom himself, to whom the many stories in general circulation of lost Spanish mines of fabulous richness were familiar, and who knew very well how little foundation there was for most of them. The present case, though, was different from the generality, in that there existed documentary evidence that there had been such a mine; a fact which altered the conditions entirely. For it is safe to say that without such documentary evidence Uncle Tom would never have consented to our undertaking such an enterprise, and Dick and I, in consequence, would never have run into the series of adventures which were destined to befall us before we were many weeks older. It was on the first day of May that we at last took leave of our good friend, Herr Bergen, and rode off down the valley, passing on our way through the town of Mosby, where our appearance on horseback, driving our pack-mule before us, excited among the citizens much speculation as to our destination; a matter concerning which we had said not a word to anybody. That it was a prospecting expedition any one could see, for the pick and shovel could not very well be concealed, but where we were bound for nobody knew, Uncle Tom having cautioned us that if we let a word escape about an old Spanish mine we should have a hundred men at our heels in no time; the very idea of such a thing having an irresistible fascination for some people, especially for the inexperienced newcomer. [Illustration: "PASSING ON OUR WAY THROUGH THE TOWN OF MOSBY."] Our reason for taking our way through town rather than crossing the Mosby Ridge, back of the professor's house, and going down the Mescalero valley, was that the latter course, cut up by many deep cañons, would be much the more difficult of the two; for by following down the eastern side of the ridge, as we proposed to do, we should presently come to a point where that barrier, which up near Mescalero began as a mountain range, became first a line of round-topped hills, and then, about forty miles below town, came to an end altogether in a little conical eminence known as The Foolscap. We could therefore pass round its southern end without difficulty, when we should find ourselves in the Mescalero valley at its wide part, and by heading southwestward should arrive in about another twenty miles in the neighborhood of the village of Hermanos--a route somewhat longer, but very much easier for the animals, than the other one. About five miles below town we abandoned the road, which there turned off to the left to join the main stage-road, and continuing our southward course up and down hill over the spurs of the Mosby Ridge we made camp early in the afternoon; for our animals being as yet in rather poor condition, we thought it advisable to give them an easy day for the first one. Selecting a sheltered nook among the pine trees, we unpacked the mule and unsaddled the ponies, and then, while Dick cooked our supper, I busied myself cutting pine boughs for our beds and chopping fire-wood. Soon after sunset we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and in spite of the novelty of the situation--for I had never before gone to bed with no roof overhead nearer than the sky--I slept soundly until Dick's voice aroused me, crying, "Roll out, old chap! Roll out! The sun will catch you in bed in a minute," when I sprang up, fresh as a daisy and hungry as a shark, as one always seems to do after sleeping out under the stars in the keen, pine-scented air of the mountains. Continuing our journey, we presently rounded the end of the Mosby Ridge, and turning to the right saw before us the twin peaks of the Dos Hermanos, standing there, as it seemed to me, like two faithful sentinels guarding the secret of the King Philip mine. "Now, Frank," said my companion, as we sat at supper on the little hill with which the Ridge terminated, "we have a tough day of it before us to-morrow. The valley down at this end, you see, is just a sage-brush plain; there are no cañons down here like there are at the upper end; and there is no water either, unfortunately--this side of the mountains, I mean. The streams which come down from Mescalero and the Ridge take a westerly turn and go off through a deep gorge to the north of the peaks--you can see the black shadow of it from here." "What do the people at Hermanos do for water, then?" I asked. "There is a little stream which comes down from the saddle between the Dos Hermanos peaks and runs eastward through the village. But it sinks into the soil soon afterward, for the country down that way becomes very sandy; it is the beginning of the Little Cactus Desert, across which the pack-trains and the soldier escort used to travel, you remember, headed for the Mosca Pass--that low place in the Santa Claras that you see down there, due south from here." "I see. So the nearest water is the stream running through the village. Do you propose, then, to make for Hermanos?" "No, I don't," replied Dick. "We want to avoid the village, if possible: it is no use exciting the curiosity of old Galvez, if he happens to be there. What I propose is that we make straight from here to the north side of the peaks, leaving the village three or four miles on our left; find a good camping-place, and make it a base for our preliminary operations." "That's all right," I assented. "But how much of a day's ride will it be to the north side of the peaks? Further than to Hermanos, I suppose, and that is over twenty miles." "Yes," replied Dick, "twenty-five miles certainly and perhaps thirty--a long stretch without water. But we can do it all right. I propose that we get off by four in the morning, which ought to bring us to the foothills of the Dos Hermanos by two or three o'clock in the afternoon." "That's a good idea," I responded. "And if, by bad luck, we should find that we can't make it, we can always turn off and head for the village if we have to." "Yes. So let us get to bed early. It will be a hard day at best, and we may as well get all the sleep we can." As my companion had predicted, the morrow did turn out to be a tough day, and it began early, too. It was about half-past three in the morning that I was awakened by the crackling of the fire, and sitting up in my blankets, I saw Dick squatted on his heels, frying bacon over some of the hot embers. "Time to turn out, Frank," said he. "Breakfast will be ready in two minutes; feeling pretty hungry this morning?" By way of reply, I opened my mouth with a yawn so prodigious that Dick laughingly continued: "Hungry as all that, eh? Well, old man, if the size of your mouth is an indication of the size of your appetite, I'll slice up another half-pound of bacon!" At this I laughed too, and jumping up, I ran to the creek, where I soused my head and face in the cold water, which wakened me up effectually. By four o'clock we were under way, steering by compass; for, though the stars were shining and the waning moon, then near its setting, furnished some light, there was not enough to enable us to distinguish objects at any distance. Our progress at first was pretty slow, for horses and mules do not like traveling by night, but presently there came a change, the sky behind us took on a rosy hue, and pretty soon there appeared on the western horizon two glowing points, like a pair of triangular red lamps hung up in the sky for our guidance--the summits of the Dos Hermanos caught by the rising sun. It was an inspiring sight! The very animals, seeming to feel its influence, brisked up at once and stepped out gaily, while Dick and I, who had been "mouching" along in silence, straightened up in our saddles and fell to talking. "I've been thinking, Dick," said I, "about what our first move should be after we have found a good camping-place. My idea is that we should ride down to the neighborhood of Hermanos and see if there is any sign of an old trail leading from the village to the mountains." "That's a good idea," Dick responded. "It is pretty certain that the copper was brought down from the mine on the backs of burros, and the supplies carried up in the same way, and if that was kept up for several years there must have been a well-defined trail worn in this soft soil, which may be visible yet." "On the other hand," was my comment, "as the travel ceased so long ago, isn't it probable that the trail will have been blown full of sand and covered up?" "That is likely enough--in many places, at least," replied my companion, "though it is very possible, I think, that there may be some traces left, for it is surprising how long such marks on the ground continue to show. At any rate, we'll try it. Here's the sun; it's going to be pretty hot, I expect." Slowly we plodded along, hour after hour, until presently we had come opposite the village, the mud-colored buildings of which, though not more than three miles away, were barely distinguishable against the gray-tinted plain upon which they stood. The green fields and gardens surrounding the houses we could not see, they being below the general level, but that they were there, and that the Mexicans were at that moment engaged in irrigating them, we felt very sure. A light wind was blowing from the south, and Dick declared that he could "smell the wet"; but though I sniffed and sniffed, I could not conscientiously say that I could detect it myself. Our animals, however, very evidently smelt it, for they evinced a decided inclination to bear to the left, and we had a good deal of difficulty in keeping their heads straight--the slightest inattention on our part, and they were off the line in a moment. As is so often the case, they had not cared to drink in the cool of the morning before we started, and consequently, what with the heat of the sun and the alkali dust they kicked up, they had become eager for water and would have made a straight shoot for Hermanos if we had let them. But we were nearing the mountains, an hour or two more and we should reach water, probably, so, though it was painful to deny the poor beasts, we kept right on, until about four in the afternoon--for it had taken us longer than we had anticipated--when all three of them suddenly lifted their heads, pricked their ears and wanted to run forward. They smelt water ahead of them. Pressing on at an increased pace, we were presently brought to a halt by coming upon the brink of a cliff, at the base of which was a large pool of clear water. The pool lay in a little grass-covered valley about half a mile long, encompassed on all sides by the precipitous wall of rock. We could not see that there was any way of getting down. In order to get a better view, Dick and I dismounted and walked to the edge, when the first thing we saw was a little bunch of half-a-dozen scrawny Mexican cattle down near the pool. "Then there is a way down," cried Dick. "Whoop!" he yelled, clapping his mouth with his hand. The cattle looked up, and seeing two horseless human beings on the sky-line above them, away they went up the valley, vanished for an instant among the fallen rocks at the foot of the cliff, and in another moment appeared again on our level, going off southward with their tails in the air, wild as deer. "Come on!" cried Dick, jumping upon his horse. "Where they came up we can get down." Riding forward, we presently found the cow-trail, when, dismounting once more, for it was too steep to ride without risk of breaking one's neck, we led our horses down. Within another half-hour Dick and I, comfortably seated in the shade of the rock, were enjoying a much-needed dinner, while the three animals, their waist-lines enormously distended with the gallons of water they had swallowed, were eagerly snapping up the young green grass with which the valley was covered--all the troubles of the day completely forgotten. CHAPTER IX ANTONIO MARTINEZ As we wished to give the animals a good rest, we decided to stay where we were for the remainder of that day and on the morrow move to the foot of the mountain and look out for a good camping-place from which to make our preliminary explorations. The spot where we were then encamped would not serve, for we were yet at least three miles from the lowest spurs of the twin mountains. The stream beside which we were seated issued from the northernmost of the two peaks, and after running out into the plain for some distance made a great bend and went back almost to the point of departure, when, turning to the northward, it poured its waters into the deep cañon cut by the streams which came down from Mescalero and the Ridge. It was just at the bend that we had struck it. "What we want, Frank," said my companion, "is a good place in the foothills, and when we have found one, I propose that we take our ponies, skirt along the base of the mountains from north to south, and see if we can't cut across that old trail we were talking about this morning. It is extremely important that we should do so; it might save us weeks of useless searching." "Yes," I assented, "it would be a great help, of course; though all we can hope to find is some mark in the soil which will point us generally in one direction or another." "Yes; and that's just it. If we can find any indication of the direction the trains used to take when they started from the King's House, it will lighten our task tremendously. Look here," taking a pointed stick and drawing a rough plat of the country in the sand. "Here are the two peaks, lying north and south of each other; here, between them, the creek comes down which runs two or three miles out on to the plain to the village here. Now, when the trains used to start out from the _Casa del Rey_ they took to the right of that stream or they took to the left of it, one or the other, and if we can do no more than find out which it was it will be a great help." "Of course," I responded. "I see that. It would show us whether it was the north mountain or the south mountain that we had to explore." "That's it, exactly. And if you stop for a moment to consider, you will see that that would be a pretty big item all by itself. The two mountains cover a space about fifteen miles long by, perhaps, ten miles wide--a hundred and fifty square miles--a pretty big piece of country, old man, for you and me to scramble over; but if we can find a trail which will show us which of the two mountains is the right one, that hundred and fifty miles will be chopped in half at one blow--and if that isn't a pretty big item all by itself, I should like to know what is." With that, Dick, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, stuck his stick point downward into the middle of his map, planted his hands on either knee, and with a defiant jerk of his head, challenged me to deny his conclusion. I could not help laughing at his emphatic manner, but I could not help, either, admitting that his point was a good one. "It certainly would make an immense difference," said I, "and it will pay us to find that old trail if it takes us a week to do it. So, let us dig out first thing to-morrow, Dick, and find a good camping-place as a base." Accordingly we broke camp again early next morning, and following along the rim of the cañon we presently drew near the foothills. As we approached the mountain we were able to distinguish with more clearness the details of its form, and the more clearly we could distinguish them the more were we impressed with the difficulty and the magnitude of the task we had undertaken. It was not going to be the simple, straightforward matter I had at first imagined. Seen from a distance the north peak looked smooth and symmetrical, but when you came close to it you found that it was broken up into cliffs and cañons, some of them of great height and depth. On its northern face, a thousand feet or so below the summit, our attention was drawn to a great semicircular precipice which looked very like the upper half of an old volcanic crater, the lower half, presumably, having broken away and fallen down the mountain. "A pretty tough piece of country, Frank," said my companion, "and a pretty large stretch of it, too, for us to tramp over; for, by the look of it from here, our horses won't be much use to us--at least, when we get up above the lower spurs. Let us try this gully to the left: there's probably water up there; I see the tops of two or three cottonwoods." Turning in that direction, therefore, we presently came upon a diminutive stream which ran down and fell into the cañon, and passing between two high rocks, which looked as though they had been split apart with a wedge to let the water out, we found ourselves in a little park-like valley, flanked on either side by high ridges. "This ought to do, Dick," said I, "at any rate for the present; plenty of grass, plenty of wood and plenty of water. Just the place." "Yes, this is all right; couldn't be better. Let's unsaddle at once, make our camp, and after dinner we'll ride down in the direction of Hermanos and do a little prospecting." Having chosen a good spot, we arranged a comfortable camp, and after a hasty dinner we started out; first picketing Uncle Fritz to keep him from coming trailing after us. Immediately to the south of our camping-place, forming one of the boundaries of the little ravine, in fact, there stretched down from the mountain a great, bare rib of granite, almost devoid of vegetation, which projected a long way out into the valley, and as it lay square across our course we decided, instead of going round the end of it, to ride up to the top in order to get a good lookout over the country we proposed to examine. From the summit of this ridge, at a point about four hundred feet above the plain, we were able to get a very good view of all the wide stretch of comparatively level ground below us, including the village of Hermanos and the green irrigated fields around it, which from this elevation were distinctly visible. Except for this tiny oasis, the whole plain, bounded on the east by the Mosby Ridge, and on the south by the Santa Clara mountains, appeared to be one uniform, level stretch of sage-brush desert--dull, gray and uninviting. "What a pity," remarked Dick, "that there is no water here. If only one could get water upon it, this sage-brush plain could be turned into a wheat-field big enough to supply the whole State with bread, besides furnishing labor and subsistence for a good-sized population of farmers." "It would be fine, wouldn't it?" I assented. "And I don't see why it has never been done: there must be many streams coming down from these mountains." "Yes, no doubt; but the difficulty is that all the streams of any consequence have cut cañons for themselves and are too far below the general level to be of any use. To get water out upon the surface of this valley one would have to go high up on the mountain, find some good-sized stream, head it off--building a dam for the purpose, perhaps--and then conduct the water down here by a ditch several miles long possibly. Far too big an undertaking, you see, for these penniless, unenterprising Mexicans." "I see. It would take a great deal of work and a great deal of money, probably, but it would be a fine thing to do, all the same." "Yes, it would; and some day it will be done. It won't be so very many years before all the 'easy water' in the State will have been appropriated, and then people will begin to look out for a supply in the more out-of-the-way places, building reservoirs to catch the rainfall which now runs to waste after every thunder-storm, and carrying the water long distances to sell it to the ranchman. The professor says that some day the business of catching and distributing irrigation water will be the most important industry in the State, and that a good ever-flowing stream will be more valuable than any silver mine." "I can understand that," I replied. "The best mine will some day come to an end, for when the silver is once dug out it is gone--you can't plant more; whereas, a good stream of water applied on the soil will go on producing forever and ever." "That's it, exactly. And some day that is what will happen here. This fine stretch of level land, which now grows only grass enough to support about three cows and a burro, won't always lie idle. Some enterprising fellow will come along, climb up into this mountain, catch one of those streams which now go running off through the cañons, turn it down here, and a couple of years later this worthless desert will be converted into farms and orchards." "A fine undertaking, too!" I exclaimed. "I should like to have a try at it myself." "So should I. But our object in life just now is 'copper,' so come on, old chap, and let us ride down to the point of this ridge. What is that black speck down there toward the village? Man on horseback? Ah! He has disappeared again. Well, come on now, Frank. Let's get started." Getting down upon the plain again, we turned southward, skirting the base of the mountain, winding our way through the sage-brush, which was large and very thick, when, after riding barely a quarter of a mile in that direction, Dick suddenly pulled up. "Frank!" he exclaimed. "Look here! Doesn't it seem to you that there is a depression in the soil going off to the right and the left? Look away a hundred yards and you will see what I mean. It seems to lead straight up into the mountain one way, and straight out upon the plain the other way." At first I could not detect anything of the sort, but on Dick's pointing it out more particularly it did appear to me that there was a depression going off in both directions. "Let us turn to the left, Dick," said I, "and follow it--if we can--out into the valley and see what becomes of it." "All right," responded my companion. "Let's do so." The mark on the ground was by no means easy to follow, it was so overgrown with sage-brush, and in many places altogether obliterated by drifting sand, but, though we frequently lost it, by looking far ahead we always caught the line again. Presently we found that it went curving off to the right in the direction of Hermanos, and our hopes rose. "Dick!" I cried. "This is no accidental mark in the soil! It is a trail, as sure as you live!" "It does begin to look like it," replied my more cautious friend. "I believe it---- Hallo! Who's this coming?" As he spoke, I saw about half a mile away a horseman coming toward us at an easy lope from the direction of the village. He was riding a handsome gray horse, very superior to the little bronchos we ourselves bestrode. "He rides well," said I. "I wonder how he got so close to us on this flat country without our seeing him." "The country is probably not quite so flat as it looks," replied my companion. "I expect the man has been keeping in the hollows so that he might slip up on us unobserved. It is probably old Galvez coming to find out what we are doing prowling around his domain. He must be the horseman I saw just now, and I've no doubt he saw us, too, cocked up on that bare ridge--for all these Mexicans have eyes like hawks." Meanwhile the rider continued to approach, and as he came nearer we observed, rather to our relief, that it could not be the padron, for the stranger was a well-dressed young Mexican, only three or four years older than ourselves, a handsome, intelligent-looking young fellow, too, with a trim little black moustache and bright black eyes--evidently one of a class superior to the ordinary cow-man or farm-hand. Watching him closely as he came up, wondering what sort of a reception we should get from him, it appeared to me that he, too, looked both surprised and relieved when he perceived that instead of the two rough and sturdy prospectors he had probably expected to meet, it was only a couple of boys, younger than himself, with whom he had to deal. And it is likely that he did feel relieved, for at that time the white men--or, at least, very many of them--dwelling on what was then the outer edge of civilization, were apt to look down upon all Mexicans as people of an inferior race, frequently treating them in consequence in a rough, overbearing manner by no means calculated to promote friendly feeling. The young Mexican doubtless "sized us up" favorably; at any rate, no sooner had he come near enough to see what we were like than he rode straight up to us, and addressing us politely in Spanish, said: "Good-day, sirs. Are you going down to Hermanos? I shall be glad to ride with you if you are." It happened that I was the one to whom he addressed this salutation, Dick being a little further back. Now, though I had acquired enough of the language to understand and speak it fairly well, the Spanish I had learned was good Castilian, whereas the young Mexican spoke a kind of _patois_, such as is commonly used among all the natives of these outlying settlements. The unexpected difference of pronunciation, though slight, caused me to hesitate an instant in making reply--I have no doubt, too, my face looked rather blank--whereupon the young fellow instantly jumped to the conclusion that we did not speak Spanish at all, and he therefore repeated his remark in English. It was without any thought of misleading him that I replied, very naturally, in the tongue which came easiest to me, and as the stranger spoke English quite as well as I did, it was very natural again that the conversation should be continued in that tongue. Thus it happened that we accidentally deceived him--or, rather, he deceived himself--into the belief that we did not understand any language but our own, and as no opportunity cropped up during our talk for setting him right, he continued in this mistaken idea; a fact which, a little later, caused us considerable satisfaction--not on our own account, but on his. Replying to his question therefore in English, I said: "No, we were not bound for Hermanos in particular. We have come down here to do a little prospecting, and were just riding around a bit to take a look at the country. Do you live here?" "No," he replied, "I live in Santa Fé. My name is Antonio Martinez. I am on a visit here to my uncle, Señor Galvez, the padron of Hermanos. He is my mother's brother, and as she had not seen him for many years, and as he has always declined to come to us, she sent me here to make his acquaintance. For myself, I had never even seen him until I arrived here two weeks ago, and----" He checked himself suddenly, looking a little confused; I had an idea that what he was going to say was that he did not much care if he never saw him again. "And are you expecting to stay here?" asked Dick. "No, I go back in a day or two. Where do you, yourselves hail from, if I may ask? From Mosby?" "Yes, from Mosby," replied Dick. "We came down, as my friend said, to do some prospecting up in one or other of these two peaks--we don't know which one yet. How is the country up there? Pretty accessible? You've been up, I suppose." "No, I haven't," replied the young Mexican. "You think that rather strange, don't you? And naturally enough. Here have I been for two weeks hanging around this village with absolutely nothing to do; I should have been glad enough to make an expedition up into the mountains--in fact, I had a very particular reason for wishing to do so--but when I suggested the idea to the padron, explaining to him why I was so anxious to go, he not only refused emphatically for himself, but declined to let me go either." "Why, that seems queer!" cried Dick. "It does, doesn't it? And his reason for refusing will appear to you queerer still--he's afraid!" "Afraid!" we both exclaimed. "Afraid of what?" "Afraid of The Badger," replied the young fellow, breaking into a laugh as he noted the mystified look which came over both our faces. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Why should he--or anybody--be afraid of a badger?" "I said _The_ Badger," replied our friend. "You have never heard of him, evidently--El Tejon, The Badger." We both shook our heads. "What is he?" I asked. "A man?" "Yes--or a wild beast. It is hard to say which. He is a Mexican who once lived in the village here, I believe. For some reason which I cannot understand--for my uncle won't talk about it, though I have asked him several times--for some reason The Badger conceived a violent hatred for the padron; whether he went crazy or not, I don't know, but anyhow he committed a murderous assault upon him, hurting him badly--knocked out all his front teeth with a stone, for one thing--and then escaped into the mountains. That was twelve years ago, and as far as any one knows he is there yet, if he is still alive." "And wasn't any attempt ever made to capture him?" asked Dick. "Once," replied Antonio. "According to the padron's story, he went out with six of his cow-men to try to run The Badger to earth; but the attempt was a failure, as was only to be expected, for the cow-men were very unwilling to go. They trembled at the very name of El Tejon, who was a man of immense strength and a great hunter, and they feared that instead of catching him, he would catch one of them. And the event showed that they had reason. They had been out several days, had ridden all over the lower part of the north mountain without seeing a sign of their man, and were coming back, single file, down a narrow gully, when the padron's horse suddenly, and seemingly without cause, fell down, stone dead. The rider, of course, fell too, and striking his head against a stone he lay for a moment stunned. No one could think what had happened to the horse, until presently one of the men noticed blood upon the rocks, and turning the animal over they were all scared out of their wits by seeing the head of an arrow sticking out between his ribs." "An arrow!" we both cried. "Yes, an arrow," continued the narrator, not noticing the glance Dick and I exchanged. "They knew well enough where it came from, for The Badger had always hunted with a bow and arrow, with which he was extraordinarily expert. The instant the cow-men saw what had happened they stuck spurs into their horses and away they all went, helter-skelter, leaving their leader lying on the ground." "That was a pretty shabby desertion," said I. "How did the padron escape?" "That is one of the things I can't understand," replied Antonio. "Why the man, having him so entirely in his power, didn't kill him at once is a puzzle to me. As it was, when the padron recovered his senses, he found El Tejon calmly seated on the carcase of the horse, waiting for him to wake up. He quite expected, he says, to be murdered forthwith, but instead, the man merely held up the arrow, which he had drawn out of the horse's body, and said: 'For you--next time'; and with that he arose and walked off. The padron is no coward, but he knows when to let well enough alone: he has never been up on the mountain since." "That's a curious story," said Dick. "What sort of a looking man is this El Tejon?" "I've never seen him myself, of course," replied our friend, "but the padron describes him as a very remarkable man to look at: less than five feet high, with an immense body, very short legs and very long arms." Dick and I exchanged glances again. "Whether the man is yet alive," continued the young fellow, "nobody knows. It is nearly twelve years ago that this happened, and since then he has never been seen nor heard of. The chances are, I expect, that he has been long dead." "On that point," remarked Dick, "we can give _you_ a little information. He is not dead--at least he wasn't last fall." CHAPTER X THE PADRON "What do you mean?" cried Antonio. "How do you know? I thought you said you had never heard of him." "We hadn't," replied Dick, "until you mentioned his name, but from your description we have no doubt we saw him some months ago up here at the head of the valley." With this by way of preface, my companion related to our new acquaintance the particulars of our "interview" with the "little giant," as he called him. "It must be the same man," said Antonio. "I wonder what he was doing so far away from his own mountain. You say he shot the wolf with a copper-headed arrow? That's something I should like to investigate, if only the padron were not so dead set against my going up into the mountain. Where does he get his copper? In fact----" He paused to consider, and then went on: "Yes; I don't see why I shouldn't tell you--my uncle won't go himself, and he won't let me go, so I may as well tell _you_. The truth is that the reason why I was so anxious to make an excursion up there was just that--to find out where El Tejon gets his copper. And not only he, but the villagers down here. Every house in Hermanos has its copper bowl and dipper. They are hammered out of lumps of native copper; some of them must weigh five or six pounds. Where did they come from? Lumps of copper of that size were not washed down the streams--they were dug up. But by whom, and where?" I felt a great inclination to tell him. He had been so friendly and communicative that I began to feel rather uncomfortable at the thought that we were drawing all this information from him under what might be regarded as false pretences. I was pretty sure that Dick would be feeling much the same--for among boys, as I have many a time noticed, there is nothing more catching than open-heartedness--and I was right; for, glancing at him to see what he thought, I caught his eye, when he immediately raised his eyebrows a trifle, as much as to say, "Shall I tell him?" "Yes," said I, aloud. "I think so. Though we must remember, Dick, that it isn't altogether our secret." Dick nodded, and turning to the young Mexican, who was gazing at us open-eyed, wondering what we were talking about, he said: "Senor Antonio, my friend and I agree that it isn't quite fair to you to let you go on telling us these things without our telling you something in return. As Frank says, it is not altogether our own secret, but at the same time we don't think it is quite a square deal to get all these particulars from you and to keep you in the dark about ourselves. I can tell you this much, anyhow: that our object in coming down here was to find out where those same lumps of copper did come from." "Why, how did _you_ know anything about them?" cried Antonio, opening his eyes wider still. "I passed through Hermanos about eighteen months ago," replied Dick, "in company with a German naturalist, Herr Bergen, when we noticed the great number of copper bowls and things, and the sight of them reminded the professor of a story he had heard of an old copper mine, abandoned more than a hundred years ago, supposed to be somewhere down in this country. The story the professor told us is the story which we think we have no business to repeat, but I can tell you this much, at least, that it seemed to indicate the Dos Hermanos as the site of the old mine; and so we got leave to come down here to see if we couldn't trail it up." "Is that so? What fun you will have. I wish I could go with you. But that, I know, is out of the question: the padron would not consent, and I could not go against his will. But if I can help you I shall be very glad. Does the story you refer to indicate which of the two peaks is the right one?" "No, it doesn't," replied Dick. "We suppose that the copper used to be brought down to the _Casa_ on pack-burros, and we thought there might be the remains of a trail down here in the valley. That is what we were doing when you rode up:--looking for the trail; and we thought perhaps we had found it when we discovered this indentation in the soil that we have been following." "And I believe you have!" cried Antonio. "That's just what you have! It goes on straight southward from here, very plain, to within half a mile of the _Casa_ and then seems to die out for some reason. But, that it is the old trail I feel certain. Your copper mine is up there on the north peak as sure as----" He stopped short, his enthusiasm suddenly died out, and pulling a long face, he gazed at us rather blankly. "Well?" asked Dick. "I was forgetting. There's something else up there on the north peak." "What's that?" "The Badger!" "That's so!" cried Dick. "I'd forgotten him, too. Do you suppose he would interfere with us?" "That's more than I can say. From what the padron has told me, I imagine it is only to him that El Tejon objects, and perhaps also to me as one of the family; but I'm not sure about that. Look here! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll just ride home and ask him what he thinks. You stay here. I'll be back in half an hour." "You are very kind," said my partner. "But why should we trouble you to come back here? We'll ride down with you." To our surprise the young fellow flushed and looked embarrassed, but recovering in a moment, he said: "Come on, then. But before we go, let me tell you something. The reason I hesitated was that I feared you might not receive a very hearty welcome from the padron. The truth of the matter is--to put it plainly, once for all--he hates strangers, and above all he hates the Americans. I am sorry it should be so, but so it is. The feeling is not uncommon among the older Mexicans: those who went through the war of '46; and if you stop to think of it, it isn't altogether unreasonable. According to the padron's view of the matter, his native country was invaded without cause or justice; he, himself, fought against the invader; his own brother and many of his friends were killed; and finally, he saw the land where he was born torn away from its old moorings and attached to the country of the enemy." This defence of his fellow-countryman, which the young Mexican delivered with much earnestness and feeling, was a revelation to me. Hitherto I had only considered the war with Mexico from our side, glorying in our success and admiring--very rightly--the bravery of our soldiers. That the Mexicans, themselves, might have a point of view of their own had never occurred to me, until this young fellow thus held up their side of the picture for me to see. "That's a matter I never thought of before," said I; "but when you do stop to think of it, it is _not_ surprising that the older generation of Mexicans should have no liking for us." "No," Dick chimed in; "and I don't think you can blame them, either." "I'm glad you see it that way," said Antonio. "It makes things all comfortable for me. So, now, let us get along. And if the padron doesn't seem best pleased to see you, you will know why." Following along the line of the supposed trail, which continued in general to be pretty plain, we presently passed alongside of a high bank of earth to which our guide called our attention. "Just ride up here a minute," said he. "Now, do you see how this earth-bank forms a perfect square, measuring about two hundred yards each way? What do you make of that?" "It was evidently built up," said I; "it can't be a natural formation. But what the earth was piled up for, I can't see." "I think I can," remarked Dick. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the site of an old pueblo." "Just what I think," responded Antonio. "An old pueblo which probably stood here before ever the Spaniards came to the country, and has been melted down to this shapeless bank by the rains of centuries. This valley must have supported a good-sized population once--very much larger than at present." "It looks like it," Dick assented. "I wonder where they got their water from--for I suppose they lived mostly by agriculture, as the Pueblos do still. Hasn't the padron ever tried to find the old source of supply?" The young Mexican shook his head. "No," said he. "The source of supply, wherever it was, was up in the mountains somewhere, and in spite of the fact that if he could find it, it would increase the value of the grant a thousand times, he daren't go to look for it." "My! What a chance there is here"--Dick began, when he suddenly checked himself. "Here's some one coming," said he. "Is this the padron?" "Yes; he must be coming to see who you are. I hope he won't make himself unpleasant." As Antonio spoke, there came riding toward us a square-set, gray-haired Mexican, at whom, as he approached, we gazed with much interest. He was a man of fifty, or thereabouts, harsh-featured and forbidding, who scowled at us in a manner which made me, at least, rather wish I had not come. To put it shortly and plainly, the Señor Galvez had, in fact, the most truculent countenance I had ever seen; and his first remark to his nephew, as the latter advanced to meet him, was on a par with his appearance. "What are you bringing these American pigs here for, Antonio?" he growled, in Spanish. "You know I will have nothing to do with them." Poor Antonio flushed painfully under his brown skin. He half raised his hand with a deprecatory gesture, as though to beg the speaker to be more moderate, while he glanced uneasily at us out of the corner of his eye to see if we had understood. It was then that Dick and I congratulated ourselves on having accidentally deceived our friend into the belief that we did not speak Spanish. Suppressing our natural desire to bandy a few compliments with the churlish padron, we put on an expression of countenance as stolid and vacant as if we had been indeed the American pigs aforesaid--immensely to the comfort of the younger man, as it was easy to see. "Do not be harsh, señor," said he. "They are only boys, and they are doing no harm here. Moreover," he went on, "they have brought you a piece of information which you will be glad to have:--El Tejon is still alive." The elder man started; his weather-beaten face paled a little. "How do they know that?" he asked, suspiciously. Antonio briefly told him our story. "Hm!" grunted the padron, glowering at us from under his bushy eyebrows. "But what are these boys skulking around here for? They don't pretend, I suppose, that they have come all the way down from Mosby just to tell me they have seen El Tejon." "Not at all," replied Antonio, with considerable spirit. "They are gentlemen, and they don't pretend anything. That bigger one of the two, the freckled one with the hook-nose and red hair"--it was Dick he meant, and intense was my desire to wink at him and laugh--"that one passed through here before; he noticed how every house contained its copper bowl and dipper--just as I did--and he has come down here with his friend--just as I wanted to do--to try to find out where the copper came from. We have had a long talk about it, and we have concluded that it probably came from somewhere up on the north peak. What I brought them down here for was to ask you whether you thought The Badger would let them alone if they went up there--that's all." "That's all, is it? Well, perhaps it is. But I'm suspicious of strangers, Antonio, especially since----" He paused, seemingly considering whether he should or should not mention the subject he had in mind, but at length--evidently supposing that we could not understand what he was saying--he went on: "I had not intended to say anything to you about it, but three days ago--the day you rode over to Zapatero to spend the night--something occurred here which makes me rather uneasy. I had been away all day myself that day and on my return I found a young man in the village who had come, he said, from Santa Fé. For a young man to come to this out-of-the-way place, all alone, from Santa Fé, or from anywhere else, for that matter, was a strange thing: it made me suspicious that he was after no good. And I became more than suspicious when I found that he had spent the day going from one house to another inquiring after El Tejon!" "Inquiring after El Tejon!" repeated Antonio. "That was strange; especially considering that El Tejon has been practically dead for a dozen years. Did he offer any explanation?" "No. To tell the truth, I did not give him the opportunity. When I found out what he was doing, how he had slipped into the village during my absence and had gone prying about among these ignorant peons, asking questions concerning my enemy, I was so enraged that I threatened to shoot him if he did not depart at once. I made a mistake there, I admit; if I had curbed my anger, I might have found out what his object was. But I did not, so there is no more to be said." "That was unfortunate," said Antonio; "but, as you say, it can't be helped now. So the stranger went off, did he? Did he return to----" "No, he didn't," Galvez interrupted, "or, at any rate, not immediately. I'll tell you how I know. I was so distrustful of him that I followed his trail next morning--it was dark when he left, and I couldn't do it then. It was an easy trail to follow, for his horse was shod, and ours, of course, are not. It led eastward for a mile and then turned back, circled round the village and went up into the north mountain. I have not seen him, nor a trace of him since." "It is a strange thing," said Antonio, thoughtfully. "What was the young man like? How old? Was he a Mexican or an American?" "I don't know. He looked like an American, though he spoke Spanish perfectly. He might be twenty years old. It is an odd thing, Antonio--and it is that, perhaps, which made me speak so sharply when I first saw these new friends of yours--but the young man was something like the bigger one of these two boys: the same hook-nose and light-gray eyes, though his hair was black instead of red." "A strange thing altogether," said Antonio, reflectively. "I don't wonder you feel a little uneasy." "As to these boys here," the padron went on, jerking his head in our direction, "you may tell them that they need not fear The Badger. It is only I who have cause to fear him, and perhaps you, as my nephew. These boys may go where they like without danger. The chances are they won't see El Tejon--they certainly won't if he doesn't want to be seen. And, Antonio, just thank them for bringing me their information, and then send them off." So saying, old Galvez turned his unmannerly back on us and rode away. The interview, if it can be called such--for the padron had not addressed a single word to us--being plainly at an end, we shook hands with our friend, Antonio, and having thanked him very heartily for his service, we set off for camp, riding fast, in our hurry to get back before darkness should overtake us. CHAPTER XI THE SPANISH TRAIL "Dick," said I, as we sat together that evening beside our camp-fire, "what do you make of it? That was a queer thing, that young fellow coming inquiring for El Tejon. I confess, for my part, I can't make head or tail of it." "I can't either," replied Dick; "at least, as far as this stranger is concerned. I'm quite in the dark on that point. As to the padron and The Badger, though, that seems to me simple enough. It is some old feud between the two which concerns nobody but themselves." "That is how it strikes me. You don't think, then, that there is any danger to us?" "No, I don't. In fact, I feel sure of it. It is just a personal quarrel of long standing between those two--that's all. I have no more fear of El Tejon than I have of any other Mexican. All the same, old chap, if you have any doubt about it, I'm ready to quit and go home again." "No," I replied, emphatically. "I vote we go on. And I'll tell you why, Dick. For one thing, I always did hate to give up." My partner nodded appreciation. "For another thing, I have gathered the notion that this Badger is not a bad fellow; not at all the kind that would murder a man in his sleep or shoot him from behind a rock. The fact that he let old Galvez go that time when he had him helpless, seems to me pretty good evidence that he is a man of some generosity and above-boardness." "That's a fact," Dick assented; "it was rather a fine action, as it seems to me. And unless I'm vastly mistaken, Frank," he went on, "if the cases had been reversed, and the padron had caught The Badger as The Badger caught the padron, it would have been all up with El Tejon. I never saw a harder-looking specimen in my life than old Galvez. I know, if he were my enemy, I should be mighty sorry to fall into his hands." "So should I; and the less we have to do with him the better, to my notion. I think we shall do well to steer clear of him." "Yes; and there won't be any temptation to go near him, anyhow, especially as Antonio won't be there to act as a buffer. So, we decide to go on, do we?" Dick concluded, as he arose to put two big logs on the fire for the night. "All right. Then we'll get out to-morrow morning. We'll take the line of the old trail and follow it up into the mountain as far as it goes--or as far as we can, perhaps I should say." "Very well," I agreed. "And we may as well abandon this camp, take old Fritz and all our belongings with us, and find another place more suitable higher up the mountain." "Yes; so now to bed." We were up betimes next morning, and having packed our traps away we went, Dick in the lead, Fritz following, and I bringing up the rear. Climbing over the big ridge from whose crest we had surveyed the valley the day before, we rode down its other side to the line of the old trail, and there, turning to the right, we followed it as it gradually ascended, until presently at the head of the ravine the trail, greatly to our perplexity, came to an end altogether. The ravine itself had become so narrow and its sides so precipitous that there appeared to be no way of climbing out of it, and we began to have our doubts as to whether it could really be an old trail that we had been following after all, when Dick, spying about, discovered a much-washed-out crevice on the right-hand side, so grown up with trees and brush as to be hardly distinguishable. "Frank," said he, "they must have come down here--there's no other way that I can see. Wait a moment till I get up there and see if the trail isn't visible again up on top." It was a pretty stiff scramble to get up, but as soon as he had reached the top my partner shouted down to me to come up--he had found the trail once more. If it had been a stiff climb for Dick's horse, it was stiffer still for old Fritz with his bulky pack. But Fritz was a first-rate animal for mountain work, having had lots of practice, and being allowed to choose his own course and take his own time he made the ascent without damaging himself or his burden. As soon as I had rejoined him, Dick pointed out to me the line of the trail, which, bearing away northward now, was much more distinct than it had been down below. For one thing, the ground here was a great deal harder; and for another, being well sheltered by the pine woods, the trail had not drifted full of sand as it had out on the unprotected valley. There were, it is true, frequent places where the rains of many years had washed the soil down the hillsides and covered it up, but in general it was easily distinguishable as it went winding along the base of the mountain proper, at the point where the steeper slopes merged into the great spurs which projected out into the valley. The distinctness of the old trail was, indeed, a surprise to me, its line was so much easier to follow than I had expected. If it continued to be as plain as this, we should have no trouble in keeping it; and so I remarked to my companion. "That's true," Dick assented, adding: "I'll tell you what, Frank: this must surely have been a government enterprise. Just see how much work has been expended on this trail--and needlessly, I should say--no private individual or corporation would have taken the trouble to make a carefully graded road like this--for that is what it really was apparently. It must have been some manager handling government funds and not worrying himself much about the amount he spent." "I shouldn't wonder," said I. "Just notice," Dick continued, pointing out the places with his finger. "See what useless expenditure they made. Whenever they came to a dip, big or little, instead of going down one side and up the other, as any ordinary human being would do, they carried their road round the end of the gully--just as though a loaded burro would object to coming up a little hill like this one, for instance, here in front of us." "It does seem rather ridiculous," I assented. "And they must have laid out their line with care, too, for, if you notice, Dick, it goes on climbing up the mountain with a grade which seems to be perfectly uniform as far as we can see it. It is more like a railroad grade than a trail. It isn't possible, is it, Dick," I asked, as the thought suddenly occurred to me, "it isn't possible that they can have used wheeled vehicles?" "Hm!" replied my companion, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "No, I think not. It would be extremely improbable, to say the least. No, I think it is more likely to be as I said: some lordly government official, spending government funds, and not troubling himself whether the income would warrant the expenditure or not." "I suppose that was probably it," said I. "There's one thing sure, Dick," I added: "if the income did warrant the expenditure, that old copper mine must have been a staver and no mistake." "That's a fact. Well, come on; let us go ahead and see where the trail takes us." This following of the trail was a perfectly simple matter; the animals themselves, in fact, took to it and kept to it as naturally as though even they recognized it as a road. So, on we went, climbing gradually higher at every step, when, on rounding the shoulder of a big spur, we were brought to a sudden and most unexpected halt by coming plump upon the edge of a deep and very narrow cañon. Right up to the very brink of this great chasm the trail led us, and there, of necessity, it abruptly ended. This gorge, which was perhaps a thousand feet deep, and, as I have said, extremely narrow--not more than thirty feet wide at the point where we had struck it--came down from the north face of the mountain, and, as we could see from where we stood, ran out eastward into the plain. It was undoubtedly the stream upon which we had camped when we had come across the valley two days before. Looking the other way--to the left, that is: up stream--our view was limited, but from what we could see of it, the country in that direction bade fair to be inaccessible, for horses, at least; while as to the cañon itself, it curved first to the left and then to the right in such a manner that we could not see to the bottom. Moreover a large rock, rising from the edge of the gorge, and in fact overhanging it a little, cut off our view up stream. On the opposite side of the chasm the ground rose high and rocky, an exceedingly rough piece of country; for though it was in general well clothed with trees, we could see in a score of places great bare-topped ridges and pinnacles of rock projecting high above the somber woods. "Dick," said I, "this looks rather like the end of things. What are we to do now?" "The end of things!" cried Dick. "Not a bit of it! Don't you see, on the other side of the cañon, exactly opposite, that little ravine which goes winding up the mountain until it loses itself among the trees? Well, that is the continuation of the trail. Come down here to the edge and I'll show you." Dismounting from our horses, we advanced as near the rim of the chasm as we dared, when Dick, pointing across to the other side, said: "Look there, Frank, about a foot below the top. Do you see those two square niches cut in the face of the rock? This place was spanned by a bridge once, and those two niches are where the ends of the big stringers rested." "It does look like it!" I exclaimed. "If there are other similar niches on this side, that would settle it. Take hold of my feet, will you, while I stick my head over the edge and see?" With Dick firmly clasping my ankle by way of precaution, I crept to the rim and craned my neck out over the precipice as far as I dared venture. As we had expected, there were the two corresponding niches, while about ten feet below them were two others, the existence of which puzzled me. Squirming carefully back again, I rose to my feet and told Dick what I had seen. "Two others, eh?" said he. "That's easily explained. Look across again and you will see that there are two in the face of the opposite cliff to match them. Those people not only laid two big stringers across the cañon, but they supported them from below with four stays set in those lower holes." "That must be it!" I exclaimed. "They did things well, didn't they--it is on a par with the work they expended on the trail. The trail itself, of course, went on up that little ravine and has since been washed out by the rains." "Yes; and the bridge has rotted and fallen into the stream; unless they destroyed it purposely when they abandoned the mine." "Well, Dick," said I. "It seems fairly sure that the mine was over there, somewhere in the rough country on the other side of the cañon. The question is, how are _we_ to get over there?" "Yes, that's the question all right. We can't get down here. That is plain enough. We shall have to find some other way. And that there is another way is pretty certain. See here! This cañon comes down from the north side of the mountain, runs out into the valley to the point where we struck it day before yesterday, doubles back, and joins the streams coming down from Mescalero, as well as those others which flow down from the north side of the peak." "Well?" "Well, this piece of country before us is therefore a sort of island, surrounded, or nearly surrounded, by cañons." I nodded. "Yes," said I. "Or more like a fortress with a thousand-foot moat all round it." "Well," continued my partner, "the original discoverers of the mine, whether Indians or Spaniards, did not cross here by a bridge, of course; they climbed up from the bottom of one of these cañons somewhere, and at first, probably, brought out the copper the same way, until, finding how much easier it would be to come across here, they built a bridge and made this road for the purpose." "That sounds reasonable," I assented. "So if we want to find the place where they used to get up, we must climb down into the bottom of the cañon ourselves and hunt for it." "Yes," replied Dick. "And from the look of it, I shouldn't wonder if we don't have to go all the way back to our old camping-place in order to get down!" "Hm!" said I, puckering up my lips and rubbing my chin. "I hope we don't have to go that far; but if we must, we must. Anyhow, Dick, before we go all the way down to the bottom of the mountain again, let us climb up above this big rock here and take a look up stream. It is just possible there may be a way down in that direction." "Very well," replied my partner. "I don't suppose there is, but we'll try it anyhow." Leaving our horses standing, we went back a little way along the trail, and climbing upward, presently reached a point level with the top of the big rock which rose above the edge of the gorge. There we found several little gullies leading down to the ravine, and Dick taking one of them and I another, we thus became separated for a few minutes. Only for a few minutes, however, for very soon I heard my partner hailing me to come back. From the tone of his voice I felt sure he had discovered something. "What is it, Dick?" I asked. "Found a way down?" "That's what I have, Frank, I'm pretty sure. Come here and look!" CHAPTER XII THE BADGER A short distance down Dick's gully was a great slab of stone standing on edge, which, leaning over until its upper end touched the opposite wall, formed a natural arch about as high as a church door. Through this vaulted passage Dick led the way. In about twenty steps we came out again upon the brink of the chasm, and then it was that my partner, with some natural exultation, pointed out to me the remarkable discovery he had made. In the face of the cliff was a sort of ledge, varying in width from ten feet to about double as much, which, with a pretty steep, though pretty regular pitch, continued downward until it disappeared around the bend in the gorge. Unless the ledge should narrow very considerably we should have no trouble in getting down, for there was room in plenty not only for ourselves but for our animals also--even for old Fritz, pack and all. "Why, Dick!" I cried. "We can easily get down here! I wonder if this wasn't the original road taken by the pack-trains." "It was," replied Dick; "at least, I feel pretty sure it was--and it was used for a long time, too." "Why do you think so?" I asked. "You speak as though you felt pretty certain, Dick, but for my part I don't see why." "Don't you? Why, it's very plain. Look here! Do you see, close to the outer edge of the shelf, a sort of trough worn in the rock? Do you know what that is? If I'm not very much mistaken, it is the trail of the pack-burros. There must have been a good many of them, and they must have gone up and down for a good many years to wear such a trail; though, of course, it has been enlarged since by the rain-water running down it." "Well, Dick," said I, "I still don't see why you should conclude that this is the trail of a pack-train. It seems to me much more likely to be due to water only. In the first place, though there is room enough and to spare on the ledge, your supposed trail is on the very outer edge, where a false step would send the burro head-first into the cañon; and in the next place, it keeps to the very edge, no matter whether the ledge is wide or narrow." "That's exactly the point," explained Dick. "It is just that very thing which makes me feel so sure that this is the trail of a pack-train. You've never seen pack-burros at work in the mountains, have you? Well, I have lots of times: they are frequently used to carry ore down from the mines. If you had seen them, you could not have helped noticing the habit they have of walking on the outside of a ledge like this, where there is a precipice on one side and a cliff on the other. A burro may be a 'donkey,' but he understands his own business. He knows that if he touches his pack against the rock he will be knocked over the precipice, and he has learned his lesson so well that it makes no difference how wide the ledge may be--he will keep as far away from the rock as he can. As to a false step, that doesn't enter into his calculations: a burro doesn't make a false step--there is no surer-footed beast in existence, I should think, excepting, possibly, the mountain-sheep." "I never thought of all that," said I. "Then I expect you are right, Dick, and this is an old trail after all. What is your idea? To follow it down, I suppose." "Yes, certainly. Our animals won't make any bones about going down a wide path like this. They are all used to the mountains. So let us get them at once and start down." Dick was right. Our horses, each led by the bridle, followed us without hesitation, while old Fritz, half a burro himself, took at once to the trail which one of his ancestors, perhaps, had helped to make. Without trouble or mishap, we descended the steeply-pitching ledge down to the margin of the creek, crossed over to the other side, and continued on our way up stream over the slope of decomposed rock fallen from the towering cliff which rose at least a thousand feet above us--the cliff being now on our right hand and the stream on our left. This sloping bank was scantily covered with trees, and among them we threaded our way, still following the trail, which, however, down here had lost any resemblance to a made road, and had become a mere thread, more like a disused cow-path than anything else. Presently, we found that the cañon began to widen, and soon afterward the cliff along whose base we had been skirting, suddenly fell away to the right in a great sweeping curve, forming an immense natural amphitheatre, enclosing a good-sized stretch of grass-land, with willows and cottonwoods fringing the nearer bank of the stream. As we sat on our horses surveying the scene, we found ourselves confronting at last the imposing north face of the mountain. Up toward its summit we could see the great semi-circular cliff which we supposed to be the upper half of an old crater, while the country below it, bare, rocky and much broken up, was exceedingly rough and precipitous. Starting, apparently, from the neighborhood of this crater, there came down the mountain a second very narrow and very deep gorge, whose waters, when there were any, emptied into the stream we had been following; the two cañons being separated by a high, narrow rib of rock--a mere wedge. Curiously enough, however, this second cañon did not carry a stream, though we could see the shimmer of two or three pools as they caught the reflection of the sky down there in the bottom of its gloomy depths. "Well, Dick," said I, "I don't see any sign yet of a pathway up to the top of this 'island' of yours. This basin is merely an enlargement of the cañon; the walls are just as high and just as straight-up-and-down as ever." "Yes, I see that plainly enough," replied Dick. "Yet there must be a way up somewhere. Those pack-trains didn't come down here for nothing. We shall find a break in the wall presently--up in that gorge, there, it must be, too. So let us go on. Hark! What's that?" We sat still and listened. The whole atmosphere seemed to vibrate with a low hum, the cause of which we could not understand. It kept on for five minutes, perhaps, and then died out again. "What was it, Dick?" said I. "Wind?" "I suppose it must have been," replied my companion; "though there isn't a breath stirring down here. If the sky had not been so perfectly clear all morning I should have said it was a flood coming. It must have been wind, though, I suppose." Satisfied that this was the cause, we thought no more of it, but, taking up the trail once more, we followed it down to the mouth of the second cañon, and there at the edge of the watercourse all trace of it ceased. "That seems to settle it," remarked Dick. "You see, Frank, the walls of this cañon are so steep and its bed is so filled with great boulders that even a burro could get no further. The copper must have been carried down to this point on men's backs, and if so, it was not carried any great distance probably. The mine must be somewhere pretty near now; we shan't have to search much further, I think, for a way up this right-hand cliff. Let us unsaddle here, where the horses can get plenty of grass, and go on up on foot." The ascent of the chasm was no easy task, we found, but, weaving our way between the boulders which strewed its bed, up we went, until presently we came to a place where some time or another a great slice of the wall, about an eighth of a mile in length, falling down, had blocked it completely, forming an immense dam nearly a hundred feet high. It must have been many years since it fell, for its surface was well grown up with trees, though none of them were of any great size. It seemed probable, too, that the base of the dam must be composed of large fragments of rock, for, though there was no stream in the bed of the gorge, it was very plain that water did sometimes run down it. If so, however, it was equally plain that it must squeeze its way through the crevices between the foundation rocks, for there was no sign at all that it had ever run over the top. Scrambling up this mass of earth and rocks, we went on, keeping a sharp lookout for some sign of a pathway up the cliff on our right, but still seeing nothing of the sort, when presently we reached the upper face of the dam, and there for a moment we stopped. Beneath us lay a stretch of the ravine, forming a basin about two hundred yards long, in the bottom of which were three or four pools of clear water. At the upper end of this basin was a perpendicular cliff, barring all further advance in that direction, over which, in some seasons of the year, the water evidently poured--sometimes in considerable volume apparently, judging from the manner in which the sides of the basin had been undermined. The sides themselves continued to be just as unscalable as ever; in spite of Dick's assurance that we should find a way up, it was apparent at a glance that there was neither crack nor crevice by which one could ascend. "Well!" cried my partner, in a tone of desperation. "This does beat me! I felt certain that the trail would lead us to some pathway up the cliff; but, as it does not, what does it come down here for at all?" "There is only one reason that I can think of," I replied, "and that is that they must have come down here for water--there is probably none to be found up on top of the 'island.'" "That must be it, Frank. Yes, I expect you've struck it. And in that case the pathway we have been hunting for must be down stream from the site of the old bridge after all." "Yes. So we may as well go back to-morrow morning, I suppose, and start downward. It is rather late to go back now--and besides, there is no water up there: we had better camp here for to-night, at any rate." "That's true. Well, as we have some hours of daylight yet--if you can call this daylight down here in this narrow crack--let us climb down the face of the dam and examine the basin before we give up and go back, so as to make quite sure that there is no way up the side." Accordingly, having clambered down, we walked up the middle of the basin, our eyes carefully scanning the wall on our right, when, having traversed about three-quarters of its length, we suddenly heard again that humming noise which we had taken for a wind-storm among the pines. With one accord we both stopped dead and listened. The noise was decidedly louder than it had been before, and moreover it appeared to be increasing in volume every second. "Frank!" exclaimed my companion. "I don't like the sound of it! It seems to me suspiciously like water! Let us get out of here! This is no place to be caught by a flood!" We turned to run, but before we had gone five steps we heard a roar behind us, and casting a glance backward, we saw to our horror an immense wall of water, ten feet high, leap from the ledge at the end of the basin and fall to the bottom with a prodigious splash. In one second the whole floor of the basin was awash. In another second our feet were knocked from under us, when, without the power of helping ourselves, we were tumbled about and swept hither and thither at the caprice of the rapidly deepening flood. Happily for myself, for I was no swimmer, I was carried right down to the dam, where, by desperate exertions, I was able to scramble up out of reach of the water. Dick, however, less fortunate than I, was carried off to one side, and when I caught sight of him again he was being swept rapidly along under the right-hand wall--looking up stream--in whose smooth surface there was no chance of finding a hold. As I watched him, my heart in my mouth, he was carried back close to the fall, where the violence of the water, now several feet deep, tossed him about like a straw. Half paralyzed with fear lest my companion should be drowned before my eyes, I stood there on the rocks, powerless to go to his aid, hoping only that he might be swept down near enough to enable me to catch hold of him, when, of a sudden, there occurred an event so astounding that for a moment I could hardly tell whether I ought to believe my own eyes or not. Out from the wall on the left, up near the fall, there shot a great dark body, which, with a noiseless splash, disappeared under the water. The next moment a man's head bobbed up, a big, shaggy, bearded head, the owner of which with vigorous strokes swam toward Dick and seized him by the collar. Then, swimming with the power of a steam-tug, he bore down upon the dam, clutched a projecting rock, drew himself up, and with a strength I had never before seen in a human being, he lifted Dick out of the water with one hand--his left--and set him up on the bank. Running to the spot, I seized hold of my partner, who, almost played out, staggered and swayed about, and helped him further up out of reach of the water. Then, turning round, I was advancing to thank his rescuer, when, for the first time, I saw that the man was almost a dwarf--in height, at least--though his astonishing strength was indicated in his magnificent chest and arms. "The Badger!" I cried, involuntarily. At the sound of that name the man turned short round, and without a word leaped into the water again. Sweeping back under the right-hand wall, he presently turned across the pool and struck out for the opposite side. Ten seconds later he had disappeared, having seemingly swum through the very face of the cliff itself! CHAPTER XIII THE KING PHILIP MINE I think it is safe to say that Dick and I were at that moment the two most astonished boys in the State of Colorado. Where had the man sprung from? And how had he disappeared again? There must be, of course, some opening in the rock which we had failed to notice; a circumstance easily explained by the fact that we had not gone far enough up the basin, and by the added fact that our attention had been fixed upon the opposite wall. Then, again, though the identity of the man could hardly be doubted, why should he take offence, as he seemed to do, at being addressed as "The Badger"? This was a question to which we could not find an answer; and, indeed, for the moment we postponed any attempt to do so, for our attention was too much taken up by the action of the water, which, continuing to rise with great rapidity, forced us to retreat higher and higher up the dam. For about half an hour it thus continued to rise, until there must have been at least fifteen feet of it in the basin, by the end of which time we noticed a sudden diminution in the amount coming over the fall. A few minutes later the flow had ceased altogether, when the water in the pool at once began to subside again, though far less rapidly than it had risen. Our first impulse after our narrow escape from drowning had been to run to the other end of the dam and get back forthwith to our horses, but this we had found to be rather too risky an undertaking to attempt, for the water, coming out from under the dam, was rushing down the bed of the cañon, seething and foaming between the obstructing boulders in such a fashion that we decided that discretion would be a good deal the better part of valor--that it would be an act of wisdom to wait a bit. Moreover, when the flood, leaping from the cliff, had bowled us over in such unceremonious style, we had had our rifles in our hands, and as those indispensable weapons were at that moment lying under fifteen feet of water, there was nothing for it but to wait till the pool drained off if we wished to recover them. As there was no telling how long we might have to wait, and as we were both wet through and very cold--Dick being besides still shaky from his recent buffeting--I collected a lot of dead wood and started a roaring fire, before whose cheerful blaze our clothes soon dried out and our spirits rose again to their normal level. It was then that I first fully appreciated the value of my partner's habit of carrying matches in a water-tight box--a habit I strongly recommend to anybody camping out in these mountains. For three hours we waited, by which time as we guessed there remained not more than a foot of water in the pool. I had gone down to measure it with a stick, and was leaning with my hand against the smooth, wet wall on my right, when I heard sounds as of a human voice speaking very faintly and indistinctly. The sounds seemed to come from the rock where my hand rested, and putting my ear against it, I plainly heard a strange voice say, "Hallo, boys!" "Hallo!" I called out, at the top of my voice, startled into an explosive shout. "Who are you? Where are you?" "Who's that you're talking to?" cried Dick, springing to his feet and looking all about. "I don't know," I replied. "Come here and put your ear to the rock." Dick instantly joined me, when we both very clearly heard the voice say: "You needn't shout. I can hear you. Do you hear me?" "Yes," said I; and repeating my question, I asked: "Who are you, and where are you?" "Before I tell you that," replied the voice, "I want to ask _you_ a question, if you please. Are you Americans?" "Yes," I replied. "Two American boys." "Thank you. One more question, please: Did old Galvez send you up here?" "No!" I replied, with considerable emphasis. "We never saw old Galvez till yesterday." "Good! Then I'll come down if you'll wait a minute." It was less than a minute that we had to wait, when from behind a slight bulge in the left-hand wall, up near the head of the basin, there appeared the figure of a young fellow, seemingly about twenty years old, who, with his trousers tucked up, carrying a rifle in one hand and his boots in the other, came wading down to us. With what interest we watched his approach will be imagined. Neither of us doubted that it was the young fellow whom Galvez had mentioned as having visited Hermanos during his absence, and as soon as he had come near enough for us to distinguish his features, I, for one, was sure of it, for, with his hook nose and his gray eyes, he did indeed bear a curious resemblance to my partner. Standing on the bank at the edge of the water, we waited for him to come near, when, having advanced to within six feet of us he stopped and eyed us critically. He was a good-looking young fellow, not very big, but with a bright, intelligent face which at once took our fancy. Apparently his judgment of our looks was also favorable, for, smiling pleasantly, he said: "Good-evening, boys. Which of you is Dick?" "I am," replied the owner of that name. "I just wanted to congratulate you, that's all, on your escape just now. It might have gone hard with you if it hadn't been for my good friend, Sanchez." "Sanchez?" I repeated, inquiringly. "Is that The Badger's proper name?" "Yes," replied the stranger. "Pedro Sanchez. The name of El Tejon was bestowed upon him by old Galvez, and consequently he objects to it. Your use of that name just now made him suspicious that you might be emissaries of the padron, and it was that which caused him to jump back into the water so suddenly." "I see. I'll take care in future. Here! Give me your hand"--seeing that he was about to come up the bank. "Thank you," replied the stranger, reaching out his hand to me and giving mine a shake before he let go--a greeting he repeated with Dick. "I'm very glad to find you are a couple of American boys and not a pair of Mexican cut-throats, as we rather suspected you might be. Let us go up to your fire there and sit down. The water will take another half-hour yet to drain off completely." Accordingly, we walked up to the fire, where the stranger dried his feet and pulled on his boots again. "Why did you suspect us of being Mexican cut-throats?" asked Dick. "Did you think that old Galvez had sent us up here on a hunt for you or for El--for Sanchez, I mean?" "Yes, that was it. We've been watching you for two days past. We saw you go down to Hermanos yesterday and start up the trail this morning. From the fact of your having gone down to the village, Pedro was inclined to believe you were hunting him or me; but, for my part, I rather inferred from your actions that you were hunting the old copper mine." "The old copper mine!" we both cried. "Yes. Did I make a mistake? Weren't you?" "No, you didn't make any mistake," replied Dick. "What surprised us was that you should know anything about it." The young fellow laughed. "Do you suppose, then," said he, "that you are the only ones to notice the pots and pans down there at Hermanos?" "No, of course not," replied Dick. "The professor was right, you see, Frank," he continued, turning to me, "when he said that the first white man who came along would notice those copper utensils and go hunting for the mine." "Yes," said I; and addressing the stranger again, I added: "So it was the copper mine you were seeking after all, was it? Old Galvez thought you came up here looking for Sanchez." Thereupon I related to him what the padron had said on the subject, when the young fellow, smiling rather grimly, remarked, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice: "Nice old gentleman, the Señor Galvez. So he professed not to know my name, did he? He's a bad lot, if ever there was one. He was right, though, in supposing that I came up here to look for Pedro. That was my main object, though I intended at the same time to keep an eye open for the old mine." "And have you seen any indication of it?--if we may ask." "Oh, yes," he replied, with unaccountable indifference. "There was no trouble about that. Pedro discovered it years ago and he took me straight to it." At this unlooked-for blow to all our hopes and plans, Dick and I gazed at each other aghast. At one stroke apparently, our expedition was deprived of its object. We might just as well turn round and go home again, as far as the King Philip mine was concerned. Our hopes had been so high; and here they were all toppled over in an instant. Intense was our disappointment. For half a minute we sat there speechless, when our new acquaintance, observing our crestfallen looks, remarked: "I'm afraid that is a good deal of a disappointment to you, isn't it? But, perhaps you will be less disappointed when I tell you that the old mine is valueless to me or you or anybody else." "How's that?" exclaimed Dick. "Why, it's---- But come and see for yourselves," he cried, springing to his feet. "That's the best way. You'll understand the why and the wherefore in five minutes." "What! Is it near here, then?" asked my partner. "Yes, close by. Behind the bulge in the wall on the left here." "On _that_ side!" cried Dick. "Not on the right, then, after all? Well, that is a puzzler!" "Why is it a puzzler?" asked the stranger. "I don't understand you." "Why, if the mine is on the _left_ of the creek, what was that bridge for up above here, crossing over to the _right_?" "Bridge! What bridge? What do you mean?" Upon this we told him of the niches in the rock up above, which we supposed to have been receptacles for bridge-stringers. "That's queer," remarked our friend. "I had not heard of those before. I wonder if Pedro knows anything about it. It is a puzzler, as you say." "Yes, I can't make it out," continued Dick; and after standing for a minute thinking, he repeated, with a shake of his head: "No, I can't make it out. I can't see what that bridge was for. Well, never mind that for the present; let's go and see the old mine." "Come on, then. But before we go, I'll just speak to Pedro, or he may be going off and hiding himself somewhere up in the old workings. Do you notice," he asked, "how smoothly the swirl of the water has scoured out a sort of half-arch at the base of the cañon-wall all the way from the end of the dam here, under the waterfall, round to the bulge on the other side? It forms a perfect 'whispering gallery.' Hallo, Pedro!" he called out, putting his face close to the rock. "It is all right. We are coming up now." Descending to the bed of the pool, whence all the water except three or four permanent puddles had now drained away, we first searched for our rifles, and having recovered them, followed our guide around the bulge in the wall, and there found ourselves confronting the old mine-entrance. About ten feet above the floor of the pool was a big hole in the rock, evidently made by hand--for it was square--leading up to which were several roughly-hewn steps, more or less rounded off and worn away by the water. On top of the steps, framed in the blackness of the opening behind him, stood the squat figure of Pedro Sanchez--in his rough shirt of deer-skin representing very well, I thought, the badger in the mouth of his hole. [Illustration: "BEHIND HIM, STOOD THE SQUAT FIGURE OF PEDRO SANCHEZ."] "Pedro," said our new friend, "these gentlemen were seeking the old mine, as I thought. You have nothing to fear from them." "On the contrary," cried Dick, bounding up the steps and holding out his hand, "we have to thank you for your good service just now!" Stretching out his long arm, the little giant smiled genially, showing a row of big white teeth. "It is nothing," said he; adding, with a twinkle in his eye: "The señores will remember that I owed to them some return for their assistance against the wolves." "That's a fact!" cried Dick. "I'd forgotten that. So you remember us, do you? I wonder at that--you didn't stay long to look at us." "No, señor," replied Pedro, laughing. "I was out of my own country and was distrustful of strangers." Turning to our new friend, who was wondering what all this was about, Dick explained the circumstances of our former meeting with Pedro, adding: "So, you see, we are old acquaintances after all. In fact, if we had not met Pedro before we should not be here now, for it was his copper-headed arrow which brought us down, oddly enough." "That was odd, certainly. Well, Pedro, get the torch and show your old friends over the mine. We must be quick, or it will be getting dark before we can get back to our camp." Pedro disappeared into the darkness somewhere, while we ourselves climbed up into the mouth of the tunnel. It was very wet in there: we could hear the _drip_, _drip_ of water in all directions. "Were you in here when the flood came down?" asked Dick. "How is it you weren't drowned--for I see the water stood five feet deep in the tunnel?" "Oh," replied the other, "there was no fear of drowning. There are plenty of places in here out of reach of the water. Wait a moment and you'll see." True enough, we soon heard the striking of a match, and next we saw the Mexican standing with a torch in his hand in a recess about ten feet above us. "That is where we took refuge," said our friend. "Far out of reach of the water, you see. Come on, now, and I'll show you how this old mine was worked, and why it was abandoned." Leading the way, torch in hand, he presently stopped, and said: "The place where we came in was the mouth of the main working-tunnel. It follows the vein into the rock for about a thousand feet, which would bring it, as I calculate, pretty near to the other cañon--for the rock between the two cañons is nothing more than a spit, as you will remember. Above the tunnel they have followed the vein upward, gouging out all the native copper and wastefully throwing away all the less valuable ore, until there was none left. If you look, you can see the empty crevice extending upward out of sight." "I see," said Dick, shading his eyes from the glare of the torch. "It seems to have been pretty primitive mining." "It was--that part of it, at least. But having exhausted all the copper above, they next began the more difficult process of mining downward. Come along this way and I'll show you." Walking along the tunnel some distance, our guide pointed out to us a square pool in the floor, measuring about eight feet each way. "This," said he, "was a shaft. There is another further along. How deep they are, I don't know." "But, look here!" cried Dick. "How could they venture to sink shafts, when at any moment a flood might rush in and drown them all?" "Ah! That's just the point," said our friend. "Come outside again and you'll understand." Returning once more to the bed of the pool, we faced the hole in the wall, when our guide continued: "Now, you see, the floor of the tunnel is about ten feet above the creek-bed, and before the cliff fell down, forming the dam, the water ran freely past its mouth. But some time after the miners had got out all the copper overhead and had begun sinking shafts, this cliff came down, blocked the channel, and caused the water to back up into the workings. As you remarked just now, it filled the tunnel five feet deep, and, as a matter of course, filled the shafts up to the top." "I see," said Dick. "You think, then, that the cliff fell in comparatively recent times. I believe you are right, too. That would account for there being no trees of any great size upon the dam." "Yes. And as a consequence the mine was abandoned; for it would have taken years to dig away this dam, and as long as it existed it would be impossible to go on with the work with the water coming down and filling up the tunnel once every three days, or thereabouts." "Every three days!" we both exclaimed. "Is this a regular thing, then, this flood?" "Why, yes. I'd forgotten you didn't know that. Yes, it's a pretty regular thing, and a very curious one, too. Pedro says that up in that old crater near the top of the mountain there is a great intermittent spring which every now and then rises up and spills out a great mass of water. The water comes racing down this gorge, and half an hour later leaps over the fall here, fills up the pool and the mine, and gradually drains off again under the dam." "That certainly is a curious thing," Dick responded. "And it also furnishes a reason good enough to satisfy anybody for abandoning the mine. Well, Frank," he went on, "this looks like the end of our expedition. We've done what we set out to do:--found the King Philip mine; and now, I suppose, there's nothing left but to turn round and go home again." "I suppose so," I assented, regretfully. "I hate to go back; but I'm afraid we have no excuse for remaining." "You think you must go back, do you?" asked our friend. "I'm sorry you should have to do so, but if you must, why shouldn't we travel the first stage together? I start back to Santa Fé to-morrow, and from there home to Washington." "You live in Washington, do you?" said Dick. "Then, why do you go round by way of Santa Fé? It would be much shorter to go to Mosby--and then we could ride all the way together." "I wish I could, but I have to go the other way. I left my baggage there, for one thing; and besides that I have some inquiries to make there which my mother asked me to undertake." Dick nodded. "And then you go straight back to Washington?" he asked. "Yes. Then I must get straight back home as fast as I can and report to my father. I had two commissions to perform for him:--one was to look into the matter of this old mine; the other concerned the present condition of the Hermanos Grant. The first one I consider settled, but the other, I find, is a matter for the lawyers: it is too complicated a subject for me, a stranger in the land and a foreigner." "A foreigner!" I cried. "Why, we supposed you were an American." "No," said he. "I am a Spaniard." "A Spaniard!" we both exclaimed this time. "Yes," laughing at our astonishment. "A Scotch-Irish-Spaniard--which seems a queer mixture, doesn't it? Though I was born in Spain, my forefathers were Irish, my mother is Scotch, and I have lived for several years first in Edinburgh and then in London; and now my father, who is in the Spanish diplomatic service, is stationed in Washington." "And what----?" I began, and then stopped, with some embarrassment, as it occurred to me that it was not exactly my business. "And what am I doing out here? you were going to say. I'll tell you. My father was out in this part of the world a good many years ago, having business in Santa Fé, where he got track of this old copper mine; but his idea of its whereabouts was very vague until, about a year ago, a gentleman whom he had met when he was out here wrote him a letter telling him of the number of copper utensils to be found down there at Hermanos---- What's the matter?" That he should thus exclaim was not to be wondered at if the look of surprise on my face was anything like the look on Dick's. "Well, of all the queer things!" exclaimed the latter; and then, advancing a step and addressing our friend, he said, smiling: "I think we can guess your name." "You do!" cried the young fellow. "That seems hardly likely. What is it?" "Blake!" replied Dick. CHAPTER XIV A CHANGE OF PLAN If the young Spaniard had provided us with two or three surprises during the day, I think we got even with him in that line when Dick thus disclosed to him the fact that we knew his name. For a moment he stood gazing blankly at us, and then exclaimed: "How in the world did you guess that?" "I don't wonder you are puzzled," replied Dick, "but the explanation is very simple. The Professor Bergen who wrote to your father--that's the right name, isn't it?" Young Blake nodded. "That was the name signed to the letter," said he. "'Otto Bergen.'" "Well, this Professor Bergen is my best and oldest friend; I have lived with him for thirteen or fourteen years. We left his house to come down here less than a week ago. It was he who told us of his meeting with a Spaniard of the remarkable name of Blake, who, while hunting through the records in Santa Fé, had come across mention of this old mine. And when he and I passed through Hermanos last year and saw all those old copper vessels there, the professor wrote at once to your father to tell him about them. I mailed the letter myself." "Well, this is certainly a most remarkable meeting!" cried our new acquaintance. "Why, I feel as if I had fallen in with two old friends!" "Well, you have, if you like!" cried Dick, laughing; whereupon we shook hands all over again with the greatest heartiness. "My first name," said young Blake, "is Arturo--Arthur in this country--the name of the original Irish ancestor who fled to Spain in the year 1691, and after whom each of the eldest sons of our family has been named ever since. But not being gifted with your genius for guessing names," he continued, with a smile, "I haven't yet found out what yours are." "That's a fact!" cried Dick. "What thoughtless chaps we are! My friend here, is Frank Preston of St. Louis; my own name is----" "Señores," said Pedro, cutting in at this moment, "with your pardon, we must be getting out of this cañon: it will be black night down here in another ten minutes." "That's true!" our friend assented. "So come along. We camp together, of course. How are you off for provisions? We have the hind-quarter of a deer which Pedro shot three days ago; pretty lean and stringy, but if you are as hungry as I am we can make it do." "Hungry!" cried Dick. "I'm ravenous. We've had nothing to eat since six o'clock this morning. How is it with you, Frank?" "I'll show you," I replied, snapping my teeth together, "as soon as I get the chance." With a laugh, we set off over the dam, and half an hour later were all busy round the fire toasting strips of deer-meat on sticks and eating them as fast as they were cooked, with an appetite which illustrated--if it needed illustration--the truth of the old saying, that the best of all sauces is hunger. Our supper finished, we made ourselves comfortable round the fire, and far into the night--long after Pedro had rolled himself in his blanket and had gone to sleep--we sat there talking. The reasons for our own presence in these parts were briefly and easily explained, when our new friend, Arthur--with whom, by the way, we very soon felt ourselves sufficiently familiar to address by his first name--Arthur related to us the motives which had brought him so far from home. "It was not only to hunt up this old mine," said he; "in fact, that was quite a secondary object. My chief reason for coming out was to look into the condition of the Hermanos Grant, and to find out why it was we had been unable for the past twelve years to get any reports from there." "Why _you_ hadn't been able to get reports!" exclaimed Dick. "What have _you_ got to do with the Hermanos Grant, then?" "It belongs to my father," replied Arthur, smiling. We stared at him with raised eyebrows. "But what about old Galvez, then?" asked my partner. "We supposed it belonged to him. In fact, his nephew told us as much, and he evidently spoke in good faith, too." "I dare say he did," replied Arthur. "All the same, the grant belongs, and for about a century and a half has belonged, to our family. It was my ancestor, Arthur the First, who 'bossed' the King Philip mine and who built the _Casa del Rey_. Old Galvez is just a usurper. I did not even know of his existence till I reached the village three days ago. It is a long and rather complicated story, but if you are not too sleepy I'll try to explain it before we go to bed." It was a long story; and as our frequent questions and interruptions made it a good deal longer, I think it will be wise to relate it, or some of it, at least, in my own words, to save time. The original Arthur Blake having rendered notable service in the great battle of Almanza, the king of Spain rewarded the gallant Irishman by making him "Governor" of the King Philip mine, at the same time, in true kingly fashion, bestowing upon him a large tract of land, comprising the village of Hermanos with the inhabitants thereof, as well as the desert surrounding it for five miles each way. The mine having ceased to be workable, for the reason we had seen, Arthur the First was preparing to return to his adopted country, when he died out there, alone, in that far-off land of exile. In course of time the existence of the King Philip mine passed entirely out of everybody's recollection, as would probably have been the case with the Hermanos Grant itself, had not the agent or factor, or, as he was locally called, the _mayordomo_, placed in charge by the old Irishman, continued from year to year to send over to the representative of the family in Spain certain small sums of money collected in the way of rents. They were an honest family, these factors, the son succeeding the father from generation to generation, and faithfully they continued to send over the trifling annual remittances, until the year 1865, when the payments suddenly and unaccountably ceased. It was two or three years before this that Señor Blake, having the opportunity to do so, had come out to Southern Colorado to take a look at the old grant, which, since the discovery of gold in the territory, might have some value after all. As a part of this trip he visited Santa Fé, with the object of searching through the records for some copy of the original royal patent; for what had become of that document nobody knew. It was possible that it had been destroyed when the French burnt the family mansion during the Peninsular war; again it was possible that old Arthur the First had brought it with him to America for the purpose of submitting it to the inspection of the Mexican authorities--for that part of Colorado was in those days under the rule of the viceroy of Mexico. In the limited time at his disposal, however, Señor Blake had found no trace of it; a circumstance he much regretted, for though hitherto there had never been any question as to the title, should the tract some day prove of value, such question might very well arise, when the Blake family might have difficulty in proving ownership. For about three years after his visit things continued to jog along in the old way, until, as I said, in the year 1865 the annual remittances suddenly ceased and all communication with Hermanos appeared to be cut off--for reasons unknown and undiscoverable. Such was the state of affairs when the elder Blake took up his residence in Washington, when Arthur, having solicited permission from his father, came west to find out if possible what was the matter. "When I got to Hermanos," said Arthur, continuing his story, "I found the people in such a down-trodden, spiritless condition that I had great difficulty in getting any information out of them--they were afraid to say anything lest evil should befall. By degrees, however, I gained their confidence, when I found that the Sanchez family, by whom, for generations past, the office of _mayordomo_ had been held, was extinct, except for a certain Pedro, a member of a distant branch, and that the present owner of the grant was one, Galvez, who, seemingly, had come into possession about twelve years ago. "As I could not understand how this could be, and as nobody seemed able to enlighten me, I decided, of course, to wait till Galvez came home in order to question him. "Meanwhile, I inquired about this man, Pedro Sanchez, who, I was told, was the only one likely to be able to explain, meeting with no difficulty in ascertaining where he was to be found; for, though Galvez himself did not know whether Pedro was alive or dead, every other inhabitant of the village knew perfectly well, and always had known, not only that he was alive but where to find him. "Presently, about dusk, Galvez came riding in, when I at once made myself known to him. At the mention of my name he appeared for a moment to be rendered speechless, either with fear or surprise, and then, to my great astonishment, with a burst of execration, he snatched a revolver out of its holster. Luckily for me, he did it in such haste that the weapon, striking the pommel of the saddle, flew out of his hand and fell upon the ground; whereupon I ran for it, jumped upon my horse and rode away. "After riding a short distance, I bethought me of Pedro, so, circling round the village, I came up here, and following the directions of the peons, I easily found him next morning. Through Pedro, as soon as I had succeeded in convincing him of my identity, I quickly got at the rights of the case." "Wait a minute," said Dick, who, together with myself, had been an attentive listener. "Let me put some more logs on the fire. There!" as he seated himself once more. "That will last for some time. Now, go ahead." Leaning back against a tree-trunk and stretching out his feet to the fire, Arthur began again: "Did you ever hear of the Espinosas?" he asked. "No!" I exclaimed, surprised by the apparently unconnected question; but Dick replied, "Yes, I have. Mexican bandits, or something of the sort, weren't they?" "Yes," said our friend. "They were a pair of Mexicans who, in the year '65, terrorized certain parts of Colorado by committing many murders of white people. This man, Galvez, who then lived in Taos, hated the Americans with a very thorough and absorbing hatred, and the exploits of the Espinosas being just suited to his taste, he decided to join them. But he was a little too late; the two brigands were killed, and he himself, with a bullet through his shoulder, would assuredly have been captured had he not had the good fortune to fall in with Pedro Sanchez. "Pedro had been a soldier, too, and coming thus upon a comrade in distress he packed him on his burro, and by trails known only to himself brought him down to Hermanos, entering the village secretly by night. "The occupant of the _Casa_ at that time was another Pedro Sanchez, a forty-second cousin or thereabouts of our Pedro. He was a very old man, the last of his immediate family, a good, honest, simple-minded old fellow, who for thirty years or more had been factor for us. With him Pedro sought asylum for his comrade--a favor the old man readily granted to his namesake and relative. "It was pretty sure that there would be a hue and cry after Galvez, so, to avoid suspicion as much as possible, they arranged to give out that it was Pedro who lay sick at the _Casa_, while Pedro himself went off again that same night up into the mountain to hide till Galvez thought it safe to move. He had done everything he could think of for his friend, and how do you suppose his friend requited him? It will show you the sort of man this Galvez is. "For six weeks the latter lay hidden, when in some roundabout way he got word that his description was placarded on the walls of Taos and a reward offered for his capture. This cut him off from returning home and he was in a quandary what to do, when one day his host, who, as I said, was a very old man, had a fall from his horse and two days later died. "Then did Galvez resolve upon a bold stroke. He came out of his hiding-place, and without offering reasons or explanations calmly announced that he had become proprietor of the Hermanos Grant, and that in future the villagers were to look to him for orders! The very impudence of the move carried the day. The ignorant peons, accustomed for generations to obey, accepted the situation without question; and thus did Galvez install himself as padron of Hermanos, and padron he has remained for twelve years, there being nobody within five thousand miles to enter protest or dispute his title." "Well!" exclaimed Dick. "That was about the most bare-faced piece of rascality I ever did hear of. And your father, of course, over there in Cadiz or London or wherever you were then, was helpless to find out what was going on in this remote corner." "That's it exactly; and at that time, too, this corner was far more remote even than it is now--there were no railroads anywhere near then, you see." "That's true. Well, go on. What about his treatment of Pedro?" "Why, Galvez, as padron of Hermanos--a place almost completely cut off from the rest of the world--felt pretty sure that he would never be identified as Galvez of Taos, the man wanted for brigandage; for the villagers had no suspicion of the fact. The only danger lay in Pedro." "I see. Pedro being the one person who did know the facts." "Exactly. Well, Galvez was not one to stick at trifles, and understanding that the simplest way to secure his own safety would be to get rid of this witness, he came riding up into the mountain one day, found Pedro, and while talking with him in friendly fashion, pulled out a big flint-lock horse-pistol, jammed it against his benefactor's chest and pulled the trigger. Luckily the weapon missed fire; Pedro jumped away, picked up a big stone and hurled it at his faithless friend, taking him in the mouth and knocking out all his front teeth. Then he, himself, fled up into his mountain; and that was their last meeting, except on the occasion when Galvez came up to hunt for him and Pedro shot his horse with the copper-headed arrow. "There!" Arthur concluded. "Now you have it all. That's the whole story!" "And a mighty curious and interesting story it is, too!" exclaimed Dick; adding, after a thoughtful pause: "That man, Galvez, is certainly a remarkable specimen; and a dangerous one. He is not an ordinary, every-day, primitive ruffian. That move of his in declaring himself padron of Hermanos was a stroke of genius in its way. It won't be a simple matter to get him out of there, if that is what you are after." "That is what I am after," replied Arthur. "But, as I said, the question of how to do it is too complicated for me. I know nothing of American law, but it strikes me that, in spite of the fact that he plainly has no right there, we may have considerable difficulty in getting him out, for, as we can show neither the original patent nor a copy of it, we have only our word for it that such a thing ever existed." "That's true," said I. "And Galvez being in possession, it may be that he would not have to prove _his_ rights: it would rest with you to prove _yours._" "I should think that was very likely," remarked Dick. "It is a complicated matter, as you say. What do you suppose your father will do? Have you any idea?" "Yes, I have," replied Arthur, very emphatically. "I know exactly what he will do. When I tell him how the grant has been 'annexed' by this man--and such a man, too--he will never rest until he has got him out. It may be that the old brigandage business may serve as a lever--that, I don't know--but whatever is necessary to be done he will do, however long it may take and however much it may cost." "As to the cost," said I, "that is likely, I should think, to be pretty big. Is the grant worth it? Suppose, on investigation, your father should find that the expense of getting Galvez out would be greater than the value of the property--what then?" Arthur laughed. "You don't know my father," said he. "The value of the grant--which, in truth, is nothing, or nearly nothing--makes no difference whatever. It's the principle of the thing. To permit a robber like Galvez to remain quietly in possession would be impossible to my father. He will regard it as his duty to society to right the wrong, and he will do it, if it takes ten years, without considering for a moment whether the grant is worth it or not." "Good for him!" cried Dick, thumping his knee with his fist. "The law in this new West is weak--naturally--and here in this out-of-the-way corner there is none at all, but a few such men as your father would soon stiffen its backbone. I hope he'll succeed; the only thing I'm sorry for is that the grant has so little value." "That is unfortunate," replied Arthur; "though, as it happens, that particular concerns my father less than it does me." "Is that so? How is that?" "It is an old custom in the family to bestow the Hermanos Grant on the eldest son on his coming of age. I am the eldest son, and I come of age next August, when, according to the custom, I shall become the owner of this valueless patch of desert--if Galvez will be graciously pleased to allow me." "What are the limits of the grant?" asked Dick. "North, south and east," replied Arthur, "it extends five miles from Hermanos, but on the west it stops at the foot of the mountains." "So the only part of it which produces anything is that little patch of cultivated ground surrounding the village." "Yes; and as the water-supply is very limited the place can never grow any larger. In fact, it produces little more than enough to feed the villagers; and even as it is, the boys as they grow up have to go off and get work elsewhere as sheep-herders and cowmen, there being no room for them at home. It is the padron's custom, I was told, to hire them out, their wages being paid to him, in which case you may be sure it is precious little of their earnings they ever get themselves." "He's a bad one, sure enough," remarked Dick. "But to go back to that water-supply. Isn't there any way of increasing it?" "I'm afraid not," replied Arthur. "I wish there were: a plentiful supply of water would make the place really valuable. There is land enough, and excellent land, too; all that is needed is water. But that, I'm afraid, is not to be had. I've talked to Pedro about it; he knows every stream on these two mountains, but he says that they all run in cañons from five hundred to two thousand feet deep, and there is no possible way of getting any of them out upon the surface of the valley. What are you thinking about, Dick?" My partner, who had been sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, frowning severely at the fire, started from his revery, and turning toward his questioner, he replied, speaking slowly and thoughtfully: "If any one ought to know, it's Pedro; but, all the same, I believe Pedro is wrong. I believe there _is_ a way of turning one of these streams somewhere and bringing it down to Hermanos--if only one could find the right stream." "Why do you think so?" asked Arthur. "I know it looks ridiculous for me to be setting up my opinion against Pedro's," replied my partner, "but I can't help thinking that there is such a stream. Look here!" he cried, jumping up, walking to and fro between us and the fire once or twice, and then stopping and shaking his finger at us as though he were delivering a lecture to two inattentive pupils. "Where did those old Pueblos get their water from, I should like to know? Up in these mountains somewhere, didn't they? Of course they did: there's no other place. There was a big irrigation system down there once, enough to support a population of three or four thousand people probably. Well! What has become of that supply? That's what I want to know. They had it once--where is it now?" For some seconds Dick stood in front of Arthur, pointing his finger straight at him, while Arthur sat there in silence gazing steadfastly at Dick. Suddenly, the young Spaniard jumped up, stepped forward, and slapping my partner on his chest with the back of his hand, exclaimed: "Look here, old man! I believe you are right. I believe there is a stream somewhere which those old Pueblos used for irrigating their farms. It has somehow been switched off and lost. It ought to be found and brought back. Now, look here! I can't stay here to hunt for it myself: I _must_ get home right away. But I'll make a bargain with you:--You find that stream and provide a way of getting the water back to Hermanos, and I'll give you a half-interest in the grant--when I get it. There, now! There's a chance for you!" "Do you mean that?" cried my partner. "I certainly do," replied Arthur. "The grant is without value as it stands: if you can get water on to it and give it a value, it would be only just that you should have a share in the profits. Yes, I mean what I say, all right. If you'll supply the water, I'll supply the land. There! What do you say? Is it a bargain?" For a moment Dick stood staring thoughtfully at our friend, and then, turning to me, he exclaimed sharply: "Frank! Let's do it! Here we are, out for the summer. It's true we came out to hunt for a copper mine, but that scheme being 'busted' at the very start, let us turn to and hunt for water instead. What do you think?" "I'm agreed!" I cried. "Good! Then we'll do it! And the very first move----" "The very first move," interrupted Arthur, laughing, "the very first move is--to bed! It's after eleven!" "Phew!" Dick whistled. "I'd no idea it was so late. To bed, then; and to-morrow we'll work out a plan of action. This has been a pretty long day, and a pretty eventful one, too. So let's get to bed at once, and to-morrow we'll start fair." In spite of the long day and the lateness of the hour, however, I could not get to sleep at once. Dick, too, seemed to be wakeful. I heard him stir, and opening my eyes, I saw him sitting up in bed with his arms clasped around his blanketed knees, gazing at the fire. Suddenly, he gave his leg a mighty slap with his open hand, and I heard him chuckle to himself. "What's the matter, Dick?" I whispered. "Got a flea?" "No," he replied, laughing softly. "I've got an idea. Go to sleep, old chap. I'll tell you in the morning." CHAPTER XV DICK'S SNAP SHOT The sun rose late down in that deep crevice, and for that reason, added to the lateness of the hour at which we had gone to bed, we did not wake up next morning till after six o'clock. We found, however, that Pedro had been up a couple of hours at least, for he had a good fire going, had made everything ready to start breakfast, and moreover he had been up on the mountain and had brought down Arthur's horse and his own burro from the little valley where they had been left at pasture. When I, myself, awoke, I found that Dick was ahead of me. He was standing by the fire, warming himself--for the mornings were still cold--and talking to Pedro, who, I guessed, was explaining something, for he was waving his long arms energetically, first in one direction and then in another. "Well, Dick," said I, as we sat cross-legged on the ground, eating our breakfast, "what is this idea of yours? Does it still look as favorable as it seemed to do last night?" "Better," replied Dick, with his mouth full of bacon. "A great deal better. I felt pretty confident last night that I was on the way to earn that half-interest in the Hermanos Grant, and this morning, since talking with Pedro, I feel more confident still." "Is that so?" cried Arthur. "I hope you're right. What is it you think you have discovered?" "In the first place," replied Dick, "I have discovered that we are a lot of wiseacres: we have been going around with our eyes shut." "How?" we both asked. "If we hadn't had our heads so full of the old copper mine, and if we hadn't been so bent on finding the trail to it, we should never have made the mistake we did." "What mistake?" I asked. "Hurry up, Dick! Don't take so long about it. What are you driving at?" "Why, this!" replied my partner, suddenly sitting up straight and wagging his finger at us. "This trail we have been following, all the way from Hermanos up to the edge of the cañon, was not a trail at all--it was a ditch!" "A ditch!" we both exclaimed. "Yes, a ditch. A ditch dug by those old Pueblo Indians to carry water down to that wide, level stretch of ground at the back of the _Casa_. I'm sure of it. If you give up the idea of a trail and consider it as a ditch, all its peculiarities will be explained at once. It will account for its uniform grade, for its unexpected distinctness, and more than everything else, it will account for the fact that the 'trail' never once dipped down a hill or climbed one either, but always--invariably--went round the head of every gully, deep or shallow, that came in its way." "Upon my word, Dick!" cried Arthur. "I believe you _have_ made a discovery! I believe that it is the line of an old ditch, after all; though the pack-trains doubtless used it as a convenient road as far as the top of the cañon and then switched off down here by that shelf in the wall." "That's my idea," said Dick, nodding his head. "But, look here, Dick," Arthur went on, after a moment's thoughtful pause. "Suppose it is an old ditch--where did the water come from? That's the question. A ditch without water isn't much use." Dick laughed. "No," said he. "I understand that well enough. The water came from this 'island,' up here above our heads, and was carried across the cañon in a flume!" "Ah!" I cried. "I see! What we at first supposed to have been a bridge up there, built for the accommodation of the pack-trains, was in reality a flume for carrying water." "That's what I believe," replied Dick. "Well, but see here, Dick," remarked Arthur again. "Suppose that there was a flume there for carrying water--where's the water now? That's the point. That's what I want to know." "Ah!" replied my partner. "And that was what I wanted to know, too. That was the very question that bothered me until I talked to Pedro about it just now. I asked him if he had ever seen or heard of a stream of water coming down from the top of this high land, and I can tell you he eased my mind of a load when he told me he had. He says there is a good big waterfall which jumps off the cliff on the north side of the 'island' and falls into this stream we are camped upon now, but about twelve or thirteen miles below this point, following the bends of the creek." "Is that so? Then the chances are that that is the stream from which the Pueblos used to get their water. Did you ask Pedro if he knew of any way of getting up there?" "Yes, I did, and I'm sorry to say he doesn't know of any. He says that this 'island' is really an island, being compassed about on all sides by cañons of varying depths; that it includes a large tract of country, part mountain and part plain; and that to the best of his knowledge, no man has ever set foot on it. In that, though, I'm pretty sure he's mistaken. In fact, it is as certain as anything can be that there is a way up somewhere, or else, how did the Pueblos get over there in the first place? They didn't fly across this gorge; and yet they must have worked from both sides at once when they built their flume." "That's true. Well, Dick, it does look as though you had made a genuine discovery, and one likely to be of great value. What's your idea, then? You and Frank will stay here and hunt for the old Pueblo ditch-head, I suppose, while I dig out for home by myself. I wish I could stay and hunt with you, but there's no knowing how long it may take, and meanwhile my father and mother will be worrying themselves to know what has become of me. I've been here now a good bit longer than I intended. I must get back at once and----" "Look here, Arthur," Dick interrupted. "Excuse me for cutting in, but I'd like to make a suggestion. There is just a possibility--I don't expect it, I own, but there is a possibility--that if Galvez were informed that you know how he came to be padron of Hermanos, and also of his connection with the Espinosas, he might get scared and skip out of his own accord--which would simplify matters for you very much. Now, here's what I propose--if you really are bound to leave at once." "Yes," Arthur interjected. "I mustn't stay a minute longer than I can help." "Well, then, I propose that before you go--it will only make a difference of a couple of hours--before you go, Frank and I will ride down to Hermanos, see old Galvez, tell him what you have told us, and recommend him to take his departure. Perhaps he'll be scared and skip out; but if he won't, why, then you'll know where you stand. How does that strike you?" "Hm!" muttered Arthur, doubtfully. "I don't much like the idea of running you into danger. Galvez is such a treacherous fellow, there's no knowing what he might do to you." "That's true enough," said Dick; "though I don't think he would attempt anything on two of us at once, and in broad daylight, too. It might be to his advantage to get rid of you or Pedro or both, but he would surely have sense enough to see that he wouldn't gain anything by hurting either of us." "That's a fact. Well, suppose you go, then. But be careful." "We'll be careful," replied my partner. "You needn't worry yourself on that account." By this time we were ready to start, and accordingly we all rode together up the ledge until we came out again at the point where the old flume used to be--where we pointed out to Arthur the sockets in the rock--and thence, continuing to the foot of the mountain, Dick and I, leaving the others to wait for us, galloped off toward Hermanos. By good fortune, as we approached the village, we saw Galvez himself down near the creek, where he was directing three of his _vaqueros_ who were engaged in cutting out cows from a bunch of wild Mexican cattle. Further down stream, only a short distance from the houses, we noticed half-a-dozen Mexican children, very busy making mud pies, quite unconcerned, apparently, at the proximity of the herd of cattle. It happened, however, that just as we came riding up to where Galvez sat on his horse, shouting orders to his men, a gaunt, wild-eyed, long-horned steer broke out of the bunch on the down-stream side. One of the cowmen dashed forward to turn it, when, to his astonishment, the steer, instead of running back into the bunch or attempting to dodge him, charged the rider and knocked him and his little broncho over and over. Then, wildly tossing its head, the beast made straight for the group of unsuspecting and defenceless children. "Loco! Loco!" shouted Galvez. "Rope him, one of you!" The two other men galloped forward, swinging their lariats, but the locoed steer, going like a scared antelope, had such a start that it looked as though it would surely reach the children before the men could catch it. Seeing this, Galvez pulled out his revolver and fired six shots at it in quick succession. Whether he hit the steer or not, I cannot say, but even if he did the range was too great for a revolver to be effective--unless by a lucky chance. The children, hearing the shots, looked up, saw the steer coming, and scattered like a flock of sparrows--all but one of them, that is to say. He, a brown-bodied little three-year-old, without a scrap of clothing upon him except a piece of string tied round his middle, stood stock still, with his little hands full of mud, seemingly too frightened to move, and straight down upon this little bronze statue the crazy beast went charging. It looked as though a tragedy were imminent! It was at this moment that my partner and I came riding up behind Galvez, who, sitting on his horse with his back to us, his body interposed between us and the steer, had not seen us yet. It was no time for ceremony. Without wasting words in greetings or explanations, Dick jammed his heels into his pony's ribs; the pony sprang forward; Dick pulled him up short, leaped to the ground, threw up his rifle and fired a snap shot. Down went the steer, heels over head, gave one kick and lay dead--shot through the heart! It was a grand shot! The three _vaqueros_, two on their horses and one on foot, carried away by their enthusiasm, forgot for once their habitual dread of the padron, and waving their hats above their heads joined me in a shout of applause; while as for Galvez, himself, he sat on his horse with his empty revolver in his hand, gazing open-mouthed first at Dick and then at the dead steer, seemingly rendered speechless for the moment. At length he turned to me, who had come up close beside him, and said: "Can he always do that?" "Just about," I replied, with a nod. "He is one of the best shots in the State." "Hm!" remarked the padron, sticking out his lower lip and thoughtfully scratching his chin with his thumb-nail; and though that was all he did say, the muttered exclamation conveyed to me as much meaning as if he had talked for five minutes. That Dick's remarkable shot had made a great impression on him I felt certain, and it was a matter of much satisfaction to me to think that it had; for if at any time he should entertain the idea of resorting to violence against any of us, the recollection of how that steer had pitched heels over head would probably cause him to think again. The whole episode had not occupied more than two minutes, at the end of which time Galvez, recovering himself, turned to us and said, in his usual gracious manner: "Well, you two, what have you come back here for?" "We have come down to speak to you," replied Dick, as he slipped another cartridge into his Sharp's rifle. "We have just parted with Señor Blake and El Tejon." The padron scowled at the mention of the two names. "Oh, you have, eh? Well, what then?" he asked. "Señor Blake," my partner continued, "wished us to say that he has learned how you came to be padron of Hermanos. Pedro has told him the whole story--everything--the Espinosa business and all." "Oh! And is that all?" "That's all," said Dick. The padron, I have no doubt, had been expecting some such communication and had made up his mind beforehand what to say, for, after sitting for a few seconds looking at Dick without a word, he smiled an unpleasant, toothless smile, and said: "That's all, is it? Well, you go back to your Señor Blake and tell him that here I am and here I stay, and if he thinks that three beardless boys and a shiftless, half-crazy peon can make me move, why, he's welcome to try. There! That's all on my side." He started to ride off, but after a few steps stopped again to add: "Except this:--I recommend you two boys to get along back home as fast as you can and leave this young Blake--if that is really his name--to manage his own affairs. You may find it dangerous to be mixed up with them." He said this in an aggressive, menacing tone; but I noticed, all the same, that his eye wandered involuntarily toward the dead steer, and I congratulated myself again on the lucky chance that had given Dick the opportunity to show his skill with a rifle. Galvez, I was convinced, would be exceedingly careful how he provoked a quarrel with any one who could shoot like that. "Very well, señor," said Dick. "We will deliver your message. That is all we came for." And with that we turned round and rode away again. In the course of an hour we were back at the foot of the mountain, where we found Arthur sitting on the ground waiting for us. "Well, what luck?" he cried. "What did Galvez have to say?" We told him all about our interview with the padron, not forgetting the episode of the wild steer, at hearing which Arthur expressed much gratification. "That was a very fortunate chance," said he. "Galvez may profess to despise three beardless boys, but after seeing one of them shoot a running steer at three hundred yards, I expect he will think twice before he stirs up a fuss with them. It is just the sort of thing--and the only sort of thing, too--to make an impression on a man like that. What is your idea, Dick? Do you think he intends to stick it out, or was he only 'bluffing'?" "I don't know," replied my partner. "I'm afraid he means to hold on. But though at present he puts on 'a brag countenance,' as the saying is, when he has had time to reconsider he might change his mind and skip. My impression is, though, that he means to hold on." "I think so, too," said I. "What is Pedro's opinion?" "Ah! Yes. Let us ask Pedro." "Señores," said the Mexican, when Arthur had explained the whole matter to him in Spanish, "the padron is a pig, a mule. He will not move." "Then that settles it!" cried Arthur, jumping up, walking away a few paces and coming back again. "I never really expected that Galvez would move, though it was worth trying. So now I'll be off at once. As for that old ditch-head, though I should have liked very much to stay and help hunt for it, you three can, as a matter of fact, make the search just as well without me. And whether you find it or whether you don't, makes no difference in one way--the business of getting Galvez out of Hermanos will have to proceed regardless of that or any other consideration. We have two things to do, you see:--To turn out Galvez and to find that ditch-head. The first is my business; the second is yours; and the sooner I get about mine the better, if I am to give you a clear title to your half-interest when you are ready to claim it." "As to that," remarked Dick, "I don't think we ought to hold you to that bargain. It was made more or less in joke, anyhow." "No, no, it wasn't!" cried Arthur, emphatically. "Not a bit of it! I meant it then and I mean it still. I'm quite content. You provide the water and I'll provide the land, as I said. It's a fair bargain. I don't want to be let off. But before I can perform my part of it I must prove my own title, and as I can't do it at this end of the line I'll waste no more time here, but get right back home as fast as I can and report the conditions to my father." "Well," said Dick, after a moment's thoughtful silence, "I believe you are right. I believe that is the best way after all, unless----" "Unless what?" "Unless we abandon the whole thing." "Abandon----!" cried Arthur; but he got no further, for Dick, holding up his hand, said, laughingly: "All right, old man! All right! You needn't say any more. I only suggested it just to see what you would say. So you are determined to go through with this thing, are you? Very well, then, you may count on us to do our part if it's doable. Eh, Frank?" I nodded. "We'll find that ditch-head," said I, "if we have to stay here till snow flies." "Good!" cried Arthur. "Then that does settle it. I'll be off this minute. Bring my horse, Pedro: I'm going to start at once." "Look here, Arthur," remarked Dick. "I think it would be a good plan if Frank and I were to escort you to the other side of Hermanos. Galvez, I expect, guessed what you were after when you first told him your name, and now he'll be sure of it, and it might be pretty dangerous for you if you should meet him alone; so we'll just ride part way with you and see you safely started." "Thanks," replied Arthur. "I shall be glad of your company. Well, let us get off, then. Good-bye, Pedro. I expect you'll see me back here before very long. _Adios!_" Thus taking leave of the burly Mexican, Arthur started off, Dick and I riding on either side of him. Keeping about a mile to the north of Hermanos, we circled round that village, and were making our way southeastward toward the Cactus Desert, when we saw off to our right a great cloud of dust, and in the midst of it a bunch of cattle accompanied by three men. At first we were suspicious that Galvez might be one of them, but pretty soon we discovered that they were the three _vaqueros_ we had seen that morning. They, on their part, quickly detected us, when one of them immediately turned his horse and came riding toward us. As soon as he had come pretty close I saw that it was the one whose horse had been knocked over by the locoed steer. This man, advancing to Dick, pulled off his hat, and speaking with considerable feeling, said: "I wish to thank the señor who shoots so straight. It was my little boy who was in danger." "Was it?" cried Dick. "I'm very glad, then, that I happened to make such a good shot. The steer was locoed, of course." "_Si, señor_," replied the man. "It happens sometimes. This one was very bad. It should have been killed long ago, but the padron would not. I am grateful to the señor, and if I can serve him at any time I shall be glad." "Thank you," said Dick. "What is your name?" "José Santanna," replied the man. "Well, José," continued Dick, "I'm much obliged to you for your offer, and if I need your help at any time I'll come and ask you." "_Gracias, señor_," replied the man; and with that he turned and galloped after his companions. "That's a good thing for us," remarked Arthur. "We may find it very handy to have an ally in the enemy's camp. And now, you fellows," he continued, "you may as well turn back. I'm safe enough now, and there is no need for you to come any further. I hope it won't be long before you see me back again. Meanwhile you'll search for that ditch-head, and if there is anything you can do toward getting the water down, you'll go ahead and do it. That's the plan, eh?" "That's the plan," repeated my partner. "Very well. Then, good-bye, and good luck to you!" CHAPTER XVI THE OLD PUEBLO HEAD-GATE It was about two in the afternoon that we parted with our friend, and wishing him the best of success, we watched him ride away until the shimmering haze drawn by the heat of the sun from the surface of the valley, finally obscured him from our view altogether. Then, turning our ponies, we rode back up the mountain and once more descended to our camp, where we found Pedro waiting for us. As it was then too late to begin any fresh enterprise, especially one so difficult as the attempt to climb the cañon-wall was likely to be, we determined to postpone the expedition until next morning. In order, too, that we might be in good fettle for the adventure, we went to bed that night as soon as it got dark; no more late hours for us; late hours at night not being conducive to clear heads in the morning--and it was more than likely that clear heads might be very essential to the success of the task in hand. About an hour after sunrise we set off on foot down the left bank of the stream, making our way along the steep slope of stone scraps, big and little, which bordered its edge, and after a pretty rough scramble we reached a spot about a mile below camp where Pedro had told us he thought there was a possible way up--a narrow cleft in the rocky wall, none too wide to admit the passage of the Mexican's big body--and following the sturdy hunter, who acted as guide, we began the ascent. There was no great difficulty about it at first, for the crevice, though still very narrow, was not particularly steep. After climbing up about three hundred feet, however, the ascent became much more abrupt, and presently we came to a place where the bed of the dry watercourse was blocked entirely by a smooth, water-worn mass of rock, twenty feet high, filling the whole width of the crevice, and overhanging in such a manner that even a lizard would have had difficulty in climbing up it. We were looking about for some means of surmounting this obstacle, when Pedro, who had stepped back a little to survey it, called our attention to what appeared to be a number of steps, or, rather, foot-holes in the rock about ten feet up, just above the bulge. "Hallo!" cried Dick. "This looks promising. Those holes were made with a purpose. I believe we've struck the original Pueblo highway after all." "It does look like it," I agreed. "But how are we going to get up there?" "Señor," said Pedro to Dick, "if you will stand on my shoulders, I think you can reach those holes." "All right," replied Dick. "Let's try." It was simple enough. Dick easily reached the lower steps, which, it was hardly to be doubted, had been cut for the purpose, and scrambled up to the top. Then, letting down the rope we had brought for such an emergency, he called to me to come up. With a boost from Pedro, and with the rope to hold on by, I was quickly standing beside my partner, when up came Pedro himself, hand over hand. If this was really the road by which the Pueblos originally came up--and from those nicks in the rock we felt pretty sure it was--it was the roughest and by long odds the most upended road we had ever traveled over. It was, in fact, a climb rather than a walk: we had to use our hands nearly all the time. We had come within a hundred feet of the top, when, looking upward, I was startled to see on an overhanging ledge a large, tawny, cat-like animal calmly sitting there looking down at us. "Look there, Dick!" I cried. "What's that?" "A mountain-lion!" exclaimed my partner. "My! What a shot!" It happened, however, that we were at a point where it was necessary to hold on with our hands to prevent ourselves from slipping back; it was impossible to shoot. The "lion" therefore continued to stare at us and we at him, until Dick shouted at him, when the beast leisurely walked off and disappeared round a corner. "Well!" remarked my companion. "I never saw a mountain-lion so calm and unconcerned before. As a rule they are the shyest of animals." "All the animals up here are like that," remarked Pedro. "Many times since I have lived on the mountain I have seen them come down to the edge of the cañon to look at me--deer and even mountain-sheep and wolves; yes, many times wolves. They have no fear of man." "That's queer," said I. "I wonder why not." "Señor," replied Pedro, looking rather surprised at my lack of intelligence, "it is simple: since the days of the Pueblos there has been no man up here." "Why, I suppose there hasn't!" cried Dick. "That didn't occur to me before, either. It will be interesting to see how the wild animals behave, Frank. It will be like Robinson Crusoe on his island." He spoke in Spanish, as we always did when Pedro was in company, not wishing him to feel that he was left out. It was Pedro who replied. "I know not," said he, "the honorable gentleman, Señor Don Crusoe, of whom you speak, but for ourselves we must have care." "Why, Pedro. What do you mean?" "The wolves up here are many, and they will surely smell us out." "Well, suppose they do, Pedro. What then?" asked Dick, jokingly. "You are not afraid of wolves, are you?" This seemed a reasonable question, remembering how boldly he had faced them that time at the head of the Mescalero valley. "Most times I have no fear," replied Pedro, simply, "but up here it is different. These wolves know not what a man is; they will smell us out, and they will think only, 'Here is something to eat;' they do not know enough to be afraid." "I suppose that is likely," Dick assented. "You are quite right, Pedro: we must take care. I don't suppose there will be anything to fear from them during daylight, but we'll keep a sharp lookout, all the same. Come on, let us get forward." In another ten minutes we had reached the top, when, turning up-stream, we presently came to the dry gully which led down to where the old flume once stood. Thence, turning "inland," as one might say, we followed up the bed of this gully, finding that it had its head in a little grassy basin which looked as though it had once been a small lake. In crossing this basin we stirred up from among the bushes a band of blacktail deer, which ran off about fifty yards and then stood still to look at us; these usually shy animals being evidently consumed with curiosity at the sight of three strange beasts walking on their hind legs. Undoubtedly, we were the first human beings they had ever encountered. We did not molest them, but pursuing our course across the little basin, we were about to proceed up a narrow, stony draw at its further end, when a sudden scurry of feet behind us caused us to look back. The band of deer had vanished, and in their stead were four wolves, which, when we turned round, drew up in line and stood staring at us! As Dick had said, the wild animals up here were making themselves decidedly "interesting." Pedro had an arrow fitted to his bow in an instant, while Dick and I simultaneously cocked our rifles and stood ready. The wolves, however, remained stationary; it was evidently curiosity and not hunger that inspired them. Seeing this, I picked up a pebble and threw it at them, just to see what they would think of it. The stone struck the ground close under their noses, making them all start, passed between two of them and went hopping along the ground, when, to our great amusement, the whole row of them turned, ran after the stone, sniffed at it, one after the other, and then came back to the old position. It looked so comical that Dick and I burst out laughing; whereupon the wolves, who had doubtless never heard such a sound before, retreated a few paces, where they once more turned round to stare at us. "Well, Pedro!" cried Dick. "They don't seem to be very dangerous. If all the wolves up here are like that we needn't be afraid of them." "They are not hungry just now," replied Pedro, so significantly that our merriment was checked; "and you see for yourselves," he added, "that a man is a new animal to them. They know not what to make of us. It is that which makes me uneasy. A big pack of hungry wolves would be very dangerous, for the reason that they have never learned that we are dangerous, too. For me, I am afraid of them." Such an admission, coming from such a man, one who, we knew, was not lacking in courage, was impressive; so, in order that he should not regard us as merely a pair of careless, light-headed boys, Dick assured him in all earnestness that we had no intention of treating the matter lightly; that we fully understood and agreed with his view of the matter. "You are quite right, Pedro," said he. "We can't afford to be careless. A pack of wolves is dangerous enough when you know what to expect of them, but when you don't----! It will pay us to be careful, all right; there's no doubt about that. Come on, now. Let us get ahead. Those beasts back there have gone off--to tell the others, perhaps." Proceeding up the stony draw for about half a mile, we presently came upon a most unexpected sight:--a little lake, covering perhaps a space of twenty acres, its surface, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the trees and rocks surrounding it, and dotted all over with hundreds of wild ducks and geese. "Here's the head of the ditch!" cried Dick, exultingly. "Here's where the Pueblos got their water! They drew from this lake down the gully we have just come up. The mouth of the draw has been blocked by the caving of the sides, you see, but it will be an easy job to dig a narrow trench through the dam, and then the pitch is so great that the water will soon scour a channel for itself. Don't you think so, Pedro? The water must have run down here, filled the grassy basin where the deer were, flowed out at its lower end down the gully to the flume, and then by the ditch over the foothills to the valley. Wasn't that the way of it, Pedro?" It was natural that Dick should address his question to the Mexican rather than to me, for Pedro, one of a race that had followed irrigation for centuries, knew far more of its practical possibilities than I did, and his opinion was infinitely more valuable than mine was likely to be. In reply, he nodded his big head and said, gravely: "That is it. It is not possible to doubt. The Pueblos drew their water from the lake at this point. That is very sure. But----" "But what?" asked Dick. "This lake is small, and I see nowhere any stream coming into it," replied Pedro. "That's a fact," Dick assented. "Perhaps it is fed by underground springs. Let us walk round the lake and see where the water runs out and how much of a stream there is. That is what concerns us. Where it comes from doesn't matter particularly--it's how much of it there is." Our walk round the little lake, however, resulted in a disappointment which staggered us for the moment. There was no outlet. The lake was land-locked; the one insignificant rivulet we found running into it being evidently no more than enough to counterbalance the daily evaporation. "Well," remarked Dick, after a long pause, "there is one thing sure: the Pueblos never built a flume and dug that big, long ditch to carry this trifling amount of water. This lake, after all, was not the source of supply, as we were supposing. It was a reservoir, perhaps, but nothing more. The real source was somewhere higher up." If Dick was right--and there could be hardly a doubt that he was--the most promising direction in which to continue our search would be on the west side of the lake, whence the little rivulet came down. An examination of the ravine in which the stream ran showed evidence that it had at one time carried much more water than at present, so, with hopes renewed, we set off at once along its steep, stony bed. The country on that side was very rough and precipitous, and the ravine itself, reasonably wide at first, became narrower and narrower, and its sides more and more lofty, until presently it became so contracted that we might have imagined ourselves to be walking up a very narrow lane with rows of ten-story houses on either side. The sky above us was a mere ribbon of blue. After climbing upward for about half a mile, we began to catch occasional glimpses ahead of us of a frowning cliff which bade fair to bar our further progress altogether, and we were beginning to wonder whether we had not chosen the wrong ravine after all, when suddenly, with one accord, we all stopped short and cocked our ears. There was a sound of running water somewhere close by! There was a bend in the gorge just here, and we could not see ahead, but the instant we detected the sound of water, Dick, with a shout, sprang forward, and with me close on his heels and the short-legged Pedro some distance in the rear, dashed up the bed of the ravine and round the corner. What a wonderful sight met our gaze! Out of the great cliff I mentioned just now there came roaring down a magnificent stream, which, falling into a deep pool it had worn for itself in the rocks, went boiling and foaming off through a second ravine to the right--a fine thing to see! But what was finer, and infinitely more interesting, was the original Pueblo head-gate, so set in the narrow gorge in which we stood that the water, which, if left to itself, would have flowed down our ravine, was forced to run off through the other channel. It was a remarkable piece of work for such a primitive people to have performed, considering especially the very inferior tools they had to do it with. The walls of the gorge came together at this point in such a manner that they were not more than five feet apart and were so straight-up-and-down that they looked as though they had been trimmed by hand--as possibly they had been to some extent. Taking advantage of this narrow gap, the Pueblos had cut a deep groove in the rocks on either side of the ravine, and in these grooves they had set up on end a great flat stone about five feet high and three inches thick--it must have weighed a thousand pounds or more. Against this stone head-gate, on its inner side, the water stood four feet deep, and it was obvious that when the gate was raised the flood would go raging down the gorge we had just ascended into the little lake below, leaving the bed in which it now ran high and dry. Undoubtedly, it was this stone door with which the Pueblos used to regulate their water-supply, prying it up and holding it in position, perhaps, with blocks of wood, which, after the Indians deserted the valley, had in time rotted away, allowing the gate to fall, thus shutting off the water entirely. However that may have been, one thing at any rate was certain:--Whenever our flume and our ditch were ready, here was water enough for thousands of acres only waiting to be let loose. For a long time Dick and I stood with our hands resting on the top of the head-gate and our chins resting on our hands, watching the water as it went foaming and splashing down the other ravine, and as we stood there, there came over us by degrees a sense of the real importance to us of this discovery. We were only boys, after all, and we had gone into this enterprise more or less in the spirit of adventure, but now it gradually dawned upon us that we had in reality arrived at a point where the roads forked:--Here, ready to our hands, was work for a lifetime, and we had to decide whether we were going into it heart and soul or whether we were not. Every boy arrives at this fork in the roads sooner or later, and when he does, he is apt to feel pretty serious. I know we did. With us, however, the question seemed to settle itself, for Dick, presently straightening up and turning to me, said: "Frank! What will your Uncle Tom say? Will he be willing that you should stay out in this country and take to wheat-raising and ditch-building and so forth?" "If I know Uncle Tom," I replied, "he'll be not only willing but delighted. If we make a success of this thing--as we will if hard work will do it--just imagine how proudly he will point to us as proofs of his theory that a fellow may sometimes learn more out of school than in it. In fact, if I'm not much mistaken, he will be eager to help; and if we need money for the work, as we certainly shall, I shan't hesitate to ask him for it. I shall inherit a little when I come of age, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Tom will advance me some if I need it. But how about the professor, Dick? How will he fancy the idea of your settling down in this valley? For if we _do_ go into this thing in earnest, that is what it means." "I know it does," replied my companion, seriously. "And I'm glad of it. I'll let you into a little secret, Frank. For some time past the professor has been worrying himself as to what was to become of me: what business or occupation I was fit for with my peculiar bringing-up--for there is no getting over the fact that it has been peculiar--and the professor, considering himself responsible for it, has been pretty anxious about the result. Now, here is an occupation all laid out for me, and nobody will be so pleased to hear of it as the professor. It will take a burden off his mind; and I'm mighty glad to think it will." "I see," said I. "I should think you would be: such a fine old fellow as he is. So, then, Dick, it is settled, is it, that we go ahead? What's the first move, then?" "Why, the first move of all, I think, is to get back to the lake and eat our lunch, and while we are doing so we can consult as to what work to start upon and how to set about it. What time is it, Pedro?" "Midday and ten minutes," promptly replied the Mexican, casting an eye at the sun; while I, pulling out my watch, saw that he had hit it exactly, as he always did, I found later. "Then let us get back to the lake," said Dick. "Hark! What was that? The water makes so much noise that I can't be sure, but it sounded to me like wolves howling." Pedro nodded his big head. "It will be well to go down to where there are some trees," said he. "This arroyo, with its high walls, is not a good place." As we walked down the ravine and got further away from the water, we could hear more distinctly the cry of the wolves. Pedro stopped short and listened intently. "There is a good many of them," said he. "I think they come hunting us. Let us get up on this rock here and wait a little." In the middle of the ravine lay a great flat-topped stone, about six feet high, and to the top of this we soon scrambled--there was plenty of room--and there for a minute or two we waited. The cry of the hunting wolves grew louder and louder, and presently, around a bend a short distance below, loping along with their noses to the ground, there came a band of sixteen of them. At sight of us they stopped short, and then--showing plainly that they knew of no danger to themselves--with a yell of delight at having run down their prey, as they supposed, they came charging up the ravine! CHAPTER XVII THE BRIDGE As the pack came racing up the gulch, we waited an instant until a narrow place crowded them into a bunch, when Dick called out, "Now!" and we all fired together into the midst of them. Three of the wolves fell, two dead--I could see the feather of Pedro's arrow sticking out of the ribs of one of them--and one with its back broken. I had hoped that the strange thunder of the rifles would send them flying--but no. They all stopped again for a moment, and then, maddened seemingly at the sight of the broken-backed wolf dragging itself about and screeching with pain--poor beast--they all fell upon the unfortunate creature and worried it to death. Then, with yells of rage, on they came again. The pause had given us time to re-load. Dick and Pedro, quicker than I, fired a second shot, and once more two wolves fell writhing among the stones. The next moment we were surrounded, and for a minute or two after that I was too much engaged myself to note what the others were doing. A gaunt, long-legged wolf sprang up on the rock within three feet of me. I fired my rifle into his chest. Another, close beside him, was within an ace of scrambling up when I hit him across the side of his head a fearful crack with the empty rifle-barrel and knocked him off again. Then, seeing a third with his feet on top of the rock, his head thrown back in his straining efforts to get up, I sprang to that side, kicked the beast under his chin and knocked him down. Meanwhile my companions had been similarly engaged and similarly successful. Pedro in particular, having dropped his bow and taken in one hand the short-handled ax he always carried with him, while in the other he held his big sheath-knife, had laid about him to such effect that he had put four of the enemy out of the fight--two of them permanently. Dick was the only one who had received any damage, and that was to his clothes and not to himself. His rifle being empty, he had used it to push back the wolves as they jumped up. In doing so he had stepped too near the edge of the rock, and one of the watchful beasts, springing up at that moment, had caught the leg of his trousers with its teeth, tearing it from end to end and coming dangerously near to pulling my partner down. Pedro, however, quick as a flash, had delivered a back-handed "swipe" with his ax at the wolf's neck, nearly cutting off its head, and Dick was saved. It was an unpleasantly close thing, though. It was a short, sharp tussle, and at the end of it nine of the sixteen wolves lay scattered about the bed of the ravine, dead or helpless. This seemed to take the fight out of the remaining seven--as well it might--who retreated down the arroyo, turning at the corner and looking back at us with their lips drawn up and their teeth showing, seeming to convey a threat, as though they would say, "Your turn this time--but just you wait a bit." Such unexpected fierceness and such determination on the part of the wolves--by daylight, too--scared me rather; Dick also, I noted, looked pretty sober, as, turning to the Mexican, he said: "You were right, Pedro: these wolves _are_ dangerous--a good deal more so than I had supposed. Our chances would have been pretty slim if we hadn't had this rock so handy. If this sort of thing is going to happen at any time, day or night, it will add very much to the difficulty of the work up here. We shall have to be continuously on the lookout; it won't do to separate; and wherever we are at work, we shall have to prepare a place of refuge near at hand. I don't like it. I've seen wolves by the hundred, but I never saw any before so savage and so persistent as these. I tell you, I don't half like it." "And I don't either," said I, glad to find that I was not the only one to feel uneasy. "Did you notice, Dick, how thin they all were? I've often heard the expression, 'gaunt as a wolf,' and now I know what it means. They seemed half-starved." "That is it, senor," remarked Pedro. "The wolves up here are very many--too many for the space they have. Here they are, the cañons all round them, they cannot get away. All the time they are half-starved, all the time they hunt for food, all the time they are dangerous. Often in winter they eat each other. It is well if we move away from here. Pretty soon there will come another pack to eat up these dead ones." "Let us get out, then!" I cried. "I've had enough of them for one day!" The others were quite ready to move, so, jumping down from our fortress we started along the ravine again, this time keeping our ears wide open for suspicious sounds, and feeling a good deal relieved when, on the edge of the lake, we sat down to our lunch with an old low-branching pine tree close by, up which we could go in a jiffy if need be. But though the presence of so many wolves on the "island" was something we had not anticipated, something, moreover, which was likely to add very much to the difficulty of our undertaking, we did not for a moment contemplate its abandonment. It meant the use of great caution in going about the work, but as to backing out, I do not think the idea so much as occurred to either of us. As soon as we had sat down to our lunch, therefore, we began the discussion of the best method of procedure. "It is a big undertaking, Dick," said I, "a very big undertaking; but it looks like a straightforward piece of work; and it seems to me that what has been done once can certainly be done again, especially as we have our line already laid out for us. Don't you think so?" "Yes, I certainly think so," replied my partner. "What those Pueblos accomplished with their poor implements, we can surely do again with our superior tools. And some of it, at least, we can do ourselves, I believe--with our own hands, I mean. When it comes to digging out the ditch on the other side of the cañon, it will pay us to hire Mexicans; but the preliminary work of bringing the water down to the cañon, and, perhaps, the building of the flume, I believe we can do ourselves." "The building of the flume," said I, "is likely to be a pretty big job by itself. We can undoubtedly get the water down that far--that is simple--but the building of the flume is quite another thing. A small flume won't do; it has to be a big, strong, solid structure, and it strikes me that the very first thing to be done--the laying of the two big stringers across the cañon--is going to take us all we know, and a trifle over. In fact, I don't see myself how we are to do it." "I think I do," rejoined my partner; "but we shall need tools for the purpose. We can't build a big, solid flume with one pick, one shovel and two axes." "No, we certainly can't," I replied. "We shall need, too, a large amount of lumber," continued Dick, "heavy pieces, besides boards for floor and sides--two inch planks, at least--three inch would be better. We shall need several thousand feet altogether." "Well?" "Well, there is no lumber to be had nearer than Mosby, and to bring it from Mosby is out of the question. In the first place it would cost too much; and in the second place it is too far to pack it on mule-back." I nodded. "You mean we shall have to cut it out ourselves, here on the spot." "Yes; and to do that we shall need a long, two-handled rip-saw, and a saw-pit to work in. Besides this, the other tools we shall require, as far as I can think of them on the spur of the moment, are two or three pulley-blocks for placing the big timbers, hammers, nails, cross-cut saws and a big auger; for I propose that we pin the heavy parts together with wooden pins: it will save the carriage on spikes, and be just as good, if not better. Don't you think so, Pedro?" Pedro approved of the idea, and we were about to continue the discussion, when there broke out a great yelling and snarling of wolves up the arroyo. Dick and I sprang to our feet, and instinctively cast an eye up into the adjacent tree in search of a convenient limb; but Pedro, unconcernedly continuing his meal, remarked: "It is only that they eat the dead ones." "Well, they're a deal too close to be pleasant," said Dick. "I vote we move on down to the cañon and get a little further away from them." As I was heartily of the same opinion, we moved down accordingly, and there on the brink of the gorge surveyed the scene of our future labors. "Look here," said Dick. "Here's where we shall have to cut our timbers--on this side. See what a splendid supply there is right at hand." He pointed to a scar on the mountain close by where a landslide had brought down scores of trees of all sizes. "When did that come down, Pedro?" he asked. "Only last spring, señor," replied the Mexican. "And the trees are sound and good." "Mighty lucky for us," continued my partner; "for, you see, on the other side trees are scarce and they average rather small. But on this side, there are not only seasoned trees of all sizes in abundance, but it will be a down-hill pull to get them into place--a big item by itself. Besides that, just back here on this little level spot we can dig our saw-pit very conveniently. The only question to my mind is, whether we should not move our camp over to this side. If it were not for the wolves I should certainly say, 'Yes'; but as it is, I feel rather doubtful. The nearest water is up there at the lake, and if we did move over to this side that is where we should have to make our camp." "It's a long way up to the lake, Dick," said I, "and it might be dangerous going to and from our work--especially going back in the evening. In fact, it might easily happen that we couldn't get back at all." "That's what I was thinking of," replied my partner. "On the other hand," I continued, "if we keep our present camp, it will be very inconvenient, and will waste a great deal of time, to come to our work every day by way of those stone steps we climbed this morning." "Yes, that's it. But there's yet another way which, I think, would get us over both difficulties; one which would combine all the advantages and at the same time do away with the danger--or, to say the least, the inconvenience--of being harried by the wolves, and that is to build a bridge here. Then, if we move our camp to that little 'park' just below here, where we found that spring yesterday, it would only take us five minutes in the morning to come up here, cross the bridge and go to work. How does that strike you? What do you think, Pedro?" "It is good," replied Pedro. "First thing of everything a bridge; and that is easy. We make it to-day before the sun set." "We do, do we?" cried Dick, laughing. "That will be pretty expeditious; but if you think you know how, Pedro, go ahead and we'll follow." Pedro's eye twinkled. "The señor means it?" he asked. "Certainly," replied Dick. "_Bueno_," said Pedro, briefly. There was a little pine tree growing just on the brink of the chasm, and without another word the Mexican drew his ax from his belt, stepped up to the tree and cut it off about four feet from the ground, allowing the top to fall from the precipice into the stream below. "What's that for, Pedro?" I asked, in surprise. Pedro grinned. "I show you pretty quick," said he. "Come, now. We go back to the other side." Though we could not fathom his plan, having voluntarily made him captain for the time being we could not do less than obey orders; so away we went at a brisk walk back to the crack in the wall, down the steps in the rock, along the bank of the creek to camp--where we picked up our own ax--then up the ledge to the point opposite the one we had just left--a two-mile walk to accomplish thirty feet. Here, the first thing Pedro did was to take his lariat, a beautifully-made rawhide rope strong enough to hold a thousand-pound steer, tie a stone to one end and throw the stone across the cañon. I could not think what he was doing it for, until I saw that he was measuring the width. We made it about twenty-seven feet, its remarkable narrowness being accounted for by the great overhang of the cliff on our side. [Illustration: "I COULD NOT THINK WHAT HE WAS DOING IT FOR."] "Now," said Pedro, "we go up the mountain here a little way and cut some poles. It is just close by up here." We soon found the place, and there we cut off three poles about thirty feet long and eight inches thick at the small end. These we trimmed down to about the same thickness at the butt, and having roughly squared them, we dragged them down to the edge of the gorge. So far it had been a simple proceeding, but what puzzled me was how Pedro proposed to lay these sticks across the cañon. This, too, as it turned out, proved to be a simple matter, but its first step was one to make your hair stand on end to look at, nevertheless. It was now we found out why Pedro had cut off the little tree on the other side. Taking his lariat, he swung the loop above his head a time or two and cast it across the gorge. The loop settled over the tree-stump, when the Mexican pulled it tight and then proceeded with great care to tie the other end of the rope to a tree which stood very convenient on our side. What was he up to? Dick and I stood watching him in silence, when he stepped to the edge of the cliff, took hold of the rope with both hands, and swung himself off into space! My! It gave me cold shivers all down my back to see him hanging there with nothing but that thread of a rope to prevent his falling on the rocks a thousand feet below! Motionless and breathless, Dick and I watched him as he went swinging across, hand over hand--the rope sagging in the middle in an alarming manner--and profound was our relief when he drew himself up and stepped safely upon the opposite wall. But though this tight-rope performance had given us palpitation of the heart, Pedro himself appeared to be absolutely unaffected. With perfect calmness and unconcern, he turned round and said in the most matter-of-fact tone: "Now undo the rope and tie it to the end of one of those poles." As Pedro evidently regarded his feat of gymnastics as nothing out of the common, we affected to look upon it in the same light, so, following his directions, we tied the rope to one of the poles, when the Mexican began pulling it toward him, we pushing at the other end. Presently the pole was so far over the edge that it began to teeter, when Pedro called to us to go slowly. Then, while we pried it forward inch by inch, Pedro retreated backward up the gully until the end of the pole bumped against the wall on his side, when he came forward, keeping the rope taut all the time, lifted the pole and set its end on the rocks. The first beam of our bridge was laid. The other two poles we sent across by the same process, and then, scraping a bed for them in the sand and gravel, we laid them side by side, two with their butt-ends on our side, the other--the middle one--reversed. Pedro then took from his pocket a long strip of deer-hide with which he bound the three poles together, when we, at his request, having once more tied the rope to the tree, he laid his hand upon it, using it as a hand-rail, and walked across to our side, where with a second buckskin thong he bound the poles together at that end. Next he walked back to the middle of the bridge, and holding the rope with both hands, jumped up and down upon the poles, to make sure of their solidity, and finding them all right, he went to the far end, loosened the loop from the tree-stump, threw it across to us, and then, without any hand-rail this time, walked back across the flimsy-looking bridge to our side! What a head the man must have had! The bridge at its widest did not measure thirty inches, and yet the Mexican--barefooted, to be sure--walked erect across that fearful chasm without a thought of turning dizzy. I suppose he was born without nerves, and had never cultivated any, as we more civilized people do by our habits of life. For years he had lived out-of-doors, always at exercise, used to climbing in all sorts of dangerous places, and what perhaps may have counted for as much as anything else, he was one of the few Mexicans I have known who abjured that habit so common among his people--the habit of smoking cigarettes. I know very well that I, though I did not smoke cigarettes either, and though I thought myself pretty clear-headed, would never have dared such a thing, unless under pressure of great and imminent danger. "What did you untie the rope for, Pedro?" I asked. "Why not leave it for a hand-rail?" "Because the wolves will eat it," replied Pedro. "We will bring one of your hempen ropes and tie there: the wolves will not trouble that." "By the way, Pedro!" cried Dick. "How about those wolves? Won't they come across the bridge?" "I think not," the Mexican answered. "They are wary and suspicious--it is the nature of a wolf--and I think they will fear to venture." At that moment the sun set behind the peak, and as though its setting had been a signal, there arose in three or four different directions the howls of wolves. They were coming out for their nightly hunt. "Señores," said Pedro, "we will see very soon if the wolves will cross the bridge. It will not be long before they find our trail and then they will come down here. Let us hide us and watch. Up here, behind these rocks, is a good place." A little way up the bank, only a few steps back from the edge of the gorge, we lay down and waited. Presently, from the direction of the lake, there suddenly arose a joyous chorus of yelps, which proclaimed that our trail had been discovered. And not to us only was the "find" proclaimed. A second pack, hearing the call, hastened to join the hunt, hoping for a share in the spoil; we caught a glimpse of them as they came racing down one of the slopes which bordered the gully. The swelling clamor drew nearer and nearer, and pretty soon, with a rush of pattering feet, the wolves appeared; there must have been thirty of them. Down to the edge of the cañon they came, and there they drew up. One of them, a big, gray old fellow, the leader of one of the packs, probably, advanced to the end of the bridge, sniffed at it and drew hastily back. One after another, other wolves came forward, sniffed and withdrew. It was evident that Pedro had guessed right: they dared not cross. At this balking of their hopes they set up a howl of disappointment. Poor things! I felt quite sorry for them. They were _so_ hungry; and yet they dared not cross. Nevertheless, though I might feel sorry for them, I was more than glad that they feared to venture, for against such a pack as that our chances would have been small indeed. "Señores," whispered Pedro, "I try them yet a little more. It is quite safe. Stay you here and watch." With that, taking his ax in his hand, he rose up in full view of the pack and walked down to the end of the bridge. Such an uproar as broke forth I never heard. Many of the wolves ran up the banks on either side of the gully in order to get a sight of Pedro, and every one of them, those in front, those behind and those on the sides, lifted their heads and yelled at the man calmly standing there, scarce ten steps away. But they dared not cross. One of them, indeed, crowded forward against his will by those behind, was pushed out on to the bridge a little way, when, striving to get back, his hind feet slipped off. I thought he was gone, but by desperate scratching he succeeded in saving himself, when, rendered crazy by fright and rage he attacked the nearest wolves, fought his way through to the rear and fled straight away up the gully. This seemed to settle the matter. The whole pack, as though struck with panic, turned and pursued him. In ten seconds not one of them was to be seen. As Dick and I rose up from our hiding-place, Pedro came back to us. "You see," said he, "we are quite safe." "Yes," replied Dick. "It is evident we have nothing to fear from them on this side--and I'm mighty glad of it. Well, let us get down to camp. I think we've done a pretty good day's work, taking it all round, and I shall be glad of a good supper and a good rest." "So shall I," was my response. "And as to our day's work, Dick, I'm much mistaken if it isn't by long odds the most important one to us that either you or I ever put in." CHAPTER XVIII THE BIG FLUME As the first step in restoring the old Pueblo irrigation system, we moved camp next morning as arranged. Packing our scanty belongings upon old Fritz, we rode up the ledge, past the site of the proposed flume, and down the mountain a short distance to a point between two of the big claw-like spurs, where, two days before, in riding down to speak to Galvez, we had come across a little spring which would furnish water enough for ourselves and our animals. Thence, walking back to the bridge, taking with us, besides our rifles, the two axes and one of our long picket-ropes, Pedro first tied the latter to the tree on our side, and then, taking the other end in his hand, he walked across and fastened it to the stump on the far side. It was now our turn to cross, and very little did either of us relish the idea. Dick, who had volunteered to go first, took hold of the rope, set one foot on the bridge, and then--he could not resist it--did just what he ought not to have done:--looked down. The inevitable consequence was that he took his foot off again and retreated a few steps. "My word, Frank!" said he. "You may laugh if you like, but I'll be shot if I'm going to walk across that place. Crawling's good enough for me." So saying, he again approached the bridge, and going down on his hands and knees, crawled carefully over. For myself, I found it equally impossible to screw up my courage far enough to attempt the passage on foot. In fact, even crawling seemed too risky, so I just sat myself astride of the three poles and "humped" myself along with my hands to the other side, where the grinning Pedro gave me a hand to help me to my feet again. It was ignominious, perhaps, to be thus outdone by an ignorant, semi-savage Mexican; but, as Dick said, "You may laugh if you like": I was not going to break my neck just to prove that I was not afraid--when I was. At that hour in the morning the wolves, I suppose, were all asleep. At any rate we heard nothing of them. But knowing very well that they might turn up again at any moment, we wasted no time in starting our first piece of work, namely, preparing a place of refuge against them. Choosing a spot on the level near the point where we expected to dig our saw-pit, we cut a number of good, heavy logs, with which, after carefully notching and fitting them, we erected a pen, seven feet high and about ten feet square inside. It was the plainest kind of a structure: merely four walls, without even a doorway; but as it was not chinked it would be a simple matter for us to clamber up and get inside; whereas, for a wolf to do the same--with safety--would be far from simple with us waiting in there to crack him on the head with an ax as soon as he showed it above the top log. It may be that we were unnecessarily cautious in providing this refuge. If the wolves should molest us--a contingency pretty sure to occur some time or other--it was probable that we should hear them coming in time to retreat by the bridge, which was not more than a hundred yards distant. But on the other hand, if they should not give us timely notice of their approach, it might be very awkward, not to say dangerous--for Dick and me, at least. "For Pedro it might be all right," was my partner's comment, "but for us--no, thank you. I have no desire to be hustled across that bridge in a hurry. Just imagine how it would paralyze you to try to crawl across those poles, knowing that there was a wolf standing at the far end trying to make up his mind to follow you. No, thank you; not for me. We'll have a refuge here on 'dry land.'" It was a long day's work, the building of this pen, for we were careful to make it strong and solid; indeed, we had not yet quite finished it, when, about four in the afternoon, we heard the first faint whimperings of the wolves, a long way off somewhere. So, fearing they might come down upon us before we were quite ready for them, we postponed the completion of the job until the morrow, and re-crossing the bridge in the same order and the same manner as before, we went back to camp, where we spent the remaining hours of daylight in making things comfortable for a lengthened stay. To this end we built a little three-sided shelter of logs about four feet high, the side to the east, facing down the mountain, being left open. This we roofed with a wagon-sheet we had brought with us in place of a tent, dug a trench all round it to drain off the rain-water, covered the floor with a thick mat of pine-boughs, and there we were, prepared for a residence of six months or more, if necessary. "Now, Frank," said my partner, as we sat by the fire that evening, "we have about got to a point where we have to have tools. One of us has got to go to Mosby to get them, while the other stays here with Pedro. The question is, which shall go. Take your choice. I'll stay or go, just as you like." "Then I think you had better go, Dick," I replied. "You know better than I do what tools we shall need; you are far more handy at packing a mule than I am; and besides all that, it will give you an opportunity to see the professor." "Thanks, old chap," said Dick, heartily. "That is a consideration. Yes, I shall be glad to go, if you don't mind staying here with Pedro." "Not a bit," I replied. "He's an interesting companion; and if one needed a protector it would be hard to find a better one. No; I'll stay. I don't at all mind it." "Very well," said Dick. "Then I think I'll dig out the first thing in the morning. It will take me, I expect, about six days: two days each way and perhaps two days in Mosby. It depends on whether I can get the tools there that I want." "I should think you could," said I, "unless it is the big rip-saw." "I don't think there'll be any trouble about that," replied my partner. "Before the saw-mill came in, two or three of the mines used to cut their own big timbers by hand, and I've no doubt the old saws are lying around somewhere still. If they are, I'm pretty sure I can get one for next-to-nothing, for, of course, they are never used now." "There's one thing, Dick," said I, after a thoughtful pause, "which makes me feel a little doubtful about your going alone, and that is lest Galvez should interfere with you. If he caught sight of you, either going or returning, he might make trouble." "He might," replied Dick. "Though I don't much think he is likely to trouble you or me. Anyhow, when I leave to-morrow, you can take the glass and just keep watch on the village for an hour or so to see that he doesn't make any attempt to cut me off. If he should, you can raise a big smoke here to warn me and ride down to help." "All right. I will. But how about when you come back?" "Why, I'll arrange to leave The Foolscap, as we did before, at four o'clock in the morning, which would bring me about half way across the valley by sunrise. On the sixth morning, and every morning after till I turn up, you can take the field-glass and look out for me. From this elevation you would be able to see me long before Galvez could, and then you might ride down to meet me." "That's a good idea. Yes; I'll do that." Our camp was so placed that we could not only see the whole stretch of the valley between us and The Foolscap, but also the village and the country beyond it for many miles, and for about two hours after Dick's departure I sat there with the glass in my hand watching his retreating figure, and more especially watching the village. For, though in reality I had little fear that Galvez would attempt to play any tricks on him, particularly after Dick's exhibition of rifle-shooting, I was not going to take any avoidable chances. At the end of that time, however, I rose up, put away the glass, and in company with Pedro went over to the other side of the cañon, where we first finished up the building of the pen, and then, picking out a big, straight tree suitable for a stringer, I went to work upon it, trimming off the branches, while Pedro with the shovel began the task of digging out the saw-pit. That evening, and each succeeding evening, just before the sun set, we stopped work and retreated across the bridge in order to avoid any trouble with the wolves, which, as a rule, did not come out in force until about that hour. Once only during the time that Pedro and I were at work there by ourselves did any of them venture on an attack. It was a pack of about a dozen which came down on us one evening just before quitting-time, but as we heard them coming, we retired into the pen, whence I shot one of them before they had found out where we were; whereupon the rest bolted. I think the survivors of the fight in Wolf Arroyo--as we had named the ravine where we had had our battle--must have imparted to all the others the intelligence that we were dangerous creatures to deal with, for the wolves in general were certainly much less venturesome than they had been that first day. At night, though, they came out in droves, and continuous were the howlings, especially when the wind was south and they could smell us and our animals only a hundred yards away on the other side of the cañon. At sunrise on the sixth day, and again on the seventh, I searched the valley with the glass to see if Dick was within sight, but it was not until the morning of the eighth day that I saw him and old Fritz coming along, not more than five miles away. He must have made a very early start. Jumping on my pony, I rode to meet him, while Pedro remained behind to watch the village. I was very glad to see my partner safely back again, and especially pleased to hear the news he brought. The professor, he told me, was delighted with the turn of events which bade fair to provide Dick with a settled occupation, and one so well suited to his tastes and training; while as to Uncle Tom, Dick had written to him an account of the present condition of the King Philip mine, and had given him a full description of the undertaking upon which we proposed to enter. In reply, my genial guardian had sent to me a characteristic telegram, delivered the very morning Dick left Mosby. It read thus: "Go ahead. Money when wanted. How about book-learning now?" "How's that, Dick?" said I, handing it over to my companion to read. Dick laughed. "You made a pretty good guess, didn't you?" he replied. It was a matter of intense satisfaction to both of us to find our guardians so heartily in favor of the prosecution of our design, and it was with high spirits and a firm determination to "do or die" that we carried over the bridge the assortment of tools with which old Fritz was laden, and that very afternoon went systematically to work. It was not until we really went about it in earnest that we fully realized the magnitude of the task we had set ourselves when we undertook to build that flume. We were determined that if we did it at all we would do it thoroughly well, and in consequence the timbers we selected for the stringers were of such size and weight that we should have been beaten at the word "go" if we had not had for an assistant a man like Pedro, who combined in his own person the strength of five ordinary men. It was a pleasure to see him when he put forth all his powers. Give him a lever, and let him take his own time, and the most obstinate log was made to travel sulkily down hill when Pedro took it in hand. After measuring with particular accuracy the space between the sockets on either side of the gorge, we sawed off one big timber to the right length, and getting it into position over the saw-pit we squared its two ends and then sawed it flat on one side, leaving the other sides untouched. I had always understood that working in a saw-pit was a disagreeable job, but not till I had practical experience of it did I discover how correct my understanding had been. I discovered also why the expression, "top sawyer," was meant to indicate an enviable position. It fell to Pedro to be top sawyer, for the harder part of the work is the continuous lifting of the saw; but for all that, the man below has the worst of it, for if he looks up he gets a stream of sawdust into his eyes, and if he looks down he gets it in the back of his neck. There is no escape, as Dick and I found--for we took it in turns to go below and pull at the saw-handle. However, we were not going to shirk the task just because it happened to be unpleasant, and being fairly in for it, we made the best of it. Our first big timber being at length prepared, we got it down to the edge of the cañon, and then were ready for the next move--the most important move of all--getting it across the gorge. This could not be done by main strength, as had been the case with our bridge-timbers, for this stick, twenty-nine feet long and sixteen inches square, though pretty well seasoned, was an immense weight. But what could not be done by force might be accomplished by contrivance. The most bulky part of old Fritz's load had been composed of ropes and pulley-blocks, and it was with these that we intended to coax our big stick across the gap. Going over to the other side, we set up a framework of stout poles--a derrick, we called it--to the top of which we attached a big pulley. Threading a strong rope through this pulley, we carried it back and fastened it to a windlass which Dick built; he having seen dozens of them at work among the mines, having observed, fortunately, how they were made, and being himself a very handy fellow with tools. The windlass was securely anchored to two trees, when, the other end of the rope having been carried over and tied to our big log, we were ready to try the experiment of placing it athwart the chasm. With this object, Dick and Pedro turned the windlass, while I, crossing the bridge once more, pried the log forward from behind. It was a slow and laborious operation, but inch by inch the great log went grating and grinding forward, until at length its end overlapped the further edge of the gorge. Soon, with a sullen thump, my end fell into its socket, when Dick lowered his end into the socket opposite, and our first big stringer was successfully laid. It was a good start and greatly heartened us up to tackle the rest of the work. Our second big stringer we prepared and laid in the same manner--flat side up--and then came the most ticklish job of all--the placing of the two supports beneath each stringer. Without Pedro, with his steady nerves and his cat-like agility, we could not have done it. Tying a rope to the stringer, Pedro descended the face of the cliff and set the butt-end of the supporting beam in its socket--the other end being temporarily tied in place--repeating the same process on the other side. These beams we had measured and prepared with great care, so that when their bases were set, the beveled smaller ends, by persistent pounding, could be tightly jammed into the notch previously cut for their reception in the under side of the big stringer. It was a good piece of work, and very thankful I was when it was safely accomplished; for though to one with a clear head it might not be very dangerous, it looked so, and I was, as I say, greatly relieved when it was done. It might seem that we made these stringers unnecessarily strong, and perhaps we did. But we intended to be on the safe side if we could. Our flume was designed to be eight feet wide and five feet deep, and though the pitch was considerable and the water in consequence would run fast, if it should by chance ever fill to the top there would be by our calculation thirty-three or thirty-four tons of water in it. Having now our foundation laid, the rest of the work was plain, straightforward building, in which there was no special mechanical difficulty. One part of our task, however--the sawing of the lumber--we soon found to be so slow that we decided, if we could get them, to procure the assistance of two or three Mexicans from Hermanos, and with that object in view we sought an interview with our friend, José Santanna. To do this we supposed we should have to go down to Hermanos, but on consulting Pedro, we found that there was another and a much easier way. I had often wondered if Pedro, during all the years he had lived on the mountain, had subsisted exclusively on meat, or whether he had some means of obtaining other supplies, and now I found out. I found that he had a regular system of exchange with the villagers, by which he traded deer-meat and bear-meat for other provisions, and that by an arranged code of signals, familiar to everybody in the village, with the single exception of Galvez himself, he was accustomed to let it be known when he desired to communicate with the inhabitants. Accordingly, Pedro that day at noon went down to a certain spot on one of the spurs, and there built a fire, and piling on it a number of green boughs he soon had a column of smoke rising skyward. This was the signal, and that same evening he and we two boys, going down to the same spot, sat down there and waited, until about an hour after dark, we heard the sound of a horse's hoofs, and presently a man rode into sight. It proved to be Santanna himself, much to our satisfaction. He, as soon as he learned what we wanted, engaged to send us up three stout young Mexicans, an engagement he duly fulfilled--to the rage and bewilderment of Galvez, as we afterward heard, who could not for the life of him make out what had become of them. With this accession of strength we needed a second saw, and Dick went off to Mosby to get one. In a few days he returned with two saws instead of one, and with a load of dried apples, sugar and coffee with which to feed our hungry Mexicans. Flour--of a kind--we could get from the village, and deer-meat, though poor and tough at that season of the year, we could always procure. Dick also brought back with him that commodity so necessary in all business undertakings--some money. The professor had insisted on advancing him some, while Uncle Tom had enclosed fifty dollars in a registered letter to me. Thus armed, we procured two more Mexicans, and setting Pedro and his five compatriots to work with the three saws, while Dick and I did the carpenter work, we very soon began to make a showing. As it was obviously too dangerous to attempt to work on the bare stringers, we first laid a solid temporary floor of three-inch planks, and having then a good platform we could proceed in safety to set our big cross-pieces--upon which the permanent floor was afterward laid--and to go ahead with the rest of the building. There being no stint of timber, we could afford to make our flume immensely strong--and we did. The framework was composed mostly of ten-by-ten pieces, while the planks for the floor and sides were three inches thick. The wings at each end of the flume were extended up stream and down stream eight feet in either direction; and to prevent the water from getting around these ends we built rough stone walls on the edge of the gorge and filled in the spaces with well-tamped clay, of which we were fortunate enough to find a great supply close at hand. I do not intend to go into all the many details of the work, or to relate our mistakes or the accidents--all of them slight, fortunately--which now and then befell us. There was one little item of construction, however, which seemed to me so ingenious and withal so simple and so effective that I think it is worth special mention. When we came to lay our floor and build the sides, the question of leakage cropped up, when Dick suggested a plan which he said he had heard of as being adopted by sheepmen on the plains in building dipping-troughs. Each three-inch plank, before being spiked in place, was set up on edge, and along the middle of its whole length we hammered a dent about half an inch wide and half an inch deep. Then, taking the jack-plane, we planed off the projecting edges to the same level. The consequence was that when the plank became water-soaked, this dented line swelled up and completely closed any crack between itself and the plank above or beside it. It was an ingenious trick, and proved so successful that it was well worth the time and trouble it took. In fact, by the expenditure of time and trouble, in addition to a very modest sum of money, we did at length put together a flume which, I think I may say, was a very creditable piece of work. It was strenuous and unceasing labor, and at first it was pretty hard on me, but as my muscles became used to the strain I enjoyed it more and more, especially as every evening showed a forward step--a small one, perhaps, but still a forward step--toward the accomplishment of our object. Week after week we kept at it, steadily and perseveringly pegging away, and at last, one day near the end of July, summoning our six Mexicans to witness the ceremony, Dick and I, in alternate "licks" drove the last spike, and the flume was finished! CHAPTER XIX PEDRO'S BOLD STROKE All this time the wolves had let us alone. Frequently, toward evening, we would detect them standing on the hillsides watching us, but they were afraid to come near: the hammering and sawing, the stir and bustle checked them and they kept aloof--by daylight. Every night, though, they came down to the edge of the cañon to howl at us, and as the flume neared completion there was danger that they might summon courage to cross by it--the old bridge we had long ago tumbled into the stream. To prevent this, we at first set up every night a temporary gate across it, but later, we adopted a safer and better plan. We set two doors in our flume, one in the down-stream end, the other in the side, about the middle, so that by closing the former and opening the latter, all the water could be made to fall into the stream below. Our supply could thus be regulated at the flume instead of going all the way up to the old head-gate for the purpose. These gates being set, Pedro and another Mexican went up and opened connection between the lake and the low place where we had stirred up the deer the first day we were up there, and very soon there was a second little lake formed. Then, the flume being ready, we two and Pedro went up and raised the stone head-gate three inches. The rush with which the water came out was astonishing, and before the day was over it had come on down to the flume and was pouring through the side gate into the gorge--making a perfect defence against the wolves. During the two months, or thereabouts, that we had been engaged in this work, Dick had made altogether three trips to Mosby, on which occasions he had written to Arthur, detailing our progress. Arthur, on his part, had written to us--or, rather, somewhat to our surprise, he had written to the professor instead of directly to Dick--once from Santa Fé and once from the City of Mexico, whither he had been sent to institute a search of the records there. His last letter stated that up to that time no trace of the old patent had been found, but that, in spite of that drawback, his father was vigorously stirring things up at his end of the line, and that we might expect to see "something doing" in the enemy's camp at any time. He stated also that he had hopes of rejoining us some time early in July. In consequence, we had been constantly on the watch for him for nearly a month, but here was the end of July approaching and no Arthur had appeared. As we were very anxious to know when to expect him, and as we were also in need of new supplies, the moment the flume was finished Dick set off once more for Mosby, while Pedro and I, transferring all our tools from the far side of the gorge, picked out a new working-ground on our side. There was nothing further to be done on the "island," but though the flume was finished and ready for use, we still had need of a large amount of lumber in the construction of our ditch, for at the head of every draw it would be necessary to build a short flume, or, in some places, a culvert, to allow a passage for the rain-water which otherwise during the summer thunder-storm season would wash our ditch full of earth and rubbish. As it would be too inconvenient, unfortunately, to cut lumber in the old place and carry it across the flume, we moved all the tools, as I said, over to our side, and following along the line of the ditch for about half a mile, we selected a spot above it on the mountain and there set our Mexicans to work felling trees and digging new saw-pits. From the place selected we could see out over the plain in all directions; a fact which had been one of our reasons for choosing that particular spot. Indeed it had become a matter of great importance that we should be able to keep a watch on the valley, for we believed we had more than ever reason to fear some act of hostility on the part of the padron. Dick had no more than gone that day, when we were surprised by receiving a daylight visit from our friend, José Santanna, who informed us that Galvez of late had been showing unwonted signs of unrest; that he was growing more and more suspicious, irritable and evil-tempered. That the evening before a man had ridden into the village and had handed Galvez a paper--some legal notice, I guessed--upon receipt of which the padron had at first broken into a towering rage; had then gone about for half a day in a mood so morose and snappish that no one dared go near him; and that finally he had ordered his horse and ridden away, saying that he was going to Taos. "To Taos!" I exclaimed. "What has he gone to Taos for?" José shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, palms upward, as much as to say, "Who knows?" "Have we scared him out after all, I wonder," said I. "Did he say anything about coming back, José?" "He said he would return in four days," replied the Mexican. "And is that all you know about it?" "_Si, señor_, that is all. I know no more." From this conversation it was plain to me that the law was beginning to work, and that Galvez was becoming uneasy. Knowing his character, I, too, became uneasy, for, should he be rendered desperate, there was no telling what tactics he might resort to. It was this consideration that made me so anxious for the safe return of my two partners. From my vantage-point on the mountain I kept up a pretty constant watch for the next few days; no one could come across the valley from any direction without my seeing them--during daylight, that is--and unless Galvez had slipped into Hermanos after dark I was sure he had not returned, when, about three o'clock on the afternoon of the fourth day I espied Dick, a long way off, coming back from Mosby. It was twelve hours earlier than I had expected him, and wondering if he had any special reason for making such a quick trip, I got my pony and hurried off to meet him. I had a feeling that Dick was bringing news of some sort, and his first words after shaking hands proved the correctness of my impression. "Well, old chap!" he exclaimed. "I've got news for you this time that will make you 'sit up and take notice':--Arthur may be here any day; and he has at last got track of that patent." "Got a letter from him, then, did you?" I asked. "Yes; written from Cadiz, in Spain, more than three weeks ago." "From Cadiz!" I cried. "What's he doing there?" "His father sent him over to go through a chest of old papers they have in their house there. Arthur says--I'll give you his letter to read as soon as we get to camp--he says that he spent a fortnight reading all sorts of musty documents, without success, when at last he came upon an old note-book with the name of Arthur the First on its fly-leaf, and in that he found a single line referring to the patent--the only mention that has turned up anywhere." "And what does that say?" "It says---- Here, wait a minute; hold my rifle. I'll show you what it says." So saying, Dick took the letter out of his pocket, and finding the right place, handed it to me. The passage read: "It was an old memorandum-book in which my very great-grandfather used to note down all the particulars of the copper shipments and other matters dealing with the K. P. mine; but on the last fly-leaf was this entry, written in English: 'Mem. In case of accident to myself: The King's patent and the King's commission are in a hole in the wall above the door of the strong-room.' Where the strong-room may have been," Arthur went on, "I don't know, unless it is in the _Casa_. Ask Pedro." "What do you think of that?" asked Dick. "I think---- Well, I think we'll do as Arthur says: ask Pedro." In the course of an hour we had reached camp, when Dick, as soon as he had greeted the faithful Mexican, at once propounded the important question. "Pedro," said he, without any preface, "did you ever hear of the 'strong-room'?" "Surely," replied Pedro, with an air of surprise at being asked such a question. "Everybody knows the strong-room. It is a little room on the east side of the _Casa_; it has a door and no window; it is where one time the copper was stored, waiting for the pack-trains to come and take it away." "It is, is it!" cried Dick. "Then, Frank, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if those deeds were in there now. How are we to find out?" "Go and look!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet. "Now's our chance! Galvez is away--gone to Taos. Let us make a try for it at once. He's due to be back to-day, and then it will be too late. Come on! Let's get out! We haven't a minute to lose! Will you come with us, Pedro?" To my surprise, and, I must confess, to my disappointment also, Pedro shook his head. I supposed he was afraid to leave his mountain, and for a moment my opinion of his courage suffered a relapse. But I was doing him an injustice, as I heartily owned to myself, when, pointing out over the valley, he said, quietly: "It is too late already, señor. Look there!" Half a mile the other side of Hermanos, riding toward the village, were three horsemen, one of whom we recognized as Galvez. Who the others might be, and why the padron should be bringing them to Hermanos, we could not guess. We were destined, however, to learn all about them later in the day. As a matter of course, the sole subject of our thoughts and our conversation was the King's patent, and whether or not it was still in its hiding-place above the door of the strong-room. The only way to find out was to get in there and search for it, but how to do that was the question. Many plans did we discuss and discard, and we were still discussing as we sat round the fire that night--our Mexican workmen being encamped some distance away--when Pedro suddenly jumped up, and signaling to us to keep quiet, stood for a moment with his head bent forward, listening intently. His sharp ears had detected some sound inaudible to our less practised hearing. Making a quick backward motion with his hand, he whispered sharply: "Get away! Get away back from the light of the fire while I go see!" We speedily retreated up the hill a little way and hid ourselves among the trees, while Pedro, with the stealth of a wild animal, slipped silently off into the darkness. So quick and so noiseless were the movements of the clumsy-looking Mexican that I thought to myself I had rather be hunted by wolves than by that skilful woodsman, with his keen senses, his giant strength and his deadly, silent bow and arrow. I did not wonder any more that Galvez kept himself aloof. For two or three minutes silence prevailed, when we saw Pedro step back into the circle of light, and with him another man. It was our friend, José Santanna, again. "Well, José!" cried Dick. "What can we do for you?" "Señor," replied the Mexican, "I came up to tell you something--to warn you. The padron is come back. He has been to Taos and he has brought back with him two men. They are bad--like himself. I go up to the _Casa_ this evening while they are at supper and I hear them talking and laughing together through the door which is open. They say they like now to see three boys and a stupid peon"--he nodded toward Pedro--"get them out. They say if they catch Pedro they hang him, and if they catch 'that young Blake' they shoot him. They are dangerous, señor." "We shall have to keep our eyes wide open," said Dick. "Do you think they'll venture up here, José?" "I think not," replied the Mexican. "One of the men say, 'Let us go up on the mountain and catch them,' but the padron, he say very quick, 'No, no. I do not go up on the mountain. While they are there they do no harm, but if they come down here, then----!'" "I see," said Dick. "They mean to hold the fort against all comers. It is pretty evident, I think, that Galvez has been back to his old haunts, hunted out a couple of his old-time cronies, and brought them back to garrison the _Casa_, meaning to defy the law to get him out." "That's it, I expect," said I. "And our chances of getting into the strong-room are a good deal slimmer than ever." It certainly did look so; yet, as it happened, I never made a greater mistake. Who would have guessed how soon we were to get that chance? And who would have guessed that the man who was to provide the opportunity--and that by a plan so bold that I am astonished at it yet--was the man whom I had that day mentally accused of cowardice? How I did apologize to him in my thoughts! "José," said Pedro, "does the padron still go to bed every night at ten o'clock, as he used to do?" "_Si_," replied the cowman. "Does he always come out to the well to get a drink of cold water just before he goes to bed, as he used to do?" "_Si_," replied the cowman once more. "Those two men, are they to sleep in that room next the padron's?" "_Si_," replied the cowman for the third time. "Good!" exclaimed Pedro. "What time is it, señor?" turning suddenly to Dick. "Half past eight," replied my partner, looking at his watch. "Good!" exclaimed Pedro once more. For a minute he sat silent, his lower lip stuck out, frowning at the fire, while we sat watching him, wondering what he was thinking about, when, with an angry grunt he muttered to himself, "Stupid peon, eh! Humph! We'll see!" Then, jumping up, he said briskly: "Señores, get your horses. We will search the strong-room to-night." Still wondering what scheme he had in his head, we saddled up and followed him as he rode down the mountain and out upon the plain, too much engaged for the moment in picking our way to find an opportunity to ask questions. It seemed to me that our guide must have something of the wild animal in him, for, though it was very dark, he never hesitated for a moment, but went jogging along, threading his way through the sage-brush without a pause or a stumble. Either he or his burro must have had the cat-like gift of being able to see in the dark. In about an hour we saw dimly the walls of the _Casa_ looming up near us, and passing by it, we went on down to the creek where we dismounted and tied up our horses to the trees. Then, following down the creek for a short distance, we presently came opposite the front gate of the _Casa_, about a hundred yards distant. The village on the other side of the stream was dark and silent, but in one of the rooms in the _Casa_, facing the gateway, we could see a light burning. "That is the padron's room," whispered José. "He has not gone to bed yet." Against the light of the open door we could see between us and the house the long, black arm of the well-sweep, and advancing toward it, we had come within about thirty steps of it when Pedro requested us to stop there and lie down, while he himself went on and crouched behind the curbing of the well. We could not see him; in fact we could see nothing but the lights in the window and doorway, the well-sweep, and, very dimly, the outline of the building. There we lay in dead silence for a quarter of an hour, wondering what Pedro expected to do, when we heard voices, and the next moment the figures of two men showed themselves in the lighted doorway. One of them carried a candle, and the pair of them went into the next room--all the rooms opened into the courtyard--and shut the door. For five minutes the light showed through the little window and then went out. The padron's friends had gone to bed. For another five minutes we waited, and then the padron himself appeared. We could hear the jingle of his spurs as he came leisurely down to the well to get his nightly drink of cold water. We lay still, hardly daring to breathe. Presently, we heard the squeak of the well-sweep and saw it come round, dip down and rise again. Then we heard the clink of a cup: Galvez was taking his drink. He never finished it! At that moment Pedro's burly form rose up from behind the curbing; he took two steps forward, and with his great right hand he seized Galvez by the neck from behind, giving it such a squeeze that the unfortunate man could not utter a sound. We heard the cup fall to the ground with a clatter. Then, grasping the helpless padron by the back of his trousers, the little giant swung him off his feet and hoisting him high above his head, stepped to the rim of the curbing. The next moment there was a muffled splash--Galvez had been dropped into the well! He had been dropped in feet foremost, however, and as the well was only twelve feet deep with four feet of water in it, his life was not endangered. At this point we all jumped up and ran forward, reaching the well just as Galvez recovered his feet, as we could tell by the coughing and spluttering noises which came up from below. As we approached, Pedro leaned over the coping and said in a low voice: "Good-evening, Padron. This is Pedro Sanchez. If you make any noise I drop the bucket of water on your head." This gentle hint was not lost upon Galvez, who contented himself with muttered growlings of an uncomplimentary nature, when Pedro, turning to Dick, whispered sharply: "Run quick now to the strong-room. I stay here to guard the padron." In company with the barefooted José, we ran into the courtyard, where the Mexican pointed out to us the door of the strong-room, the first on the right, and while Dick and I pulled it open, taking great care to make no noise, José himself ran on to the padron's room, whence he quickly returned with a candle in his hand. While Dick stood guard outside, in case the padron's two friends should come out, I slipped into the little room, where, finding an empty barrel, I placed it in front of the doorway, jumped upon it, and taking my sheath-knife, I stabbed at the adobe wall just above the lintel of the door. The second or third stroke produced a hollow sound and brought down a shower of dried mud, when, vigorously attacking the spot, I soon uncovered a little board which had been let into the wall and plastered over with adobe. In a few seconds I had pried this out, when I found that the space behind it was hollow, and thrusting in my hand I brought out a brass box shaped like a magnified cigar-case. "Dick!" I whispered, eagerly. "I've found something! Come in here!" My partner quickly joined me, when we pried open the box, finding that it contained a parcel wrapped up in a piece of cloth. Imagine our excitement when on tearing off the wrapping we found that the contents of the package consisted of two parchment documents, written in Spanish! We had no time to examine them thoroughly, but a hasty glance convincing us that we had indeed found what we sought, and there being nothing else in the hole, I crammed the parchments back into the box, shoved the box into my pocket, buttoned my coat, and away we went back to the well. "Find it?" whispered Pedro. I replied by patting my pocket. Pedro nodded; and then, having first lowered the bucket into the well again, he leaned over the coping and said softly: "Padron, you may come out now as soon as you like." With that, leaving Galvez to climb out if he could, or to remain where he was if he couldn't, we all turned and ran for it. Having recovered our horses, José bolted for home, while we went off as fast as we dared in the darkness for camp. There, by the light of the fire, we examined our capture. One of the parchments was the commission of old Arthur the First to the "Governorship" of the King Philip mine; the other was the original "Grant" of the Hermanos tract from Philip V, King of Spain, the Indies and a dozen other countries, to his trusty and well-beloved subject, Arturo Blake. "This _is_ great!" cried Dick. "This will settle the title without any chance of dispute. Galvez may as well pack up and go now. I wonder what he'll do?" "I don't know what Galvez will do," said I; "but I can tell you what _we_ must do, Dick. We must cut and run. This patent must be put away in a safe place--and it isn't safe here by any means. Galvez will be about crazy with rage at having been dropped into the well; and for another thing, he'll see that hole above the door, and he'll know that whatever it was we took out of the hole, it must be something of importance to have induced us to come raiding his premises like that." "That's true," said Dick, nodding his head. "And I shouldn't be a bit surprised," I continued, "now that he has two other unscrupulous rascals to back him, if he were to come raiding us in return. What do you think, Pedro?" "I think it is likely," replied the Mexican. "I think it is well that you go, and stop the Señor Blake from coming here. Those men are dangerous. For me, I have no fear: I can take care of myself." "Then we'll skip," said Dick. "It's safest; and it's only for a time, anyhow, for, of course, Galvez's legal ejection is certain, sooner or later, now that we have the patent in our hands. So we'll get out, Frank, the very first thing to-morrow." It was the night of July 28th that we came to this resolution; though, as a matter of fact, we were not aware of it at the time, for we had lost track of the days of the month. It was the astounding event of the day following that impressed the date so indelibly on our memories. Men plot and plan and calculate and contrive, thinking themselves very clever; but how feeble they are when Dame Nature steps in and takes a hand, and how easily she can upset all their calculations, we were to learn, once for all, that coming day. CHAPTER XX THE MEMORABLE TWENTY-NINTH Though we had intended to get off about sunrise we failed to do so, for we found that Galvez was on the lookout for us. No sooner had we started than we saw the three men ride out from the _Casa_ with the evident intention of cutting us off, so, not wishing to get into a fight if it could be avoided, we turned back again. Thereupon, the enemy also turned back; but, watching their movements, we saw that soon after they had entered the house, the figure of one of them appeared again on the roof, and there remained--a sentinel. Plainly, they were not going to let us get away if they could help it. At midday, however, we saw the sentinel go down, presumably to get his dinner, when we thought we would try again. Pedro therefore went off to get our horses for us, but he had hardly been gone a minute when we were startled to see him coming back with them, running as fast as his short legs would permit. "What's the matter, Pedro?" cried Dick. "What's wrong?" "I see the Señor Arturo coming!" shouted the Mexican. "What!" cried Dick, and, "Where?" cried I, both turning to look out over the plain. That man, Pedro, must have had eyes like telescopes to pretend to distinguish any one at such a distance, but on examining the little black speck through the glass I made out that it was a horseman, and after watching him for a few seconds I concluded that it was indeed our friend, Arthur, returning. "Frank!" cried my partner. "We must ride out to meet him at once! Pedro, you stay here and watch the _Casa_. If those three men come out, make a big smoke here so that we may know whether we have to hurry or not." "It is good," replied the Mexican; and seeing that he might be relied upon to give us timely warning--for he at once began to collect materials for his fire--away we went. Riding briskly, though without haste, we had left the mountain and were crossing a wide depression in the plain, when, on its further edge, there suddenly appeared the solitary horseman, riding toward us at a hard gallop. Dick turned in his saddle and cast a glance behind him. "The smoke!" he cried; and without another word we clapped our heels into our ponies' ribs and dashed forward. As Arthur approached--for we could now clearly see that it was he--we observed that he kept looking back over his left shoulder, and just as we arrived within hailing distance three other horsemen came in sight over the southern rim of the depression, riding at a furious pace, their bodies bent forward over their horses' necks. Each of the three carried a rifle, we noticed, and one of the three was Galvez. At sight of us, the pursuers, seemingly taken aback at finding themselves confronted by three of us, when they had expected to find only one, abruptly pulled up. This brief pause gave time to Arthur to join us, when Dick, slipping down from his horse, advanced a few steps toward the enemy, kneeled down, and ostentatiously cocked his rifle. Whether the padron's quick ears caught the sound of the cocking of the rifle--which seemed hardly likely, though in that clear, still atmosphere the sharp _click-click_ would carry a surprisingly long distance--I do not know; but whatever the cause, the result was as unexpected as it was satisfactory. Galvez uttered a sharp exclamation, whirled his horse round, and away they all went again as fast as they had come. "See that!" cried Arthur. "What did I tell you, Dick? We have to thank that locoed steer for that." "I expect we have," replied Dick. "Not a doubt of it," said I. "I was sure that Galvez was much impressed by the way that steer went over, and now I'm surer. Lucky he was, too, for those three fellows meant mischief, if I'm not mistaken." "That's pretty certain, I think," responded Arthur. "And it was another piece of good fortune that you turned up just when you did. How did it happen?" We explained the circumstances, but we had no more than done so, when Arthur exclaimed: "Why, here comes old Pedro now! At a gallop, too! Everybody seems to be riding at a gallop this morning." Looking toward the mountain, we saw the Mexican on his burro coming down at a great pace, but we had hardly caught sight of him when he suddenly stopped. He was on a little elevation, from which, evidently, he could see Galvez and his friends careering homeward, and observing that the affair was over and that his assistance was not needed, he forthwith halted, and, with a mercifulness not too common among Mexicans, jumped to the ground in order to ease his steed of his weight. There he stood, nearly two miles away, with his hand on the burro's shoulders, watching the retreating enemy, while we three rode toward him at a leisurely pace. As will be readily imagined, there was great rejoicing among us over the safe return of our friend and partner, and a great shaking of hands all round, when, hardly giving him time to get his breath again, Dick and I plunged head-first into the relation of all we had done since we saw him last: the finding of the head-gate and the building of the flume; triumphantly concluding our story with the recovery of the patent the night before. "Well, that was a great stroke, sure enough!" exclaimed Arthur. "That will settle the business. The 'stupid peon' got ahead of the padron that time, all right. But before we talk about anything else, Dick," he went on, "I have something I want to tell you about, something in my opinion--and the professor thinks so too--even more important--to you--than the title to the Hermanos Grant." "What's that?" cried my partner, alarmed by his serious manner. "Nothing wrong, is there?" "No, there's nothing wrong, I'm glad to say. Quite the contrary, in fact. I'm half afraid to mention it, old man, for fear I should be mistaken after all, and should stir you up all for nothing, but--why didn't you tell me, Dick, that your name was Stanley?" "Why, I did!" cried Dick. "No, you didn't, old fellow. If you remember, you were going to do so that first day we met, down there in the cañon by the opening of the King Philip mine, when Pedro interrupted you by remarking that the darkness would catch us if we stayed there any longer." "I remember. Yes, that's so. Ah! I see. That was why you addressed your letters to the professor instead of to me." "Yes, that was the reason. It didn't occur to me till I came to write to you that I didn't know your name." "That was rather funny, wasn't it?" said Dick, laughing. "But I don't see that it made much difference in the end: I got your letters all right." My partner spoke rather lightly, but Arthur on the other hand looked so serious, not to say solemn, that Dick's levity died out. "What is it, old man?" he asked. "What difference does it make whether my name is Stanley or anything else?" "It makes a great difference, Dick," replied Arthur. "I believe"--he paused, hesitating, and then went on, "I'm half afraid to tell you, for fear there might be some mistake after all, but--well--I believe, Dick, that I've found out who you are and where you came from!" It was Dick's turn to look serious. His face turned a little pale under its sunburn. "Go on," said he, briefly. "You remember, perhaps," Arthur continued, "how I told you that one reason why I had to go back by way of Santa Fé was because I had some inquiries to make on behalf of my mother. Well, as it turned out, Santa Fé was the wrong place. The place for me to go to was Mosby, and the man for me to ask was--the professor! "When I reached Mosby yesterday," he continued, "I rode straight on up to his house, when the kindly old gentleman, as soon as I had explained who I was, made me more than welcome. We were sitting last evening talking, when I happened to cast my eye on the professor's book shelf, and there I saw something which brought me out of my chair like a shot. It was a volume of Shakespeare, one of a set, volume two--that book which the professor found in the wagon-bed when he found you. I knew the book in a moment--for we have the rest of the set at home, Dick!" Dick stopped his horse and sat silent for a moment, staring at Arthur. Then, "Go on," said he once more. "I pulled the book down from the shelf," Arthur went on, "and looked at the fly-leaf. There was an inscription there--I knew there would be--'Richard Livingstone Stanley, from Anna.'" "Well," said Dick. His voice was husky and his face was pale enough now. "Dick," replied Arthur, reaching out and grasping my partner's arm, "my mother's name was Anna Stanley, and she gave that set of Shakespeare to her brother, Richard, on his twenty-first birthday!" For a time Dick sat there without a word, not at first comprehending, apparently, the significance of these facts--that he and Arthur must be first cousins--while the latter quickly related to us the rest of the story. Dick's mother having died, his father determined to leave Scotland and seek his fortune in the new territory of Colorado, whose fame was then making some stir in the world. In company, then, with a friend, David Scott--the "Uncle" David whom Dick faintly remembered--he set out, taking the boy with him. From the little town of Pueblo, on the Arkansas, Richard Stanley had written that he intended going down to Santa Fé, and that was the last ever heard of him. At that time--the year '64--everything westward from the foot of the mountains was practically wilderness. Into this wilderness Richard Stanley had plunged, and there, it was supposed, he and his son and his friend had perished. As for Dick, he seemed to be dazed--and no wonder. For a boy who had never had any relatives that he knew of to be told suddenly that the young fellow sitting there with his hand on his arm was his own cousin, was naturally a good deal of a shock. If it needed a counter-shock to jolt his faculties back into place, he had it, and it was I who provided it. In order to give the pair an opportunity to get used to their new relationship, I was about to ride forward to join Pedro, when I saw the Mexican suddenly commence cutting up all sorts of queer antics, jumping about and waving his arms in a frantic manner. "What's the matter with Pedro?" I called out. "Look there, you fellows! What's the matter with Pedro?" "Something wrong!" cried Dick. "Get up!" Away we went at a gallop, keeping a sharp lookout in all directions lest those three men should bob up again from somewhere, while the Mexican himself, jumping upon his burro, rode down to meet us. "What's up, Pedro?" Dick shouted, as soon as we had come within hearing. "Anything the matter?" "Señores," cried Pedro, speaking with eager rapidity, "those men come hunting us. I watch them ride back almost to the _Casa_, and then of a sudden they change their minds and turn up into the mountain. They think to catch us, but"--he stretched out his great hand and shut it tight, his black eyes gleaming with excitement--"if the señores will give me leave, we will catch them!" If his surmise was right, if those men were indeed coming after us as he believed, there was no question that if any of us could beat them at that game, Pedro was the one. Dick was a fine woodsman, but Pedro was a finer--my partner himself would have been the first to acknowledge it--and it was Dick in fact who promptly replied: "Go ahead, Pedro! You're captain to-day! Take the lead; we'll follow!" "_'Sta bueno!_" cried the Mexican, greatly pleased. "Come, then!" Turning his burro, he rode quickly back to camp, and there, at his direction, having unsaddled and turned loose our horses, we followed him to the flume, taking with us nothing but our rifles. There had been a little thunder-storm the day before, and the soil near the flume was muddy. Through this mud, by Pedro's direction, we tramped; crossed the flume on the gangway we had laid for the purpose, leaving muddy tracks as we went; jumped down at the other end and set off hot-foot up the gully to the little new-made lake and thence on up to the old lake; in several soft places purposely leaving footmarks which could not escape notice. "What's all this for, Pedro?" asked Dick. "What's your scheme?" "The padron will see our tracks crossing the flume," replied Pedro. "He will think you take Señor Arturo up to show him all the work you have done, and he will follow. If he does so, we have him! When he is safe across, we slip back, and then I hide me among the rocks on the other side and guard the flume. Without my leave they cannot cross back again. Thus I hold them on the wrong side, while you ride away at your ease to Mosby. Now, come quick with me!" So saying, Pedro turned at right angles to the line of the ditch, climbed a short distance up the hillside, and then, under cover of the trees, started back at a run, until presently he brought us to a point whence we could look down upon the flume, its approaches at both ends, and the line of the ditch up to the head of the little lake. Hitherto it had been all bustle and activity, but now we were called upon to exercise a new virtue, one always difficult to fellows of our age--patience. It must have been nearly an hour that we had lain there, sometimes talking together in whispers, but more often keeping silence, when Dick, pulling out his watch, said in a low voice: "If those fellows are coming, I wish they'd come. It's twenty minutes past two; and we're in for a thunder-storm, I'm afraid. Do you notice how dark it's getting?" "Yes," whispered Arthur. "And such a queer darkness. I'm afraid it's a forest fire and not a thunder-storm that is making it." "I believe you're right," replied Dick. "It _is_ a queer-colored light, isn't it?" We could not see the sun on account of a high cliff at the foot of which we were lying, and if we had had any thought of getting up to look at it, we were stopped by Pedro, who at this moment whispered sharply to us to keep quiet. His quick eyes had detected a movement on the far side of the cañon. Intently we watched, and presently the figure of a man stepped out from among the trees. Advancing cautiously to the end of the flume, he examined the tracks in the mud, climbed up to the gang-plank, inspected the tracks again, and turning, made a sign with his hand; whereupon two other men stepped out from among the trees. The three then crossed the flume, jumped down, and set off up the gully. We watched them as they followed the ditch up to the new lake, and thence to the draw which led up to the old lake. At the mouth of the draw they paused for some time, hesitating, doubtless, whether they should trust themselves in that deep, narrow crevice--a veritable trap, for all they knew. Presumably, however, they made up their minds to risk it, for on they went, and a few minutes later were lost to sight. By this time the darkness had so increased that the men were hardly distinguishable, though they, themselves, seemed to take no notice of it. The sun was behind them, and so intent were they in following our tracks and keeping watch ahead, that they never thought to cast a glance upward to see what was coming. "Pedro," whispered Dick, as soon as the men had vanished, "let us get out of here. Either the woods are on fire or there'll be a tremendous storm down on us directly." Pedro, however, requested us to wait another five minutes, when, jumping to his feet, he cried: "Come, then! Let us get back! We have them safe now!" Down we ran, but no sooner had we got clear of the trees than Pedro stopped short. In a frightened voice--the first and only time I ever knew him to show fear--he ejaculated: "Look there! Look there!" Following his pointing finger, we looked up. The uncanny darkness was accounted for:--a great semi-circular piece seemed to have been bitten out of the sun! "The eclipse!" cried Arthur. "I'd forgotten all about it. This is the twenty-ninth of July. The newspapers were full of it, but I'd forgotten all about it!" "A total eclipse, isn't it?" asked Dick, quickly. "Yes, total." "Then it will be a great deal darker presently. We'd better get out of this, and cross the flume while we can see." In fact, it was already so dark that the small birds, thinking it was night, were busily going to bed; the night-hawks had come out, the curious whir of their wings sounding above our heads; and then--a sound which made us all start--there came the long-drawn howl of a wolf! "Run!" shouted Dick. "They'll be after us directly!" Undoubtedly, the wolves, too, were deceived into the belief that night was approaching, for even as Dick spoke we heard in three or four different directions the hunting-cry of the packs. Wasting no time, as will be imagined, away we went, scrambled up on the gang-plank of the flume, and there stopped to listen. "I hope those men"--Dick began; when, from the direction of the draw above there arose a fearful clamor of howling. There was a shot! Another and another, in quick succession! And then, piercing through and rising above all other sounds, there went up a cry so dreadful that it turned us sick to hear it. What had happened? The hour that followed was the worst I ever endured, as we crouched there in the darkness and the silence, not knowing what had occurred up above. At length the shadow moved across the face of the sun, it was brilliant day once more, when, the moment we thought it safe to venture, down we jumped and set off up the line of the ditch. We had not gone a quarter-mile when we saw two men coming down, running frantically. In a few seconds they had reached the spot where we stood waiting for them, not knowing exactly what we were to expect of them. Never have I seen such panic terror as these men exhibited; they were white and trembling and speechless. For two or three minutes we could get nothing out of them, but at length one of them recovered himself enough to tell us what had happened. The wolves had caught them in that narrow, precipitous arroyo, coming from both ends at once. The two men, themselves, had succeeded in scrambling up to a safe place, but Galvez, attempting to do the same, had lost his hold and fallen back. Before he could recover his feet the wolves were upon him, and then----! Well--no wonder those men were sick and pale and trembling! That the padron's designs against us had been evil there could be no doubt--in fact, his shivering henchmen admitted as much--but, quite unsuspicious of the coming of the midday darkness, and knowing nothing of the fierce nature of these "island" wolves, he had run himself into that fatal trap. It was truly a dreadful ending. Does any one wonder now that the date of the eclipse of '78 should be so indelibly stamped on our memories? There being now nothing to interfere with us, we went down to Hermanos and took possession of the _Casa_, and from that time forward the work on our irrigation system moved along without let or hindrance from anything but the seasons. But though it was now plain sailing, and though we eventually got together a force of twenty Mexicans to do the digging, the amount of work was so great that we had not nearly finished that part of the ditch which wound over the foothills when frost came and stopped us. We at once moved everything down to the village and began again at that end, keeping hard at it until frost stopped us once more, and finally for that year. In fact, it was not until the spring of '80 that we at last turned in the water--a moderate amount at first--but since then the quantity has been increased year by year, until now we are supplying at an easy rental a great number of small farms, many of them cultivated by Mexicans, but the majority by Americans. The largest of the farms is that run by the two cousins and myself, and its management, together with the supervision and maintenance of the water-supply keeps us all three on the jump. As for old Pedro, he stuck to his mountain until just lately, when we persuaded him to come down and take up his residence on the ranch; though even now, every fall he goes off for a three-months' hunt and we see nothing of him till the first snow sends him down again. He is a privileged character, allowed to go and come as he pleases; for we do not forget his great services in turning this worthless desert into a flourishing community of busy wheat-farmers and fruit-growers; nor do we forget that it was really he who started the whole business. As to that, though, we are not likely to forget it, for we have on hand a constant reminder. Above the fireplace in our house there hangs, plain to be seen, a relic with which we would not part at any price--the "indicator" which pointed the way for us when we first set out on this enterprise--the original copper-headed arrow! THE END 
2186	----	"CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS" A STORY OF THE GRAND BANKS by Rudyard Kipling TO JAMES CONLAND, M.D., Brattleboro, Vermont I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old sea-faring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas. Longfellow. CHAPTER I The weather door of the smoking-room had been left open to the North Atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet. "That Cheyne boy's the biggest nuisance aboard," said a man in a frieze overcoat, shutting the door with a bang. "He isn't wanted here. He's too fresh." A white-haired German reached for a sandwich, and grunted between bites: "I know der breed. Ameriga is full of dot kind. I dell you you should imbort ropes' ends free under your dariff." "Pshaw! There isn't any real harm to him. He's more to be pitied than anything," a man from New York drawled, as he lay at full length along the cushions under the wet skylight. "They've dragged him around from hotel to hotel ever since he was a kid. I was talking to his mother this morning. She's a lovely lady, but she don't pretend to manage him. He's going to Europe to finish his education." "Education isn't begun yet." This was a Philadelphian, curled up in a corner. "That boy gets two hundred a month pocket-money, he told me. He isn't sixteen either." "Railroads, his father, aind't it?" said the German. "Yep. That and mines and lumber and shipping. Built one place at San Diego, the old man has; another at Los Angeles; owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber on the Pacific slope, and lets his wife spend the money," the Philadelphian went on lazily. "The West don't suit her, she says. She just tracks around with the boy and her nerves, trying to find out what'll amuse him, I guess. Florida, Adirondacks, Lakewood, Hot Springs, New York, and round again. He isn't much more than a second-hand hotel clerk now. When he's finished in Europe he'll be a holy terror." "What's the matter with the old man attending to him personally?" said a voice from the frieze ulster. "Old man's piling up the rocks. 'Don't want to be disturbed, I guess. He'll find out his error a few years from now. 'Pity, because there's a heap of good in the boy if you could get at it." "Mit a rope's end; mit a rope's end!" growled the German. Once more the door banged, and a slight, slim-built boy perhaps fifteen years old, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth, leaned in over the high footway. His pasty yellow complexion did not show well on a person of his years, and his look was a mixture of irresolution, bravado, and very cheap smartness. He was dressed in a cherry-coloured blazer, knickerbockers, red stockings, and bicycle shoes, with a red flannel cap at the back of the head. After whistling between his teeth, as he eyed the company, he said in a loud, high voice: "Say, it's thick outside. You can hear the fish-boats squawking all around us. Say, wouldn't it be great if we ran down one?" "Shut the door, Harvey," said the New Yorker. "Shut the door and stay outside. You're not wanted here." "Who'll stop me?" he answered, deliberately. "Did you pay for my passage, Mister Martin? 'Guess I've as good right here as the next man." He picked up some dice from a checkerboard and began throwing, right hand against left. "Say, gen'elmen, this is deader'n mud. Can't we make a game of poker between us?" There was no answer, and he puffed his cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on the table with rather dirty fingers. Then he pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them. "How's your mamma this afternoon?" a man said. "I didn't see her at lunch." "In her state-room, I guess. She's 'most always sick on the ocean. I'm going to give the stewardess fifteen dollars for looking after her. I don't go down more 'n I can avoid. It makes me feel mysterious to pass that butler's-pantry place. Say, this is the first time I've been on the ocean." "Oh, don't apologize, Harvey." "Who's apologizing? This is the first time I've crossed the ocean, gen'elmen, and, except the first day, I haven't been sick one little bit. No, sir!" He brought down his fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his finger, and went on counting the bills. "Oh, you're a high-grade machine, with the writing in plain sight," the Philadelphian yawned. "You'll blossom into a credit to your country if you don't take care." "I know it. I'm an American--first, last, and all the time. I'll show 'em that when I strike Europe. Piff! My cig's out. I can't smoke the truck the steward sells. Any gen'elman got a real Turkish cig on him?" The chief engineer entered for a moment, red, smiling, and wet. "Say, Mac," cried Harvey cheerfully, "how are we hitting it?" "Vara much in the ordinary way," was the grave reply. "The young are as polite as ever to their elders, an' their elders are e'en tryin' to appreciate it." A low chuckle came from a corner. The German opened his cigar-case and handed a skinny black cigar to Harvey. "Dot is der broper apparatus to smoke, my young friendt," he said. "You vill dry it? Yes? Den you vill be efer so happy." Harvey lit the unlovely thing with a flourish: he felt that he was getting on in grownup society. "It would take more 'n this to keel me over," he said, ignorant that he was lighting that terrible article, a Wheeling "stogie". "Dot we shall bresently see," said the German. "Where are we now, Mr. Mactonal'?" "Just there or thereabouts, Mr. Schaefer," said the engineer. "We'll be on the Grand Bank to-night; but in a general way o' speakin', we're all among the fishing-fleet now. We've shaved three dories an' near scalped the boom off a Frenchman since noon, an' that's close sailing', ye may say." "You like my cigar, eh?" the German asked, for Harvey's eyes were full of tears. "Fine, full flavor," he answered through shut teeth. "Guess we've slowed down a little, haven't we? I'll skip out and see what the log says." "I might if I vhas you," said the German. Harvey staggered over the wet decks to the nearest rail. He was very unhappy; but he saw the deck-steward lashing chairs together, and, since he had boasted before the man that he was never seasick, his pride made him go aft to the second-saloon deck at the stern, which was finished in a turtle-back. The deck was deserted, and he crawled to the extreme end of it, near the flag-pole. There he doubled up in limp agony, for the Wheeling "stogie" joined with the surge and jar of the screw to sieve out his soul. His head swelled; sparks of fire danced before his eyes; his body seemed to lose weight, while his heels wavered in the breeze. He was fainting from seasickness, and a roll of the ship tilted him over the rail on to the smooth lip of the turtle-back. Then a low, gray mother-wave swung out of the fog, tucked Harvey under one arm, so to speak, and pulled him off and away to leeward; the great green closed over him, and he went quietly to sleep. He was roused by the sound of a dinner-horn such as they used to blow at a summer-school he had once attended in the Adirondacks. Slowly he remembered that he was Harvey Cheyne, drowned and dead in mid-ocean, but was too weak to fit things together. A new smell filled his nostrils; wet and clammy chills ran down his back, and he was helplessly full of salt water. When he opened his eyes, he perceived that he was still on the top of the sea, for it was running round him in silver-coloured hills, and he was lying on a pile of half-dead fish, looking at a broad human back clothed in a blue jersey. "It's no good," thought the boy. "I'm dead, sure enough, and this thing is in charge." He groaned, and the figure turned its head, showing a pair of little gold rings half hidden in curly black hair. "Aha! You feel some pretty well now?" it said. "Lie still so: we trim better." With a swift jerk he sculled the flickering boat-head on to a foamless sea that lifted her twenty full feet, only to slide her into a glassy pit beyond. But this mountain-climbing did not interrupt blue-jersey's talk. "Fine good job, I say, that I catch you. Eh, wha-at? Better good job, I say, your boat not catch me. How you come to fall out?" "I was sick," said Harvey; "sick, and couldn't help it." "Just in time I blow my horn, and your boat she yaw a little. Then I see you come all down. Eh, wha-at? I think you are cut into baits by the screw, but you dreeft--dreeft to me, and I make a big fish of you. So you shall not die this time." "Where am I?" said Harvey, who could not see that life was particularly safe where he lay. "You are with me in the dory--Manuel my name, and I come from schooner _We're Here_ of Gloucester. I live to Gloucester. By-and-by we get supper. Eh, wha-at?" He seemed to have two pairs of hands and a head of cast-iron, for, not content with blowing through a big conch-shell, he must needs stand up to it, swaying with the sway of the flat-bottomed dory, and send a grinding, thuttering shriek through the fog. How long this entertainment lasted, Harvey could not remember, for he lay back terrified at the sight of the smoking swells. He fancied he heard a gun and a horn and shouting. Something bigger than the dory, but quite as lively, loomed alongside. Several voices talked at once; he was dropped into a dark, heaving hole, where men in oilskins gave him a hot drink and took off his clothes, and he fell asleep. When he waked he listened for the first breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering why his state-room had grown so small. Turning, he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit by a lamp hung against a huge square beam. A three-cornered table within arm's reach ran from the angle of the bows to the foremast. At the after end, behind a well-used Plymouth stove, sat a boy about his own age, with a flat red face and a pair of twinkling gray eyes. He was dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber boots. Several pairs of the same sort of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn-out woollen socks lay on the floor, and black and yellow oilskins swayed to and fro beside the bunks. The place was packed as full of smells as a bale is of cotton. The oilskins had a peculiarly thick flavor of their own which made a sort of background to the smells of fried fish, burnt grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco; but these, again, were all hooped together by one encircling smell of ship and salt water. Harvey saw with disgust that there were no sheets on his bed-place. He was lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of lumps and nubbles. Then, too, the boat's motion was not that of a steamer. She was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. Water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. All these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother. "Feelin' better?" said the boy, with a grin. "Hev some coffee?" He brought a tin cup full and sweetened it with molasses. "Isn't there milk?" said Harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there. "Well, no," said the boy. "Ner there ain't likely to be till 'baout mid-September. 'Tain't bad coffee. I made it." Harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously. "I've dried your clothes. Guess they've shrunk some," said the boy. "They ain't our style much--none of 'em. Twist round an' see if you're hurt any." Harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries. "That's good," the boy said heartily. "Fix yerself an' go on deck. Dad wants to see you. I'm his son,--Dan, they call me,--an' I'm cook's helper an' everything else aboard that's too dirty for the men. There ain't no boy here 'cep' me sence Otto went overboard--an' he was only a Dutchy, an' twenty year old at that. How'd you come to fall off in a dead flat ca'am?" "'Twasn't a calm," said Harvey, sulkily. "It was a gale, and I was seasick. Guess I must have rolled over the rail." "There was a little common swell yes'day an' last night," said the boy. "But ef thet's your notion of a gale----" He whistled. "You'll know more 'fore you're through. Hurry! Dad's waitin'." Like many other unfortunate young people, Harvey had never in all his life received a direct order--never, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful, explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request. Mrs. Cheyne lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, perhaps, was the reason that she herself walked on the edge of nervous prostration. He could not see why he should be expected to hurry for any man's pleasure, and said so. "Your dad can come down here if he's so anxious to talk to me. I want him to take me to New York right away. It'll pay him." Dan opened his eyes as the size and beauty of this joke dawned on him. "Say, Dad!" he shouted up the foc'sle hatch, "he says you kin slip down an' see him ef you're anxious that way. 'Hear, Dad?" The answer came back in the deepest voice Harvey had ever heard from a human chest: "Quit foolin', Dan, and send him to me." Dan sniggered, and threw Harvey his warped bicycle shoes. There was something in the tones on the deck that made the boy dissemble his extreme rage and console himself with the thought of gradually unfolding the tale of his own and his father's wealth on the voyage home. This rescue would certainly make him a hero among his friends for life. He hoisted himself on deck up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with gray eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the quarter-deck. The swell had passed in the night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing-boats. Between them lay little black specks, showing where the dories were out fishing. The schooner, with a triangular riding-sail on the mainmast, played easily at anchor, and except for the man by the cabin-roof--"house" they call it--she was deserted. "Mornin'--Good afternoon, I should say. You've nigh slep' the clock round, young feller," was the greeting. "Mornin'," said Harvey. He did not like being called "young feller"; and, as one rescued from drowning, expected sympathy. His mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited. "Naow let's hear all abaout it. It's quite providential, first an' last, fer all concerned. What might be your name? Where from (we mistrust it's Noo York), an' where baound (we mistrust it's Europe)?" Harvey gave his name, the name of the steamer, and a short history of the accident, winding up with a demand to be taken back immediately to New York, where his father would pay anything any one chose to name. "H'm," said the shaven man, quite unmoved by the end of Harvey's speech. "I can't say we think special of any man, or boy even, that falls overboard from that kind o' packet in a flat ca'am. Least of all when his excuse is that he's seasick." "Excuse!" cried Harvey. "D'you suppose I'd fall overboard into your dirty little boat for fun?" "Not knowin' what your notions o' fun may be, I can't rightly say, young feller. But if I was you, I wouldn't call the boat which, under Providence, was the means o' savin' ye, names. In the first place, it's blame irreligious. In the second, it's annoyin' to my feelin's--an' I'm Disko Troop o' the _We're Here_ o' Gloucester, which you don't seem rightly to know." "I don't know and I don't care," said Harvey. "I'm grateful enough for being saved and all that, of course! but I want you to understand that the sooner you take me back to New York the better it'll pay you." "Meanin'--haow?" Troop raised one shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild blue eye. "Dollars and cents," said Harvey, delighted to think that he was making an impression. "Cold dollars and cents." He thrust a hand into a pocket, and threw out his stomach a little, which was his way of being grand. "You've done the best day's work you ever did in your life when you pulled me in. I'm all the son Harvey Cheyne has." "He's bin favoured," said Disko, dryly. "And if you don't know who Harvey Cheyne is, you don't know much--that's all. Now turn her around and let's hurry." Harvey had a notion that the greater part of America was filled with people discussing and envying his father's dollars. "Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't. Take a reef in your stummick, young feller. It's full o' my vittles." Harvey heard a chuckle from Dan, who was pretending to be busy by the stump-foremast, and blood rushed to his face. "We'll pay for that too," he said. "When do you suppose we shall get to New York?" "I don't use Noo York any. Ner Boston. We may see Eastern Point about September; an' your pa--I'm real sorry I hain't heerd tell of him--may give me ten dollars efter all your talk. Then o' course he mayn't." "Ten dollars! Why, see here, I--" Harvey dived into his pocket for the wad of bills. All he brought up was a soggy packet of cigarettes. "Not lawful currency; an' bad for the lungs. Heave 'em overboard, young feller, and try agin." "It's been stolen!" cried Harvey, hotly. "You'll hev to wait till you see your pa to reward me, then?" "A hundred and thirty-four dollars--all stolen," said Harvey, hunting wildly through his pockets. "Give them back." A curious change flitted across old Troop's hard face. "What might you have been doin' at your time o' life with one hundred an' thirty-four dollars, young feller?" "It was part of my pocket-money--for a month." This Harvey thought would be a knock-down blow, and it was--indirectly. "Oh! One hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-money--for one month only! You don't remember hittin' anything when you fell over, do you? Crack agin a stanchion, le's say. Old man Hasken o' the East Wind"--Troop seemed to be talking to himself--"he tripped on a hatch an' butted the mainmast with his head--hardish. 'Baout three weeks afterwards, old man Hasken he would hev it that the "East Wind" was a commerce-destroyin' man-o'-war, an' so he declared war on Sable Island because it was Bridish, an' the shoals run aout too far. They sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head an' feet appearin', fer the rest o' the trip, an' now he's to home in Essex playin' with little rag dolls." Harvey choked with rage, but Troop went on consolingly: "We're sorry fer you. We're very sorry fer you--an' so young. We won't say no more abaout the money, I guess." "'Course you won't. You stole it." "Suit yourself. We stole it ef it's any comfort to you. Naow, abaout goin' back. Allowin' we could do it, which we can't, you ain't in no fit state to go back to your home, an' we've jest come on to the Banks, workin' fer our bread. We don't see the ha'af of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; an' with good luck we'll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks o' September." "But--but it's May now, and I can't stay here doin' nothing just because you want to fish. I can't, I tell you!" "Right an' jest; jest an' right. No one asks you to do nothin'. There's a heap as you can do, for Otto he went overboard on Le Have. I mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we f'und there. Anyways, he never come back to deny it. You've turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned. I mistrust, though, there's ruther few things you kin do. Ain't thet so?" "I can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore," said Harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about "piracy," at which Troop almost--not quite--smiled. "Excep' talk. I'd forgot that. You ain't asked to talk more'n you've a mind to aboard the _We're Here_. Keep your eyes open, an' help Dan to do ez he's bid, an' sechlike, an' I'll give you--you ain't wuth it, but I'll give--ten an' a ha'af a month; say thirty-five at the end o' the trip. A little work will ease up your head, and you kin tell us all abaout your dad an' your ma an' your money afterwards." "She's on the steamer," said Harvey, his eyes filling with tears. "Take me to New York at once." "Poor woman--poor woman! When she has you back she'll forgit it all, though. There's eight of us on the _We're Here_, an' ef we went back naow--it's more'n a thousand mile--we'd lose the season. The men they wouldn't hev it, allowin' I was agreeable." "But my father would make it all right." "He'd try. I don't doubt he'd try," said Troop; "but a whole season's catch is eight men's bread; an' you'll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. Go forward an' help Dan. It's ten an' a ha'af a month, e I said, an' o' course, all f'und, same e the rest o' us." "Do you mean I'm to clean pots and pans and things?" said Harvey. "An' other things. You've no call to shout, young feller." "I won't! My father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle"--Harvey stamped on the deck--"ten times over, if you take me to New York safe; and--and--you're in a hundred and thirty by me, anyhow." "Haow?" said Troop, the iron face darkening. "How? You know how, well enough. On top of all that, you want me to do menial work"--Harvey was very proud of that adjective--"till the Fall. I tell you I will not. You hear?" Troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest for a while, as Harvey harangued fiercely all around him. "Hsh!" he said at last. "I'm figurin' out my responsibilities in my own mind. It's a matter o' jedgment." Dan stole up and plucked Harvey by the elbow. "Don't go to tamperin' with Dad any more," he pleaded. "You've called him a thief two or three times over, an' he don't take that from any livin' bein'." "I won't!" Harvey almost shrieked, disregarding the advice, and still Troop meditated. "Seems kinder unneighbourly," he said at last, his eye travelling down to Harvey. "I--don't blame you, not a mite, young feeler, nor you won't blame me when the bile's out o' your systim. Be sure you sense what I say? Ten an' a ha'af fer second boy on the schooner--an' all found--fer to teach you an' fer the sake o' your health. Yes or no?" "No!" said Harvey. "Take me back to New York or I'll see you--" He did not exactly remember what followed. He was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that bled while Troop looked down on him serenely. "Dan," he said to his son, "I was sot agin this young feeler when I first saw him on account o' hasty jedgments. Never you be led astray by hasty jedgments, Dan. Naow I'm sorry for him, because he's clear distracted in his upper works. He ain't responsible fer the names he's give me, nor fer his other statements--nor fer jumpin' overboard, which I'm abaout ha'af convinced he did. You be gentle with him, Dan, 'r I'll give you twice what I've give him. Them hemmeridges clears the head. Let him sluice it off!" Troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he and the older men bunked, leaving Dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty millions. CHAPTER II "I warned ye," said Dan, as the drops fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking. "Dad ain't noways hasty, but you fair earned it. Pshaw! there's no sense takin' on so." Harvey's shoulders were rising and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. "I know the feelin'. First time Dad laid me out was the last--and that was my first trip. Makes ye feel sickish an' lonesome. I know." "It does," moaned Harvey. "That man's either crazy or drunk, and--and I can't do anything." "Don't say that to Dad," whispered Dan. "He's set agin all liquor, an'--well, he told me you was the madman. What in creation made you call him a thief? He's my dad." Harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told the story of the missing wad of bills. "I'm not crazy," he wound up. "Only--your father has never seen more than a five-dollar bill at a time, and my father could buy up this boat once a week and never miss it." "You don't know what the _We're Here's_ worth. Your dad must hev a pile o' money. How did he git it? Dad sez loonies can't shake out a straight yarn. Go ahead." "In gold mines and things, West." "I've read o' that kind o' business. Out West, too? Does he go around with a pistol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus? They call that the Wild West, and I've heard that their spurs an' bridles was solid silver." "You are a chump!" said Harvey, amused in spite of himself. "My father hasn't any use for ponies. When he wants to ride he takes his car." "Haow? Lobster-car?" "No. His own private car, of course. You've seen a private car some time in your life?" "Slatin Beeman he hez one," said Dan, cautiously. "I saw her at the Union Depot in Boston, with three niggers hoggin' her run." (Dan meant cleaning the windows.) "But Slatin Beeman he owns 'baout every railroad on Long Island, they say, an' they say he's bought 'baout ha'af Noo Hampshire an' run a line fence around her, an' filled her up with lions an' tigers an' bears an' buffalo an' crocodiles an' such all. Slatin Beeman he's a millionaire. I've seen his car. Yes?" "Well, my father's what they call a multi-millionaire, and he has two private cars. One's named for me, the 'Harvey', and one for my mother, the 'Constance'." "Hold on," said Dan. "Dad don't ever let me swear, but I guess you can. 'Fore we go ahead, I want you to say hope you may die if you're lyin'." "Of course," said Harvey. "The ain't 'niff. Say, 'Hope I may die if I ain't speaking' truth.'" "Hope I may die right here," said Harvey, "if every word I've spoken isn't the cold truth." "Hundred an' thirty-four dollars an' all?" said Dan. "I heard ye talkin' to Dad, an' I ha'af looked you'd be swallered up, same's Jonah." Harvey protested himself red in the face. Dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutes' questioning convinced him that Harvey was not lying--much. Besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels. "Gosh!" said Dan at last from the very bottom of his soul when Harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. Then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. "I believe you, Harvey. Dad's made a mistake fer once in his life." "He has, sure," said Harvey, who was meditating an early revenge. "He'll be mad clear through. Dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments." Dan lay back and slapped his thigh. "Oh, Harvey, don't you spile the catch by lettin' on." "I don't want to be knocked down again. I'll get even with him, though." "Never heard any man ever got even with dad. But he'd knock ye down again sure. The more he was mistook the more he'd do it. But gold-mines and pistols--" "I never said a word about pistols," Harvey cut in, for he was on his oath. "Thet's so; no more you did. Two private cars, then, one named fer you an' one fer her; an' two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workin' fer ten an' a ha'af a month! It's the top haul o' the season." He exploded with noiseless chuckles. "Then I was right?" said Harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser. "You was wrong; the wrongest kind o' wrong! You take right hold an' pitch in 'longside o' me, or you'll catch it, an' I'll catch it fer backin' you up. Dad always gives me double helps 'cause I'm his son, an' he hates favourin' folk. 'Guess you're kinder mad at dad. I've been that way time an' again. But dad's a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so." "Looks like justice, this, don't it?" Harvey pointed to his outraged nose. "Thet's nothin'. Lets the shore blood outer you. Dad did it for yer health. Say, though, I can't have dealin's with a man that thinks me or dad or any one on the _We're Here's_ a thief. We ain't any common wharf-end crowd by any manner o' means. We're fishermen, an' we've shipped together for six years an' more. Don't you make any mistake on that! I told ye dad don't let me swear. He calls 'em vain oaths, and pounds me; but ef I could say what you said 'baout your pap an' his fixin's, I'd say that 'baout your dollars. I dunno what was in your pockets when I dried your kit, fer I didn't look to see; but I'd say, using the very same words ez you used jest now, neither me nor dad--an' we was the only two that teched you after you was brought aboard--knows anythin' 'baout the money. Thet's my say. Naow?" The bloodletting had certainly cleared Harvey's brain, and maybe the loneliness of the sea had something to do with it. "That's all right," he said. Then he looked down confusedly. "'Seems to me that for a fellow just saved from drowning I haven't been over and above grateful, Dan." "Well, you was shook up and silly," said Dan. "Anyway, there was only dad an' me aboard to see it. The cook he don't count." "I might have thought about losing the bills that way," Harvey said, half to himself, "instead of calling everybody in sight a thief. Where's your father?" "In the cabin. What d' you want o' him again?" "You'll see," said Harvey, and he stepped, rather groggily, for his head was still singing, to the cabin steps where the little ship's clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. Troop, in the chocolate-and-yellow painted cabin, was busy with a note-book and an enormous black pencil which he sucked hard from time to time. "I haven't acted quite right," said Harvey, surprised at his own meekness. "What's wrong naow?" said the skipper. "Walked into Dan, hev ye?" "No; it's about you." "I'm here to listen." "Well, I--I'm here to take things back," said Harvey very quickly. "When a man's saved from drowning--" he gulped. "Ey? You'll make a man yet ef you go on this way." "He oughtn't begin by calling people names." "Jest an' right--right an' jest," said Troop, with the ghost of a dry smile. "So I'm here to say I'm sorry." Another big gulp. Troop heaved himself slowly off the locker he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch hand. "I mistrusted 'twould do you sights o' good; an' this shows I weren't mistook in my jedgments." A smothered chuckle on deck caught his ear. "I am very seldom mistook in my jedgments." The eleven-inch hand closed on Harvey's, numbing it to the elbow. "We'll put a little more gristle to that 'fore we've done with you, young feller; an' I don't think any worse of ye fer anythin' the's gone by. You wasn't fairly responsible. Go right abaout your business an' you won't take no hurt." "You're white," said Dan, as Harvey regained the deck, flushed to the tips of his ears. "I don't feel it," said he. "I didn't mean that way. I heard what Dad said. When Dad allows he don't think the worse of any man, Dad's give himself away. He hates to be mistook in his jedgments too. Ho! ho! Onct Dad has a jedgment, he'd sooner dip his colours to the British than change it. I'm glad it's settled right eend up. Dad's right when he says he can't take you back. It's all the livin' we make here--fishin'. The men'll be back like sharks after a dead whale in ha'af an hour." "What for?" said Harvey. "Supper, o' course. Don't your stummick tell you? You've a heap to learn." "Guess I have," said Harvey, dolefully, looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks overhead. "She's a daisy," said Dan, enthusiastically, misunderstanding the look. "Wait till our mainsail's bent, an' she walks home with all her salt wet. There's some work first, though." He pointed down into the darkness of the open main-hatch between the two masts. "What's that for? It's all empty," said Harvey. "You an' me an' a few more hev got to fill it," said Dan. "That's where the fish goes." "Alive?" said Harvey. "Well, no. They're so's to be ruther dead--an' flat--an' salt. There's a hundred hogshead o' salt in the bins, an' we hain't more'n covered our dunnage to now." "Where are the fish, though?" "'In the sea they say, in the boats we pray,'" said Dan, quoting a fisherman's proverb. "You come in last night with 'baout forty of 'em." He pointed to a sort of wooden pen just in front of the quarter-deck. "You an' me we'll sluice that out when they're through. 'Send we'll hev full pens to-night! I've seen her down ha'af a foot with fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the tables till we was splittin' ourselves instid o' them, we was so sleepy. Yes, they're comm' in naow." Dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea. "I've never seen the sea from so low down," said Harvey. "It's fine." The low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green mackerel shades in the hollows. Each schooner in sight seemed to be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys. "They've struck on good," said Dan, between his half-shut eyes. "Manuel hain't room fer another fish. Low ez a lily-pad in still water, Aeneid he?" "Which is Manuel? I don't see how you can tell 'em 'way off, as you do." "Last boat to the south'ard. He fund you last night," said Dan, pointing. "Manuel rows Portugoosey; ye can't mistake him. East o' him--he's a heap better'n he rows--is Pennsylvania. Loaded with saleratus, by the looks of him. East o' him--see how pretty they string out all along--with the humpy shoulders, is Long Jack. He's a Galway man inhabitin' South Boston, where they all live mostly, an' mostly them Galway men are good in a boat. North, away yonder--you'll hear him tune up in a minute is Tom Platt. Man-o'-war's man he was on the old Ohio first of our navy, he says, to go araound the Horn. He never talks of much else, 'cept when he sings, but he has fair fishin' luck. There! What did I tell you?" A melodious bellow stole across the water from the northern dory. Harvey heard something about somebody's hands and feet being cold, and then: "Bring forth the chart, the doleful chart, See where them mountings meet! The clouds are thick around their heads, The mists around their feet." "Full boat," said Dan, with a chuckle. "If he give us 'O Captain' it's topping' too!" The bellow continued: "And naow to thee, O Capting, Most earnestly I pray, That they shall never bury me In church or cloister gray." "Double game for Tom Platt. He'll tell you all about the old Ohio tomorrow. 'See that blue dory behind him? He's my uncle,--Dad's own brother,--an' ef there's any bad luck loose on the Banks she'll fetch up agin Uncle Salters, sure. Look how tender he's rowin'. I'll lay my wage and share he's the only man stung up to-day--an' he's stung up good." "What'll sting him?" said Harvey, getting interested. "Strawberries, mostly. Pumpkins, sometimes, an' sometimes lemons an' cucumbers. Yes, he's stung up from his elbows down. That man's luck's perfectly paralyzin'. Naow we'll take a-holt o' the tackles an' hist 'em in. Is it true what you told me jest now, that you never done a hand's turn o' work in all your born life? Must feel kinder awful, don't it?" "I'm going to try to work, anyway," Harvey replied stoutly. "Only it's all dead new." "Lay a-holt o' that tackle, then. Behind ye!" Harvey grabbed at a rope and long iron hook dangling from one of the stays of the mainmast, while Dan pulled down another that ran from something he called a "topping-lift," as Manuel drew alongside in his loaded dory. The Portuguese smiled a brilliant smile that Harvey learned to know well later, and with a short-handled fork began to throw fish into the pen on deck. "Two hundred and thirty-one," he shouted. "Give him the hook," said Dan, and Harvey ran it into Manuel's hands. He slipped it through a loop of rope at the dory's bow, caught Dan's tackle, hooked it to the stern-becket, and clambered into the schooner. "Pull!" shouted Dan, and Harvey pulled, astonished to find how easily the dory rose. "Hold on, she don't nest in the crosstrees!" Dan laughed; and Harvey held on, for the boat lay in the air above his head. "Lower away," Dan shouted, and as Harvey lowered, Dan swayed the light boat with one hand till it landed softly just behind the mainmast. "They don't weigh nothin' empty. Thet was right smart fer a passenger. There's more trick to it in a sea-way." "Ah ha!" said Manuel, holding out a brown hand. "You are some pretty well now? This time last night the fish they fish for you. Now you fish for fish. Eh, wha-at?" "I'm--I'm ever so grateful," Harvey stammered, and his unfortunate hand stole to his pocket once more, but he remembered that he had no money to offer. When he knew Manuel better the mere thought of the mistake he might have made would cover him with hot, uneasy blushes in his bunk. "There is no to be thankful for to me!" said Manuel. "How shall I leave you dreeft, dreeft all around the Banks? Now you are a fisherman eh, wha-at? Ouh! Auh!" He bent backward and forward stiffly from the hips to get the kinks out of himself. "I have not cleaned boat to-day. Too busy. They struck on queek. Danny, my son, clean for me." Harvey moved forward at once. Here was something he could do for the man who had saved his life. Dan threw him a swab, and he leaned over the dory, mopping up the slime clumsily, but with great good-will. "Hike out the foot-boards; they slide in them grooves," said Dan. "Swab 'em an' lay 'em down. Never let a foot-board jam. Ye may want her bad some day. Here's Long Jack." A stream of glittering fish flew into the pen from a dory alongside. "Manuel, you take the tackle. I'll fix the tables. Harvey, clear Manuel's boat. Long Jack's nestin' on the top of her." Harvey looked up from his swabbing at the bottom of another dory just above his head. "Jest like the Injian puzzle-boxes, ain't they?" said Dan, as the one boat dropped into the other. "Takes to ut like a duck to water," said Long Jack, a grizzly-chinned, long-lipped Galway man, bending to and fro exactly as Manuel had done. Disko in the cabin growled up the hatchway, and they could hear him suck his pencil. "Wan hunder an' forty-nine an' a half-bad luck to ye, Discobolus!" said Long Jack. "I'm murderin' meself to fill your pockuts. Slate ut for a bad catch. The Portugee has bate me." Whack came another dory alongside, and more fish shot into the pen. "Two hundred and three. Let's look at the passenger!" The speaker was even larger than the Galway man, and his face was made curious by a purple cut running slant-ways from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth. Not knowing what else to do, Harvey swabbed each dory as it came down, pulled out the foot-boards, and laid them in the bottom of the boat. "He's caught on good," said the scarred man, who was Tom Platt, watching him critically. "There are two ways o' doin' everything. One's fisher-fashion--any end first an' a slippery hitch over all--an' the other's--" "What we did on the old Ohio!" Dan interrupted, brushing into the knot of men with a long board on legs. "Get out o' here, Tom Platt, an' leave me fix the tables." He jammed one end of the board into two nicks in the bulwarks, kicked out the leg, and ducked just in time to avoid a swinging blow from the man-o'-war's man. "An' they did that on the Ohio, too, Danny. See?" said Tom Platt, laughing. "Guess they was swivel-eyed, then, fer it didn't git home, and I know who'll find his boots on the main-truck ef he don't leave us alone. Haul ahead! I'm busy, can't ye see?" "Danny, ye lie on the cable an' sleep all day," said Long Jack. "You're the hoight av impidence, an' I'm persuaded ye'll corrupt our supercargo in a week." "His name's Harvey," said Dan, waving two strangely shaped knives, "an' he'll be worth five of any Sou' Boston clam-digger 'fore long." He laid the knives tastefully on the table, cocked his head on one side, and admired the effect. "I think it's forty-two," said a small voice overside, and there was a roar of laughter as another voice answered, "Then my luck's turned fer onct, 'caze I'm forty-five, though I be stung outer all shape." "Forty-two or forty-five. I've lost count," the small voice said. "It's Penn an' Uncle Salters caountin' catch. This beats the circus any day," said Dan. "Jest look at 'em!" "Come in--come in!" roared Long Jack. "It's wet out yondher, children." "Forty-two, ye said." This was Uncle Salters. "I'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. The two dories swung together and bunted into the schooner's side. "Patience o' Jerusalem!" snapped Uncle Salters, backing water with a splash. "What possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat beats me. You've nigh stove me all up." "I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. You advised me, I think." "You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubby little man. "You're comin' down on me agin. Did ye say forty-two or forty-five?" "I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count." "Don't see as it could be forty-five. I'm forty-five," said Uncle Salters. "You count keerful, Penn." Disko Troop came out of the cabin. "Salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority. "Don't spile the catch, Dad," Dan murmured. "Them two are on'y jest beginnin'." "Mother av delight! He's forkin' them wan by wan," howled Long Jack, as Uncle Salters got to work laboriously; the little man in the other dory counting a line of notches on the gunwale. "That was last week's catch," he said, looking up plaintively, his forefinger where he had left off. Manuel nudged Dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as Manuel made her fast forward. The others pulled gallantly and swung the boat in--man, fish, and all. "One, two, four-nine," said Tom Platt, counting with a practised eye. "Forty-seven. Penn, you're it!" Dan let the after-tackle run, and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own fish. "Hold on!" roared Uncle Salters, bobbing by the waist. "Hold on, I'm a bit mixed in my caount." He had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like "Pennsylvania." "Forty-one," said Tom Platt. "Beat by a farmer, Salters. An' you sech a sailor, too!" "'Tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an' I'm stung up all to pieces." His thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white. "Some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said Dan, addressing the newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me." "An' others," said Uncle Salters, "eats the fat o' the land in sloth, an' mocks their own blood-kin." "Seat ye! Seat ye!" a voice Harvey had not heard called from the foc'sle. Disko Troop, Tom Platt, Long Jack, and Salters went forward on the word. Little Penn bent above his square deep-sea reel and the tangled cod-lines; Manuel lay down full length on the deck, and Dan dropped into the hold, where Harvey heard him banging casks with a hammer. "Salt," he said, returning. "Soon as we're through supper we git to dressing-down. You'll pitch to Dad. Tom Platt an' Dad they stow together, an' you'll hear 'em arguin'. We're second ha'af, you an' me an' Manuel an' Penn--the youth an' beauty o' the boat." "What's the good of that?" said Harvey. "I'm hungry." "They'll be through in a minute. Suff! She smells good to-night. Dad ships a good cook ef he do suffer with his brother. It's a full catch today, Aeneid it?" He pointed at the pens piled high with cod. "What water did ye hev, Manuel?" "Twenty-fife father," said the Portuguese, sleepily. "They strike on good an' queek. Some day I show you, Harvey." The moon was beginning to walk on the still sea before the elder men came aft. The cook had no need to cry "second half." Dan and Manuel were down the hatch and at table ere Tom Platt, last and most deliberate of the elders, had finished wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Harvey followed Penn, and sat down before a tin pan of cod's tongues and sounds, mixed with scraps of pork and fried potato, a loaf of hot bread, and some black and powerful coffee. Hungry as they were, they waited while "Pennsylvania" solemnly asked a blessing. Then they stoked in silence till Dan drew a breath over his tin cup and demanded of Harvey how he felt. "'Most full, but there's just room for another piece." The cook was a huge, jet-black negro, and, unlike all the negroes Harvey had met, did not talk, contenting himself with smiles and dumb-show invitations to eat more. "See, Harvey," said Dan, rapping with his fork on the table, "it's jest as I said. The young an' handsome men--like me an' Pennsy an' you an' Manuel--we're second ha'af, an' we eats when the first ha'af are through. They're the old fish; an' they're mean an' humpy, an' their stummicks has to be humoured; so they come first, which they don't deserve. Aeneid that so, doctor?" The cook nodded. "Can't he talk?" said Harvey in a whisper. "'Nough to get along. Not much o' anything we know. His natural tongue's kinder curious. Comes from the innards of Cape Breton, he does, where the farmers speak homemade Scotch. Cape Breton's full o' niggers whose folk run in there durin' aour war, an' they talk like farmers--all huffy-chuffy." "That is not Scotch," said "Pennsylvania." "That is Gaelic. So I read in a book." "Penn reads a heap. Most of what he says is so--'cep' when it comes to a caount o' fish--eh?" "Does your father just let them say how many they've caught without checking them?" said Harvey. "Why, yes. Where's the sense of a man lyin' fer a few old cod?" "Was a man once lied for his catch," Manuel put in. "Lied every day. Fife, ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say there was." "Where was that?" said Dan. "None o' aour folk." "Frenchman of Anguille." "Ah! Them West Shore Frenchmen don't caount anyway. Stands to reason they can't caount. Ef you run acrost any of their soft hooks, Harvey, you'll know why," said Dan, with an awful contempt. "Always more and never less, Every time we come to dress," Long Jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled up at once. The shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver. In the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where Disko Troop and Tom Platt moved among the salt-bins. Dan passed Harvey a pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table, where Uncle Salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft. A tub of salt water lay at his feet. "You pitch to dad an' Tom Platt down the hatch, an' take keer Uncle Salters don't cut yer eye out," said Dan, swinging himself into the hold. "I'll pass salt below." Penn and Manuel stood knee deep among cod in the pen, flourishing drawn knives. Long Jack, a basket at his feet and mittens on his hands, faced Uncle Salters at the table, and Harvey stared at the pitchfork and the tub. "Hi!" shouted Manuel, stooping to the fish, and bringing one up with a finger under its gill and a finger in its eyes. He laid it on the edge of the pen; the knife-blade glimmered with a sound of tearing, and the fish, slit from throat to vent, with a nick on either side of the neck, dropped at Long Jack's feet. "Hi!" said Long Jack, with a scoop of his mittened hand. The cod's liver dropped in the basket. Another wrench and scoop sent the head and offal flying, and the empty fish slid across to Uncle Salters, who snorted fiercely. There was another sound of tearing, the backbone flew over the bulwarks, and the fish, headless, gutted, and open, splashed in the tub, sending the salt water into Harvey's astonished mouth. After the first yell, the men were silent. The cod moved along as though they were alive, and long ere Harvey had ceased wondering at the miraculous dexterity of it all, his tub was full. "Pitch!" grunted Uncle Salters, without turning his head, and Harvey pitched the fish by twos and threes down the hatch. "Hi! Pitch 'em bunchy," shouted Dan. "Don't scatter! Uncle Salters is the best splitter in the fleet. Watch him mind his book!" Indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting magazine pages against time. Manuel's body, cramped over from the hips, stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish without ceasing. Little Penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to see he was weak. Once or twice Manuel found time to help him without breaking the chain of supplies, and once Manuel howled because he had caught his finger in a Frenchman's hook. These hooks are made of soft metal, to be rebent after use; but the cod very often get away with them and are hooked again elsewhere; and that is one of the many reasons why the Gloucester boats despise the Frenchmen. Down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the whirring of a grindstone--steady undertune to the "click-nick" of knives in the pen; the wrench and shloop of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of Uncle Salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, open bodies falling into the tub. At the end of an hour Harvey would have given the world to rest; for fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back ached with the steady pitching. But he felt for the first time in his life that he was one of the working gang of men, took pride in the thought, and held on sullenly. "Knife oh!" shouted Uncle Salters at last. Penn doubled up, gasping among the fish, Manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and Long Jack leaned over the bulwarks. The cook appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated. "Blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said Long Jack, smacking his lips. "Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon. "Look by your foot, Harve," cried Dan below. Harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch combing. He dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones. "Water!" said Disko Troop. "Scuttle-butt's for'ard an' the dipper's alongside. Hurry, Harve," said Dan. He was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and Tom Platt. "These are cod," said Disko. "They ain't Damarskus figs, Tom Platt, nor yet silver bars. I've told you that ever single time since we've sailed together." "A matter o' seven seasons," returned Tom Platt coolly. "Good stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a wrong way o' stowin' ballast even. If you'd ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into the--" "Hi!" With a yell from Manuel the work began again, and never stopped till the pen was empty. The instant the last fish was down, Disko Troop rolled aft to the cabin with his brother; Manuel and Long Jack went forward; Tom Platt only waited long enough to slide home the hatch ere he too disappeared. In half a minute Harvey heard deep snores in the cabin, and he was staring blankly at Dan and Penn. "I did a little better that time, Danny," said Penn, whose eyelids were heavy with sleep. "But I think it is my duty to help clean." "'Wouldn't hev your conscience fer a thousand quintal," said Dan. "Turn in, Penn. You've no call to do boy's work. Draw a bucket, Harvey. Oh, Penn, dump these in the gurry-butt 'fore you sleep. Kin you keep awake that long?" Penn took up the heavy basket of fish-livers, emptied them into a cask with a hinged top lashed by the foc'sle; then he too dropped out of sight in the cabin. "Boys clean up after dressin' down an' first watch in ca'am weather is boy's watch on the _We're Here_." Dan sluiced the pen energetically, unshipped the table, set it up to dry in the moonlight, ran the red knife-blades through a wad of oakum, and began to sharpen them on a tiny grindstone, as Harvey threw offal and backbones overboard under his direction. At the first splash a silvery-white ghost rose bolt upright from the oily water and sighed a weird whistling sigh. Harvey started back with a shout, but Dan only laughed. "Grampus," said he. "Beggin' fer fish-heads. They up-eend the way when they're hungry. Breath on him like the doleful tombs, hain't he?" A horrible stench of decayed fish filled the air as the pillar of white sank, and the water bubbled oilily. "Hain't ye never seen a grampus up-eend before? You'll see 'em by hundreds 'fore ye're through. Say, it's good to hev a boy aboard again. Otto was too old, an' a Dutchy at that. Him an' me we fought consid'ble. 'Wouldn't ha' keered fer that ef he'd hed a Christian tongue in his head. Sleepy?" "Dead sleepy," said Harvey, nodding forward. "Mustn't sleep on watch. Rouse up an' see ef our anchor-light's bright an' shinin'. You're on watch now, Harve." "Pshaw! What's to hurt us? Bright's day. Sn-orrr!" "Jest when things happen, Dad says. Fine weather's good sleepin', an' 'fore you know, mebbe, you're cut in two by a liner, an' seventeen brass-bound officers, all gen'elmen, lift their hand to it that your lights was aout an' there was a thick fog. Harve, I've kinder took to you, but ef you nod onct more I'll lay into you with a rope's end." The moon, who sees many strange things on the Banks, looked down on a slim youth in knickerbockers and a red jersey, staggering around the cluttered decks of a seventy-ton schooner, while behind him, waving a knotted rope, walked, after the manner of an executioner, a boy who yawned and nodded between the blows he dealt. The lashed wheel groaned and kicked softly, the riding-sail slatted a little in the shifts of the light wind, the windlass creaked, and the miserable procession continued. Harvey expostulated, threatened, whimpered, and at last wept outright, while Dan, the words clotting on his tongue, spoke of the beauty of watchfulness and slashed away with the rope's end, punishing the dories as often as he hit Harvey. At last the clock in the cabin struck ten, and upon the tenth stroke little Penn crept on deck. He found two boys in two tumbled heaps side by side on the main hatch, so deeply asleep that he actually rolled them to their berths. CHAPTER III It was the forty-fathom slumber that clears the soul and eye and heart, and sends you to breakfast ravening. They emptied a big tin dish of juicy fragments of fish--the blood-ends the cook had collected overnight. They cleaned up the plates and pans of the elder mess, who were out fishing, sliced pork for the midday meal, swabbed down the foc'sle, filled the lamps, drew coal and water for the cook, and investigated the fore-hold, where the boat's stores were stacked. It was another perfect day--soft, mild, and clear; and Harvey breathed to the very bottom of his lungs. More schooners had crept up in the night, and the long blue seas were full of sails and dories. Far away on the horizon, the smoke of some liner, her hull invisible, smudged the blue, and to eastward a big ship's top-gallant sails, just lifting, made a square nick in it. Disko Troop was smoking by the roof of the cabin--one eye on the craft around, and the other on the little fly at the main-mast-head. "When Dad kerflummoxes that way," said Dan in a whisper, "he's doin' some high-line thinkin' fer all hands. I'll lay my wage an' share we'll make berth soon. Dad he knows the cod, an' the Fleet they know Dad knows. 'See 'em comm' up one by one, lookin' fer nothin' in particular, o' course, but scrowgin' on us all the time? There's the _Prince Leboo_; she's a Chat-ham boat. She's crep' up sence last night. An' see that big one with a patch in her foresail an' a new jib? She's the _Carrie Pitman_ from West Chat-ham. She won't keep her canvas long onless her luck's changed since last season. She don't do much 'cep' drift. There ain't an anchor made 'll hold her. . . . When the smoke puffs up in little rings like that, Dad's studyin' the fish. Ef we speak to him now, he'll git mad. Las' time I did, he jest took an' hove a boot at me." Disko Troop stared forward, the pipe between his teeth, with eyes that saw nothing. As his son said, he was studying the fish--pitting his knowledge and experience on the Banks against the roving cod in his own sea. He accepted the presence of the inquisitive schooners on the horizon as a compliment to his powers. But now that it was paid, he wished to draw away and make his berth alone, till it was time to go up to the Virgin and fish in the streets of that roaring town upon the waters. So Disko Troop thought of recent weather, and gales, currents, food-supplies, and other domestic arrangements, from the point of view of a twenty-pound cod; was, in fact, for an hour a cod himself, and looked remarkably like one. Then he removed the pipe from his teeth. "Dad," said Dan, "we've done our chores. Can't we go overside a piece? It's good catchin' weather." "Not in that cherry-coloured rig ner them ha'af baked brown shoes. Give him suthin' fit to wear." "Dad's pleased--that settles it," said Dan, delightedly, dragging Harvey into the cabin, while Troop pitched a key down the steps. "Dad keeps my spare rig where he kin overhaul it, 'cause Ma sez I'm keerless." He rummaged through a locker, and in less than three minutes Harvey was adorned with fisherman's rubber boots that came half up his thigh, a heavy blue jersey well darned at the elbows, a pair of nippers, and a sou'wester. "Naow ye look somethin' like," said Dan. "Hurry!" "Keep nigh an' handy," said Troop "an' don't go visitin' raound the Fleet. If any one asks you what I'm cal'latin' to do, speak the truth--fer ye don't know." A little red dory, labelled Hattie S., lay astern of the schooner. Dan hauled in the painter, and dropped lightly on to the bottom boards, while Harvey tumbled clumsily after. "That's no way o' gettin' into a boat," said Dan. "Ef there was any sea you'd go to the bottom, sure. You got to learn to meet her." Dan fitted the thole-pins, took the forward thwart and watched Harvey's work. The boy had rowed, in a lady-like fashion, on the Adirondack ponds; but there is a difference between squeaking pins and well-balanced ruflocks--light sculls and stubby, eight-foot sea-oars. They stuck in the gentle swell, and Harvey grunted. "Short! Row short!" said Dan. "Ef you cramp your oar in any kind o' sea you're liable to turn her over. Ain't she a daisy? Mine, too." The little dory was specklessly clean. In her bows lay a tiny anchor, two jugs of water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, brown dory-roding. A tin dinner-horn rested in cleats just under Harvey's right hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short gaff, and a shorter wooden stick. A couple of lines, with very heavy leads and double cod-hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels, were stuck in their place by the gunwale. "Where's the sail and mast?" said Harvey, for his hands were beginning to blister. Dan chuckled. "Ye don't sail fishin'-dories much. Ye pull; but ye needn't pull so hard. Don't you wish you owned her?" "Well, I guess my father might give me one or two if I asked 'em," Harvey replied. He had been too busy to think much of his family till then. "That's so. I forgot your dad's a millionaire. You don't act millionary any, naow. But a dory an' craft an' gear"--Dan spoke as though she were a whaleboat--"costs a heap. Think your dad 'u'd give you one fer--fer a pet like?" "Shouldn't wonder. It would be 'most the only thing I haven't stuck him for yet." "Must be an expensive kinder kid to home. Don't slitheroo thet way, Harve. Short's the trick, because no sea's ever dead still, an' the swells 'll--" Crack! The loom of the oar kicked Harvey under the chin and knocked him backwards. "That was what I was goin' to say. I hed to learn too, but I wasn't more than eight years old when I got my schoolin'." Harvey regained his seat with aching jaws and a frown. "No good gettin' mad at things, Dad says. It's our own fault ef we can't handle 'em, he says. Le's try here. Manuel 'll give us the water." The "Portugee" was rocking fully a mile away, but when Dan up-ended an oar he waved his left arm three times. "Thirty fathom," said Dan, stringing a salt clam on to the hook. "Over with the doughboys. Bait same's I do, Harvey, an' don't snarl your reel." Dan's line was out long before Harvey had mastered the mystery of baiting and heaving out the leads. The dory drifted along easily. It was not worth while to anchor till they were sure of good ground. "Here we come!" Dan shouted, and a shower of spray rattled on Harvey's shoulders as a big cod flapped and kicked alongside. "Muckle, Harvey, muckle! Under your hand! Quick!" Evidently "muckle" could not be the dinner-horn, so Harvey passed over the maul, and Dan scientifically stunned the fish before he pulled it inboard, and wrenched out the hook with the short wooden stick he called a "gob-stick." Then Harvey felt a tug, and pulled up zealously. "Why, these are strawberries!" he shouted. "Look!" The hook had fouled among a bunch of strawberries, red on one side and white on the other--perfect reproductions of the land fruit, except that there were no leaves, and the stem was all pipy and slimy. "Don't tech 'em. Slat 'em off. Don't--" The warning came too late. Harvey had picked them from the hook, and was admiring them. "Ouch!" he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had grasped many nettles. "Now ye know what strawberry-bottom means. Nothin' 'cep' fish should be teched with the naked fingers, Dad says. Slat 'em off agin the gunnel, an' bait up, Harve. Lookin' won't help any. It's all in the wages." Harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. She suffered agonies whenever he went out on Saranac Lake; and, by the way, Harvey remembered distinctly that he used to laugh at her anxieties. Suddenly the line flashed through his hand, stinging even through the "nippers," the woolen circlets supposed to protect it. "He's a logy. Give him room accordin' to his strength," cried Dan. "I'll help ye." "No, you won't," Harvey snapped, as he hung on to the line. "It's my first fish. Is--is it a whale?" "Halibut, mebbe." Dan peered down into the water alongside, and flourished the big "muckle," ready for all chances. Something white and oval flickered and fluttered through the green. "I'll lay my wage an' share he's over a hundred. Are you so everlastin' anxious to land him alone?" Harvey's knuckles were raw and bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face was purple-blue between excitement and exertion; he dripped with sweat, and was half-blinded from staring at the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly moving line. The boys were tired long ere the halibut, who took charge of them and the dory for the next twenty minutes. But the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at last. "Beginner's luck," said Dan, wiping his forehead. "He's all of a hundred." Harvey looked at the huge gray-and-mottled creature with unspeakable pride. He had seen halibut many times on marble slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to him to ask how they came inland. Now he knew; and every inch of his body ached with fatigue. "Ef Dad was along," said Dan, hauling up, "he'd read the signs plain's print. The fish are runnin' smaller an' smaller, an' you've took 'baout as logy a halibut's we're apt to find this trip. Yesterday's catch--did ye notice it?--was all big fish an' no halibut. Dad he'd read them signs right off. Dad says everythin' on the Banks is signs, an' can be read wrong er right. Dad's deeper'n the Whale-hole." Even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the _We're Here_, and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging. "What did I say, naow? That's the call fer the whole crowd. Dad's onter something, er he'd never break fishin' this time o' day. Reel up, Harve, an' we'll pull back." They were to windward of the schooner, just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, when sounds of woe half a mile off led them to Penn, who was careering around a fixed point for all the world like a gigantic water-bug. The little man backed away and came down again with enormous energy, but at the end of each maneuver his dory swung round and snubbed herself on her rope. "We'll hev to help him, else he'll root an' seed here," said Dan. "What's the matter?" said Harvey. This was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. And the sea was horribly big and unexcited. "Anchor's fouled. Penn's always losing 'em. Lost two this trip a'ready--on sandy bottom too--an' Dad says next one he loses, sure's fishin', he'll give him the kelleg. That 'u'd break Penn's heart." "What's a 'kelleg'?" said Harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the storybooks. "Big stone instid of an anchor. You kin see a kelleg ridin' in the bows fur's you can see a dory, an' all the fleet knows what it means. They'd guy him dreadful. Penn couldn't stand that no more'n a dog with a dipper to his tail. He's so everlastin' sensitive. Hello, Penn! Stuck again? Don't try any more o' your patents. Come up on her, and keep your rodin' straight up an' down." "It doesn't move," said the little man, panting. "It doesn't move at all, and instead I tried everything." "What's all this hurrah's-nest for'ard?" said Dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience. "Oh, that," said Penn proudly, "is a Spanish windlass. Mr. Salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn't move her." Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once. "Haul up, Penn," he said laughing, "er she'll git stuck again." They left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely. "Oh, say, while I think of it, Harve," said Dan when they were out of ear-shot, "Penn ain't quite all caulked. He ain't nowise dangerous, but his mind's give out. See?" "Is that so, or is it one of your father's judgments?" Harvey asked as he bent to his oars. He felt he was learning to handle them more easily. "Dad ain't mistook this time. Penn's a sure 'nuff loony." "No, he ain't thet exactly, so much ez a harmless ijut. It was this way (you're rowin' quite so, Harve), an' I tell you 'cause it's right you orter know. He was a Moravian preacher once. Jacob Boiler wuz his name, Dad told me, an' he lived with his wife an' four children somewheres out Pennsylvania way. Well, Penn he took his folks along to a Moravian meetin'--camp-meetin' most like--an' they stayed over jest one night in Johns-town. You've heered talk o' Johnstown?" Harvey considered. "Yes, I have. But I don't know why. It sticks in my head same as Ashtabula." "Both was big accidents--thet's why, Harve. Well, that one single night Penn and his folks was to the hotel Johnstown was wiped out. 'Dam bust an' flooded her, an' the houses struck adrift an' bumped into each other an' sunk. I've seen the pictures, an' they're dretful. Penn he saw his folk drowned all'n a heap 'fore he rightly knew what was comin'. His mind give out from that on. He mistrusted somethin' hed happened up to Johnstown, but for the poor life of him he couldn't remember what, an' he jest drifted araound smilin' an' wonderin'. He didn't know what he was, nor yit what he hed bin, an' thet way he run agin Uncle Salters, who was visitin' 'n Allegheny City. Ha'af my mother's folks they live scattered inside o' Pennsylvania, an' Uncle Salters he visits araound winters. Uncle Salters he kinder adopted Penn, well knowin' what his trouble wuz; an' he brought him East, an' he give him work on his farm." "Why, I heard him calling Penn a farmer last night when the boats bumped. Is your Uncle Salters a farmer?" "Farmer!" shouted Dan. "There ain't water enough 'tween here an' Hatt'rus to wash the furrer-mold off'n his boots. He's jest everlastin' farmer. Why, Harve, I've seen thet man hitch up a bucket, long towards sundown, an' set twiddlin' the spigot to the scuttle-butt same's ef 'twas a cow's bag. He's thet much farmer. Well, Penn an' he they ran the farm--up Exeter way 'twur. Uncle Salters he sold it this spring to a jay from Boston as wanted to build a summer-haouse, an' he got a heap for it. Well, them two loonies scratched along till, one day, Penn's church--he'd belonged to the Moravians--found out where he wuz drifted an' layin', an' wrote to Uncle Salters. 'Never heerd what they said exactly; but Uncle Salters was mad. He's a 'piscopolian mostly--but he jest let 'em hev it both sides o' the bow, 's if he was a Baptist; an' sez he warn't goin' to give up Penn to any blame Moravian connection in Pennsylvania or anywheres else. Then he come to Dad, towin' Penn,--thet was two trips back,--an' sez he an' Penn must fish a trip fer their health. 'Guess he thought the Moravians wouldn't hunt the Banks fer Jacob Boiler. Dad was agreeable, fer Uncle Salters he'd been fishin' off an' on fer thirty years, when he warn't inventin' patent manures, an' he took quarter-share in the _We're Here_; an' the trip done Penn so much good, Dad made a habit o' takin' him. Some day, Dad sez, he'll remember his wife an' kids an' Johnstown, an' then, like as not, he'll die, Dad sez. Don't ye talk abaout Johnstown ner such things to Penn, 'r Uncle Salters he'll heave ye overboard." "Poor Penn!" murmured Harvey. "I shouldn't ever have thought Uncle Salters cared for him by the look of 'em together." "I like Penn, though; we all do," said Dan. "We ought to ha' give him a tow, but I wanted to tell ye first." They were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little behind them. "You needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said Troop from the deck. "We'll dress daown right off. Fix table, boys!" "Deeper'n the Whale-deep," said Dan, with a wink, as he set the gear for dressing down. "Look at them boats that hev edged up sence mornin'. They're all waitin' on Dad. See 'em, Harve?" "They are all alike to me." And indeed to a landsman, the nodding schooners around seemed run from the same mold. "They ain't, though. That yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit steeved that way, she's the Hope of Prague. Nick Brady's her skipper, the meanest man on the Banks. We'll tell him so when we strike the Main Ledge. 'Way off yonder's the Day's Eye. The two Jeraulds own her. She's from Harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good luck; but Dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. Them other three, side along, they're the Margie Smith, Rose, and Edith S. Walen, all from home. 'Guess we'll see the Abbie M. Deering to-morrer, Dad, won't we? They're all slippin' over from the shaol o' 'Oueereau." "You won't see many boats to-morrow, Danny." When Troop called his son Danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "Boys, we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they clambered inboard. "We'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small." He looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how little and level the fish ran. Save for Harvey's halibut, there was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck. "I'm waitin' on the weather," he added. "Ye'll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there's no sign I can see," said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon. And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing down, the Bank fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. It drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the colourless water. The men stopped dressing-down without a word. Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the windlass brakes into their sockets, and began to heave up the anchor; the windlass jarring as the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. Manuel and Tom Platt gave a hand at the last. The anchor came up with a sob, and the riding-sail bellied as Troop steadied her at the wheel. "Up jib and foresail," said he. "Slip 'em in the smother," shouted Long Jack, making fast the jib-sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the foresail; and the foreboom creaked as the _We're Here_ looked up into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white. "There's wind behind this fog," said Troop. It was wonderful beyond words to Harvey; and the most wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional grunt from Troop, ending with, "That's good, my son!" "Never seen anchor weighed before?" said Tom Platt, to Harvey gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail. "No. Where are we going?" "Fish and make berth, as you'll find out 'fore you've been a week aboard. It's all new to you, but we never know what may come to us. Now, take me--Tom Platt--I'd never ha' thought--" "It's better than fourteen dollars a month an' a bullet in your belly," said Troop, from the wheel. "Ease your jumbo a grind." "Dollars an' cents better," returned the man-o'-war's man, doing something to a big jib with a wooden spar tied to it. "But we didn't think o' that when we manned the windlass-brakes on the Miss Jim Buck, I outside Beau-fort Harbor, with Fort Macon heavin' hot shot at our stern, an' a livin' gale atop of all. Where was you then, Disko?" "Jest here, or hereabouts," Disko replied, "earnin' my bread on the deep waters, an' dodgin' Reb privateers. Sorry I can't accommodate you with red-hot shot, Tom Platt; but I guess we'll come aout all right on wind 'fore we see Eastern Point." There was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the foc'sle. The rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house--all save Uncle Salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands. "Guess she'd carry stays'l," said Disko, rolling one eye at his brother. "Guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit. What's the sense o' wastin' canvas?" the farmer-sailor replied. The wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in Disko's hands. A few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote Uncle Salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot. He rose sputtering, and went forward only to catch another. "See Dad chase him all around the deck," said Dan. "Uncle Salters he thinks his quarter share's our canvas. Dad's put this duckin' act up on him two trips runnin'. Hi! That found him where he feeds." Uncle Salters had taken refuge by the foremast, but a wave slapped him over the knees. Disko's face was as blank as the circle of the wheel. "Guess she'd lie easier under stays'l, Salters," said Disko, as though he had seen nothing. "Set your old kite, then," roared the victim through a cloud of spray; "only don't lay it to me if anything happens. Penn, you go below right off an' git your coffee. You ought to hev more sense than to bum araound on deck this weather." "Now they'll swill coffee an' play checkers till the cows come home," said Dan, as Uncle Salters hustled Penn into the fore-cabin. "'Looks to me like's if we'd all be doin' so fer a spell. There's nothin' in creation deader-limpsey-idler'n a Banker when she ain't on fish." "I'm glad ye spoke, Danny," cried Long Jack, who had been casting round in search of amusement. "I'd clean forgot we'd a passenger under that T-wharf hat. There's no idleness for thim that don't know their ropes. Pass him along, Tom Platt, an' we'll larn him." "'Tain't my trick this time," grinned Dan. "You've got to go it alone. Dad learned me with a rope's end." For an hour Long Jack walked his prey up and down, teaching, as he said, "things at the sea that ivry man must know, blind, dhrunk, or asleep." There is not much gear to a seventy-ton schooner with a stump-foremast, but Long Jack had a gift of expression. When he wished to draw Harvey's attention to the peak-halyards, he dug his knuckles into the back of the boy's neck and kept him at gaze for half a minute. He emphasized the difference between fore and aft generally by rubbing Harvey's nose along a few feet of the boom, and the lead of each rope was fixed in Harvey's mind by the end of the rope itself. The lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place on it for everything and anything except a man. Forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the foc'sle stovepipe, and the gurry-butts by the foc'sle hatch to hold the fish-livers. Aft of these the foreboom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. Then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things length-wise, to duck and dodge under every time. Tom Platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old Ohio. "Niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, Innocince. Tom Platt, this bally-hoo's not the Ohio, an' you're mixing the bhoy bad." "He'll be ruined for life, beginnin' on a fore-an'-after this way," Tom Platt pleaded. "Give him a chance to know a few leadin' principles. Sailin's an art, Harvey, as I'd show you if I had ye in the fore-top o' the--" "I know ut. Ye'd talk him dead an' cowld. Silince, Tom Platt! Now, after all I've said, how'd you reef the foresail, Harve? Take your time answerin'." "Haul that in," said Harvey, pointing to leeward. "Fwhat? The North Atlantuc?" "No, the boom. Then run that rope you showed me back there--" "That's no way," Tom Platt burst in. "Quiet! He's larnin', an' has not the names good yet. Go on, Harve." "Oh, it's the reef-pennant. I'd hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down--" "Lower the sail, child! Lower!" said Tom Platt, in a professional agony. "Lower the throat and peak halyards," Harvey went on. Those names stuck in his head. "Lay your hand on thim," said Long Jack. Harvey obeyed. "Lower till that rope-loop--on the after-leach-kris--no, it's cringle--till the cringle was down on the boom. Then I'd tie her up the way you said, and then I'd hoist up the peak and throat halyards again." "You've forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye'll larn. There's good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else 'twould be overboard. D'ye follow me? 'Tis dollars an' cents I'm puttin' into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye've filled out ye can ship from Boston to Cuba an' tell thim Long Jack larned you. Now I'll chase ye around a piece, callin' the ropes, an' you'll lay your hand on thim as I call." He began, and Harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. A rope's end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him. "When you own a boat," said Tom Platt, with severe eyes, "you can walk. Till then, take all orders at the run. Once more--to make sure!" Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. Now he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. He looked at the other men, and saw that even Dan did not smile. It was evidently all in the day's work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. The same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, Penn, would stand the least nonsense. One learns a great deal from a mere tone. Long Jack called over half a dozen ropes, and Harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on Tom Platt. "Ver' good. Ver' good don," said Manuel. "After supper I show you a little schooner I make, with all her ropes. So we shall learn." "Fust-class fer--a passenger," said Dan. "Dad he's jest allowed you'll be wuth your salt maybe 'fore you're draownded. Thet's a heap fer Dad. I'll learn you more our next watch together." "Taller!" grunted Disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. There was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and lipping one to the other. "Now I'll learn you something Long Jack can't," shouted Tom Platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. "I'll learn you how to fly the Blue Pigeon. Shooo!" Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner's way, while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. The lead sung a deep droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round. "Go ahead, man," said Long Jack, impatiently. "We're not drawin' twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog. There's no trick to ut." "Don't be jealous, Galway." The released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward. "Soundin' is a trick, though," said Dan, "when your dipsey lead's all the eye you're like to hev for a week. What d'you make it, Dad?" Disko's face relaxed. His skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the Fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold. "Sixty, mebbe--ef I'm any judge," he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house. "Sixty," sung out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils. The schooner gathered way once more. "Heave!" said Disko, after a quarter of an hour. "What d'you make it?" Dan whispered, and he looked at Harvey proudly. But Harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then. "Fifty," said the father. "I mistrust we're right over the nick o' Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty." "Fifty!" roared Tom Platt. They could scarcely see him through the fog. "She's bust within a yard--like the shells at Fort Macon." "Bait up, Harve," said Dan, diving for a line on the reel. The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her headsail banging wildly. The men waited and looked at the boys who began fishing. "Heugh!" Dan's lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. "Now haow in thunder did Dad know? Help us here, Harve. It's a big un. Poke-hooked, too." They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. He had taken the bait right into his stomach. "Why, he's all covered with little crabs," cried Harvey, turning him over. "By the great hook-block, they're lousy already," said Long Jack. "Disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel." Splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks. "Are they good to eat?" Harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod. "Sure. When they're lousy it's a sign they've all been herdin' together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they're hungry. Never mind how the bait sets. They'll bite on the bare hook." "Say, this is great!" Harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing--nearly all poke-hooked, as Dan had said. "Why can't we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?" "Allus can, till we begin to dress daown. Efter thet, the heads and offals 'u'd scare the fish to Fundy. Boatfishin' ain't reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows. Guess we'll run aout aour trawl to-night. Harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain't it?" It was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner's freeboard make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach. But it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting. "Where's Penn and Uncle Salters?" Harvey asked, slapping the slime off his oilskins, and reeling up the line in careful imitation of the others. "Git 's coffee and see." Under the yellow glare of the lamp on the pawl-post, the foc'sle table down and opened, utterly unconscious of fish or weather, sat the two men, a checker-board between them, Uncle Salters snarling at Penn's every move. "What's the matter naow?" said the former, as Harvey, one hand in the leather loop at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to the cook. "Big fish and lousy--heaps and heaps," Harvey replied, quoting Long Jack. "How's the game?" Little Penn's jaw dropped. "'Tweren't none o' his fault," snapped Uncle Salters. "Penn's deef." "Checkers, weren't it?" said Dan, as Harvey staggered aft with the steaming coffee in a tin pail. "That lets us out o' cleanin' up to-night. Dad's a jest man. They'll have to do it." "An' two young fellers I know'll bait up a tub or so o' trawl, while they're cleanin'," said Disko, lashing the wheel to his taste. "Um! Guess I'd ruther clean up, Dad." "Don't doubt it. Ye wun't, though. Dress daown! Dress daown! Penn'll pitch while you two bait up." "Why in thunder didn't them blame boys tell us you'd struck on?" said Uncle Salters, shuffling to his place at the table. "This knife's gum-blunt, Dan." "Ef stickin' out cable don't wake ye, guess you'd better hire a boy o' your own," said Dan, muddling about in the dusk over the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to windward of the house. "Oh, Harve, don't ye want to slip down an' git 's bait?" "Bait ez we are," said Disko. "I mistrust shag-fishin' will pay better, ez things go." That meant the boys would bait with selected offal of the cod as the fish were cleaned--an improvement on paddling bare-handed in the little bait-barrels below. The tubs were full of neatly coiled line carrying a big hook each few feet; and the testing and baiting of every single hook, with the stowage of the baited line so that it should run clear when shot from the dory, was a scientific business. Dan managed it in the dark, without looking, while Harvey caught his fingers on the barbs and bewailed his fate. But the hooks flew through Dan's fingers like tatting on an old maid's lap. "I helped bait up trawl ashore 'fore I could well walk," he said. "But it's a putterin' job all the same. Oh, Dad!" This shouted towards the hatch, where Disko and Tom Platt were salting. "How many skates you reckon we'll need?" "'Baout three. Hurry!" "There's three hundred fathom to each tub," Dan explained; "more'n enough to lay out to-night. Ouch! 'Slipped up there, I did." He stuck his finger in his mouth. "I tell you, Harve, there ain't money in Gloucester 'u'd hire me to ship on a reg'lar trawler. It may be progressive, but, barrin' that, it's the putterin'est, slimjammest business top of earth." "I don't know what this is, if 'tisn't regular trawling," said Harvey sulkily. "My fingers are all cut to frazzles." "Pshaw! This is just one o' Dad's blame experiments. He don't trawl 'less there's mighty good reason fer it. Dad knows. Thet's why he's baitin' ez he is. We'll hev her saggin' full when we take her up er we won't see a fin." Penn and Uncle Salters cleaned up as Disko had ordained, but the boys profited little. No sooner were the tubs furnished than Tom Platt and Long Jack, who had been exploring the inside of a dory with a lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the tubs and some small, painted trawl-buoys, and hove the boat overboard into what Harvey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. "They'll be drowned. Why, the dory's loaded like a freight-car," he cried. "We'll be back," said Long Jack, "an' in case you'll not be lookin' for us, we'll lay into you both if the trawl's snarled." The dory surged up on the crest of a wave, and just when it seemed impossible that she could avoid smashing against the schooner's side, slid over the ridge, and was swallowed up in the damp dusk. "Take ahold here, an' keep ringin' steady," said Dan, passing Harvey the lanyard of a bell that hung just behind the windlass. Harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives depended on him. But Disko in the cabin, scrawling in the log-book, did not look like a murderer, and when he went to supper he even smiled dryly at the anxious Harvey. "This ain't no weather," said Dan. "Why, you an' me could set thet trawl! They've only gone out jest far 'nough so's not to foul our cable. They don't need no bell reelly." "Clang! clang! clang!" Harvey kept it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for another half-hour. There was a bellow and a bump alongside. Manuel and Dan raced to the hooks of the dory-tackle; Long Jack and Tom Platt arrived on deck together, it seemed, one half the North Atlantic at their backs, and the dory followed them in the air, landing with a clatter. "Nary snarl," said Tom Platt as he dripped. "Danny, you'll do yet." "The pleasure av your comp'ny to the banquit," said Long Jack, squelching the water from his boots as he capered like an elephant and stuck an oil-skinned arm into Harvey's face. "We do be condescending to honour the second half wid our presence." And off they all four rolled to supper, where Harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish-chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep just as Manuel produced from a locker a lovely two-foot model of the Lucy Holmes, his first boat, and was going to show Harvey the ropes. Harvey never even twiddled his fingers as Penn pushed him into his bunk. "It must be a sad thing--a very sad thing," said Penn, watching the boy's face, "for his mother and his father, who think he is dead. To lose a child--to lose a man-child!" "Git out o' this, Penn," said Dan. "Go aft and finish your game with Uncle Salters. Tell Dad I'll stand Harve's watch ef he don't keer. He's played aout." "Ver' good boy," said Manuel, slipping out of his boots and disappearing into the black shadows of the lower bunk. "Expec' he make good man, Danny. I no see he is any so mad as your parpa he says. Eh, wha-at?" Dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in a snore. It was thick weather outside, with a rising wind, and the elder men stretched their watches. The hour struck clear in the cabin; the nosing bows slapped and scuffed with the seas; the foc'sle stove-pipe hissed and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the boys slept on, while Disko, Long Jack, Tom Platt, and Uncle Salters, each in turn, stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward to see that the anchor held, or to veer out a little more cable against chafing, with a glance at the dim anchor-light between each round. CHAPTER IV Harvey waked to find the "first half" at breakfast, the foc'sle door drawn to a crack, and every square inch of the schooner singing its own tune. The black bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny galley over the glare of the stove, and the pots and pans in the pierced wooden board before it jarred and racketed to each plunge. Up and up the foc'sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. He could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buckshot. Followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; and a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the _We're Here_ gathered herself together to repeat the motions. "Now, ashore," he heard Long Jack saying, "ye've chores, an' ye must do thim in any weather. Here we're well clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores--an' that's a blessin'. Good night, all." He passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. Tom Platt followed his example; Uncle Salters, with Penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the "second half." It came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. It ate till it could eat no more; and then Manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. Dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the _We're Here_. The cook, his shoulders against the locker where he kept the fried pies (Dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description. Harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while Dan struck up, "I don't want to play in your yard," as accurately as the wild jerks allowed. "How long is this for?" Harvey asked of Manuel. "Till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps two days more. You do not like? Eh, wha-at?" "I should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now--much." "That is because we make you fisherman, these days. If I was you, when I come to Gloucester I would give two, three big candles for my good luck." "Give who?" "To be sure--the Virgin of our Church on the Hill. She is very good to fishermen all the time. That is why so few of us Portugee men ever are drowned." "You're a Roman Catholic, then?" "I am a Madeira man. I am not a Porto Pico boy. Shall I be Baptist, then? Eh, wha-at? I always give candles--two, three more when I come to Gloucester. The good Virgin she never forgets me, Manuel." "I don't sense it that way," Tom Platt put in from his bunk, his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. "It stands to reason the sea's the sea; and you'll get jest about what's goin', candles or kerosene, fer that matter." "'Tis a mighty good thing," said Long Jack, "to have a frind at coort, though. I'm o' Manuel's way o' thinkin'. About tin years back I was crew to a Sou' Boston market-boat. We was off Minot's Ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker'n burgoo. The ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin' on the tiller, an' I sez to myself, 'If iver I stick my boat-huk into T-wharf again, I'll show the saints fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out av.' Now, I'm here, as ye can well see, an' the model of the dhirty ould Kathleen, that took me a month to make, I gave ut to the priest, an' he hung ut up forninst the altar. There's more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any candle. Ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful." "D'you believe that, Irish?" said Tom Platt, turning on his elbow. "Would I do ut if I did not, Ohio?" "Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model o' the old Ohio, and she's to Calem museum now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I guess Enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way I take it is--" There were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one proves anything at the end, had not Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme: "Up jumped the mackerel with his stripe'd back. Reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack; _For_ it's windy weather--" Here Long Jack joined in: "_And_ it's blowy weather; _When_ the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!" Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Platt, holding the accordion low in the bunk: "Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead; _For_ it's windy weather," etc. Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but sang louder: "Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!" Tom Platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the foc'sle and caught Dan's uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead. "Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, returning the gift with precision. "Ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' Long Jack arguin' 'baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I'll learn Harve here the tune!" Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a machette. "'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. "A reg'lar Boston concert." There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended. "Ye're just in time, Disko. Fwhat's she doin' outside?" "Jest this!" He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the _We're Here_. "We're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. Ye'll lead, av course, Disko," said Long Jack. "Guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs I know, an' ye've heerd them both." His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little: "There is a crack packet--crack packet o' fame, She hails from Noo York, an' the _Dreadnought's_ her name. You may talk o' your fliers--Swallowtail and Black Ball-- But the _Dreadnought's_ the packet that can beat them all. "Now the _Dreadnought_ she lies in the River Mersey, Because of the tug-boat to take her to sea; But when she's off soundings you shortly will know (Chorus.) She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord, let her go! "Now the _Dreadnought_ she's howlin' crost the Banks o' Newfoundland, Where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand. Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro: (Chorus.) 'She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord, let her go!'", There were scores of verses, for he worked the _Dreadnought_ every mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Platt followed with something about "the rough and tough McGinn, who would pilot the vessel in." Then they called on Harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of "Skipper Ireson's Ride" that he had been taught at the camp-school in the Adirondacks. It seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when Disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, "Don't go on, young feller. That's a mistaken jedgment--one o' the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin' to the ear." "I orter ha' warned you," said Dan. "Thet allus fetches Dad." "What's wrong?" said Harvey, surprised and a little angry. "All you're goin' to say," said Disko. "All dead wrong from start to finish, an' Whittier he's to blame. I have no special call to right any Marblehead man, but 'tweren't no fault o' Ireson's. My father he told me the tale time an' again, an' this is the way 'twuz." "For the wan hundredth time," put in Long Jack under his breath "Ben Ireson he was skipper o' the Betty, young feller, comin' home frum the Banks--that was before the war of 1812, but jestice is jestice at all times. They fund the Active o' Portland, an' Gibbons o' that town he was her skipper; they fund her leakin' off Cape Cod Light. There was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin' the Betty home 's fast as they could craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there warn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn't hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the Active till the sea run daown a piece. They wouldn't hev that either, hangin' araound the Cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. They jest up stays'l an' quit, nat'rally takin' Ireson with 'em. Folks to Marblehead was mad at him not runnin' the risk, and becaze nex' day, when the sea was ca'am (they never stopped to think o' that), some of the Active's folks was took off by a Truro man. They come into Marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin' how Ireson had shamed his town, an' so forth an' so on, an' Ireson's men they was scared, seein' public feelin' agin' 'em, an' they went back on Ireson, an' swore he was respons'ble for the hull act. 'Tweren't the women neither that tarred and feathered him--Marblehead women don't act that way--'twas a passel o' men an' boys, an' they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, and Ireson he told 'em they'd be sorry for it some day. Well, the facts come aout later, same's they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an' Whittier he come along an' picked up the slack eend of a lyin' tale, an' tarred and feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more after he was dead. 'Twas the only tune Whittier ever slipped up, an' 'tweren't fair. I whaled Dan good when he brought that piece back from school. You don't know no better, o' course; but I've give you the facts, hereafter an' evermore to be remembered. Ben Ireson weren't no sech kind o' man as Whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an' after that business, an' you beware o' hasty jedgments, young feller. Next!" Harvey had never heard Disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast. Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machette to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about "Nina, innocente!" ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza: "Now Aprile is over and melted the snow, And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow; Yes, out o' Noo Bedford we shortly must clear, We're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear." Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then: "Wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin, Wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin' off to sea; Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin, When I come back a loaf o' bread you'll be!" That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail. "Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles," said Dan. "What in thunder is it?" "The song of Fin McCoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to Norway." His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph. "Faith, I've been to Norway, but I didn't make that unwholesim noise. 'Tis like some of the old songs, though," said Long Jack, sighing. "Don't let's hev another 'thout somethin' between," said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended: "It's six an' twenty Sundays sence las' we saw the land, With fifteen hunder quintal, An' fifteen hunder quintal, 'Teen hunder toppin' quintal, 'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand!" "Hold on!" roared Tom Platt. "D'ye want to nail the trip, Dan? That's Jonah sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet." "No, 'tain't, is it, Dad? Not unless you sing the very las' verse. You can't learn me anything on Jonahs!" "What's that?" said Harvey. "What's a Jonah?" "A Jonah's anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it's a man--sometimes it's a boy--or a bucket. I've known a splittin'-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her," said Tom Platt. "There's all sorts o' Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. I'd never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin'. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood. Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort o' Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, an' used to shine fiery O, nights in the nest." "And you believe that?" said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. "Haven't we all got to take what's served?" A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. "Outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen," said Disko. "Don't you go makin' a mock of Jonahs, young feller." "Well, Harve ain't no Jonah. Day after we catched him," Dan cut in, "we had a toppin' good catch." The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly--a queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger. "Murder!" said Long Jack. "Don't do that again, doctor. We ain't used to ut." "What's wrong?" said Dan. "Ain't he our mascot, and didn't they strike on good after we'd struck him?" "Oh! yess," said the cook. "I know that, but the catch iss not finish yet." "He ain't goin' to do us any harm," said Dan, hotly. "Where are ye hintin' an' edgin' to? He's all right." "No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny." "That all?" said Dan, placidly. "He wun't--not by a jugful." "Master!" said the cook, pointing to Harvey. "Man!" and he pointed to Dan. "That's news. Haow soon?" said Dan, with a laugh. "In some years, and I shall see it. Master and man--man and master." "How in thunder d'ye work that out?" said Tom Platt. "In my head, where I can see." "Haow?" This from all the others at once. "I do not know, but so it will be." He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him. "Well," said Dan, "a heap o' things'll hev to come abaout 'fore Harve's any master o' mine; but I'm glad the doctor ain't choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the Fleet regardin' his own special luck. Dunno ef it's spreadin' same's smallpox. He ought to be on the _Carrie Pitman_. That boat's her own Jonah, sure--crews an' gear made no differ to her driftin'. Jiminy Christmas! She'll etch loose in a flat ca'am." "We're well clear o' the Fleet, anyway," said Disko. "_Carrie Pitman_ an' all." There was a rapping on the deck. "Uncle Salters has catched his luck," said Dan as his father departed. "It's blown clear," Disko cried, and all the foc'sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The _We're Here_ slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst into a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harvey's eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. Four or five Mother Carey's chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down 'wind and back again, and melted away. "Seems to me I saw somethin' flicker jest naow over yonder," said Uncle Salters, pointing to the northeast. "Can't be any of the fleet," said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the foc'sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. "Sea's oilin' over dretful fast. Danny, don't you want to skip up a piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays?" Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling cross-trees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell. "She's all right," he hailed. "Sail O! Dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! Schooner she be, too." They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits. The snails were red-tanned. "Frenchmen!" shouted Dan. "No, 'tain't, neither. Da-ad!" "That's no French," said Disko. "Salters, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw in a keg-head." "I've eyes. It's Uncle Abishai." "You can't nowise tell fer sure." "The head-king of all Jonahs," groaned Tom Platt. "Oh, Salters, Salters, why wasn't you abed an' asleep?" "How could I tell?" said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up. She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarterdeck was some or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the wind--yawing frightfully--her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,--"scandalized," they call it,--and her foreboom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate's; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl. "That's Abishai," said Salters. "Full o' gin an' Judique men, an' the judgments o' Providence layin' fer him an' never takin' good holt He's run in to bait, Miquelon way." "He'll run her under," said Long Jack. "That's no rig fer this weather." "Not he, 'r he'd'a done it long ago," Disko replied. "Looks 's if he cal'lated to run us under. Ain't she daown by the head more 'n natural, Tom Platt?" "Ef it's his style o' loadin' her she ain't safe," said the sailor slowly. "Ef she's spewed her oakum he'd better git to his pumps mighty quick." The creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and raffle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot. A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Disko's face darkened. "He'd resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. Says we're in fer a shift o' wind. He's in fer worse. Abishai! Abi-shai!" He waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. The crew mocked him and laughed. "Jounce ye, an' strip ye an' trip ye!" yelled Uncle Abishai. "A livin' gale--a livin' gale. Yab! Cast up fer your last trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You won't see Gloucester no more, no more!" "Crazy full--as usual," said Tom Platt. "Wish he hadn't spied us, though." She drifted out of hearing while the gray-head yelled something about a dance at the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the foc'sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew. "An' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer her draught," said Long Jack. "I wondher what mischief he's been at ashore." "He's a trawler," Dan explained to Harvey, "an' he runs in fer bait all along the coast. Oh, no, not home, he don't go. He deals along the south an' east shore up yonder." He nodded in the direction of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. "Dad won't never take me ashore there. They're a mighty tough crowd--an' Abishai's the toughest. You saw his boat? Well, she's nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o' the old Marblehead heel-tappers. They don't make them quarterdecks any more. Abishai don't use Marblehead, though. He ain't wanted there. He jes' drif's araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' like you've heard. Bin a Jonah fer years an' years, he hez. 'Gits liquor frum the Feecamp boats fer makin' spells an' selling winds an' such truck. Crazy, I guess." "'Twon't be any use underrunnin' the trawl to-night," said Tom Platt, with quiet despair. "He come alongside special to cuss us. I'd give my wage an' share to see him at the gangway o' the old Ohio 'fore we quit floggin'. Jest abaout six dozen, an' Sam Mocatta layin' 'em on criss-cross!" The disheveled "heel-tapper" danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: "It wass his own death made him speak so! He iss fey--fey, I tell you! Look!" She sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. The patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. She dropped into a hollow and--was not. "Run under, by the Great Hook-Block!" shouted Disko, jumping aft. "Drunk or sober, we've got to help 'em. Heave short and break her out! Smart!" Harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. This is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little _We're Here_ complained like a human. They ran down to where Abishai's craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. "Let 'em go," said Disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. "I wouldn't hev a match that belonged to Abishai aboard. Guess she run clear under. Must ha' been spewin' her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought to pump her. That's one more boat gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk." "Glory be!" said Long Jack. "We'd ha' been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' water." "'Thinkin' o' that myself," said Tom Platt. "Fey! Fey!" said the cook, rolling his eyes. "He haas taken his own luck with him." "Ver' good thing, I think, to tell the Fleet when we see. Eh, wha-at?" said Manuel. "If you runna that way before the 'wind, and she work open her seams--" He threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while Penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. Harvey could not realize that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. Then Dan went up the cross-trees, and Disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again. "We go mighty quick hereabouts when we do go," was all he said to Harvey. "You think on that fer a spell, young feller. That was liquor." "After dinner it was calm enough to fish from the decks,--Penn and Uncle Salters were very zealous this time,--and the catch was large and large fish. "Abishai has shorely took his luck with him," said Salters. "The wind hain't backed ner riz ner nothin'. How abaout the trawl? I despise superstition, anyway." Tom Platt insisted that they had much better haul the thing and make a new berth. But the cook said: "The luck iss in two pieces. You will find it so when you look. I know." This so tickled Long Jack that he overbore Tom Platt and the two went out together. Underrunning a trawl means pulling it in on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back to the sea again--something like pinning and unpinning linen on a wash-line. It is a lengthy business and rather dangerous, for the long, sagging line may twitch a boat under in a flash. But when they heard, "And naow to thee, O Capting," booming out of the fog, the crew of the _We're Here_ took heart. The dory swirled alongside well loaded, Tom Platt yelling for Manuel to act as relief-boat. "The luck's cut square in two pieces," said Long Jack, forking in the fish, while Harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction. "One half was jest punkins. Tom Platt wanted to haul her an' ha' done wid ut; but I said, "I'll back the doctor that has the second sight, an' the other half come up sagging full o' big uns. Hurry, Man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. There's luck afloat to-night." The fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and Tom Platt and Long Jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat's nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading Manuel's dory till dusk. "I'll take no risks," said Disko then--"not with him floatin' around so near. Abishai won't sink fer a week. Heave in the dories an' we'll dress daown after supper." That was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses. It lasted till nine o'clock, and Disko was thrice heard to chuckle as Harvey pitched the split fish into the hold. "Say, you're haulin' ahead dretful fast," said Dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in. "There's somethin' of a sea to-night, an' I hain't heard you make no remarks on it." "Too busy," Harvey replied, testing a blade's edge. "Come to think of it, she is a high-kicker." The little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves. Backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun. Shaking her head, she would say: "Well, I'm sorry I can't stay any longer with you. I'm going North," and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging. "As I was just going to observe," she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post. The rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her. "See her sayin' her piece. She's Patrick Henry naow," said Dan. She swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard. "But-ez-fer me, give me liberty-er give me-death!" Wop! She sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box. Harvey laughed aloud. "Why, it's just as if she was alive," he said. "She's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry as a herrin'," said Dan enthusiastically, as he was slung across the deck in a batter of spray. "Fends 'em off an' fends 'em off, an' 'Don't ye come anigh me,' she sez. Look at her--jest look at her! Sakes! You should see one o' them toothpicks histin' up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water." "What's a toothpick, Dan?" "Them new haddockers an' herrin'-boats. Fine's a yacht forward, with yacht sterns to 'em, an' spike bowsprits, an' a haouse that 'u'd take our hold. I've heard that Burgess himself he made the models fer three or four of 'em. Dad's sot agin 'em on account o' their pitchin' an' joltin', but there's heaps o' money in 'em. Dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways progressive--he don't go with the march o' the times. They're chock-full o' labour-savin' jigs an' sech all. 'Ever seed the Elector o' Gloucester? She's a daisy, ef she is a toothpick." "What do they cost, Dan?" "Hills o' dollars. Fifteen thousand, p'haps; more, mebbe. There's gold-leaf an' everything you kin think of." Then to himself, half under his breath, "Guess I'd call her Hattie S., too." CHAPTER V That was the first of many talks with Dan, who told Harvey why he would transfer his dory's name to the imaginary Burgess-modelled haddocker. Harvey heard a good deal about the real Hattie at Gloucester; saw a lock of her hair--which Dan, finding fair words of no avail, had "hooked" as she sat in front of him at school that winter--and a photograph. Hattie was about fourteen years old, with an awful contempt for boys, and had been trampling on Dan's heart through the winter. All this was revealed under oath of solemn secrecy on moonlit decks, in the dead dark, or in choking fog; the whining wheel behind them, the climbing deck before, and without, the unresting, clamorous sea. Once, of course, as the boys came to know each other, there was a fight, which raged from bow to stern till Penn came up and separated them, but promised not to tell Disko, who thought fighting on watch rather worse than sleeping. Harvey was no match for Dan physically, but it says a great deal for his new training that he took his defeat and did not try to get even with his conqueror by underhand methods. That was after he had been cured of a string of boils between his elbows and wrists, where the wet jersey and oilskins cut into the flesh. The salt water stung them unpleasantly, but when they were ripe Dan treated them with Disko's razor, and assured Harvey that now he was a "blooded Banker"; the affliction of gurry-sores being the mark of the caste that claimed him. Since he was a boy and very busy, he did not bother his head with too much thinking. He was exceedingly sorry for his mother, and often longed to see her and above all to tell her of this wonderful new life, and how brilliantly he was acquitting himself in it. Otherwise he preferred not to wonder too much how she was bearing the shock of his supposed death. But one day, as he stood on the foc'sle ladder, guying the cook, who had accused him and Dan of hooking fried pies, it occurred to him that this was a vast improvement on being snubbed by strangers in the smoking-room of a hired liner. He was a recognized part of the scheme of things on the We're Here; had his place at the table and among the bunks; and could hold his own in the long talks on stormy days, when the others were always ready to listen to what they called his "fairy-tales" of his life ashore. It did not take him more than two days and a quarter to feel that if he spoke of his own life--it seemed very far away--no one except Dan (and even Dan's belief was sorely tried) credited him. So he invented a friend, a boy he had heard of, who drove a miniature four-pony drag in Toledo, Ohio, and ordered five suits of clothes at a time and led things called "germans" at parties where the oldest girl was not quite fifteen, but all the presents were solid silver. Salters protested that this kind of yarn was desperately wicked, if not indeed positively blasphemous, but he listened as greedily as the others; and their criticisms at the end gave Harvey entirely new notions on "germans," clothes, cigarettes with gold-leaf tips, rings, watches, scent, small dinner-parties, champagne, card-playing, and hotel accommodation. Little by little he changed his tone when speaking of his "friend," whom Long Jack had christened "the Crazy Kid," "the Gilt-edged Baby," "the Suckin' Vanderpoop," and other pet names; and with his sea-booted feet cocked up on the table would even invent histories about silk pajamas and specially imported neckwear, to the "friend's" discredit. Harvey was a very adaptable person, with a keen eye and ear for every face and tone about him. Before long he knew where Disko kept the old greencrusted quadrant that they called the "hog-yoke"--under the bed-bag in his bunk. When he took the sun, and with the help of "The Old Farmer's" almanac found the latitude, Harvey would jump down into the cabin and scratch the reckoning and date with a nail on the rust of the stove-pipe. Now, the chief engineer of the liner could have done no more, and no engineer of thirty years' service could have assumed one half of the ancient-mariner air with which Harvey, first careful to spit over the side, made public the schooner's position for that day, and then and not till then relieved Disko of the quadrant. There is an etiquette in all these things. The said "hog-yoke," an Eldridge chart, the farming almanac, Blunt's "Coast Pilot," and Bowditch's "Navigator" were all the weapons Disko needed to guide him, except the deep-sea lead that was his spare eye. Harvey nearly slew Penn with it when Tom Platt taught him first how to "fly the blue pigeon"; and, though his strength was not equal to continuous sounding in any sort of a sea, for calm weather with a seven-pound lead on shoal water Disko used him freely. As Dan said: "'Tain't soundin's dad wants. It's samples. Grease her up good, Harve." Harvey would tallow the cup at the end, and carefully bring the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might be, to Disko, who fingered and smelt it and gave judgment As has been said, when Disko thought of cod he thought as a cod; and by some long-tested mixture of instinct and experience, moved the We're Here from berth to berth, always with the fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on the unseen board. But Disko's board was the Grand Bank--a triangle two hundred and fifty miles on each side--a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of the fishing-fleet. For days they worked in fog--Harvey at the bell--till, grown familiar with the thick airs, he went out with Tom Platt, his heart rather in his mouth. But the fog would not lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can stay helplessly afraid for six hours at a time. Harvey devoted himself to his lines and the gaff or gob-stick as Tom Platt called for them; and they rowed back to the schooner guided by the bell and Tom's instinct; Manuel's conch sounding thin and faint beside them. But it was an unearthly experience, and, for the first time in a month, Harvey dreamed of the shifting, smoking floors of water round the dory, the lines that strayed away into nothing, and the air above that melted on the sea below ten feet from his straining eyes. A few days later he was out with Manuel on what should have been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole length of the roding ran out, and still the anchor found nothing, and Harvey grew mortally afraid, for that his last touch with earth was lost. "Whale-hole," said Manuel, hauling in. "That is good joke on Disko. Come!" and he rowed to the schooner to find Tom Platt and the others jeering at the skipper because, for once, he had led them to the edge of the barren Whale-deep, the blank hole of the Grand Bank. They made another berth through the fog, and that time the hair of Harvey's head stood up when he went out in Manuel's dory. A whiteness moved in the whiteness of the fog with a breath like the breath of the grave, and there was a roaring, a plunging, and spouting. It was his first introduction to the dread summer berg of the Banks, and he cowered in the bottom of the boat while Manuel laughed. There were days, though, clear and soft and warm, when it seemed a sin to do anything but loaf over the hand-lines and spank the drifting "sun-scalds" with an oar; and there were days of light airs, when Harvey was taught how to steer the schooner from one berth to another. It thrilled through him when he first felt the keel answer to his band on the spokes and slide over the long hollows as the foresail scythed back and forth against the blue sky. That was magnificent, in spite of Disko saying that it would break a snake's back to follow his wake. But, as usual, pride ran before a fall. They were sailing on the wind with the staysail--an old one, luckily--set, and Harvey jammed her right into it to show Dan how completely he had mastered the art. The foresail went over with a bang, and the foregaff stabbed and ripped through the staysail, which was, of course, prevented from going over by the mainstay. They lowered the wreck in awful silence, and Harvey spent his leisure hours for the next few days under Tom Platt's lee, learning to use a needle and palm. Dan hooted with joy, for, as he said, he had made the very same blunder himself in his early days. Boylike, Harvey imitated all the men by turns, till he had combined Disko's peculiar stoop at the wheel, Long Jack's swinging overhand when the lines were hauled, Manuel's round-shouldered but effective stroke in a dory, and Tom Platt's generous Ohio stride along the deck. "'Tis beautiful to see how he takes to ut," said Long Jack, when Harvey was looking out by the windlass one thick noon. "I'll lay my wage an' share 'tis more'n half play-actin' to him, an' he consates himself he's a bowld mariner. Watch his little bit av a back now!" "That's the way we all begin," said Tom Platt. "The boys they make believe all the time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein' men, an' so till they die--pretendin' an' pretendin'. I done it on the old Ohio, I know. Stood my first watch--harbor-watch--feelin' finer'n Farragut. Dan's full o' the same kind o' notions. See 'em now, actin' to be genewine moss-backs--very hair a rope-yarn an' blood Stockholm tar." He spoke down the cabin stairs. "Guess you're mistook in your judgments fer once, Disko. What in Rome made ye tell us all here the kid was crazy?" "He wuz," Disko replied. "Crazy ez a loon when he come aboard; but I'll say he's sobered up consid'ble sence. I cured him." "He yarns good," said Tom Platt. "T'other night he told us abaout a kid of his own size steerin' a cunnin' little rig an' four ponies up an' down Toledo, Ohio, I think 'twas, an' givin' suppers to a crowd o' sim'lar kids. Cur'us kind o' fairy-tale, but blame interestin'. He knows scores of 'em." "Guess he strikes 'em outen his own head," Disko called from the cabin, where he was busy with the logbook. "Stands to reason that sort is all made up. It don't take in no one but Dan, an' he laughs at it. I've heard him, behind my back." "Yever hear what Sim'on Peter Ca'houn said when they whacked up a match 'twix' his sister Hitty an' Lorin' Jerauld, an' the boys put up that joke on him daown to Georges?" drawled Uncle Salters, who was dripping peaceably under the lee of the starboard dory-nest. Tom Platt puffed at his pipe in scornful silence: he was a Cape Cod man, and had not known that tale more than twenty years. Uncle Salters went on with a rasping chuckie: "Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he said, an' he was jest right, abaout Lorin', 'Ha'af on the taown,' he said, 'an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' they told me she's married a 'ich man.' Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he hedn't no roof to his mouth, an' talked that way." "He didn't talk any Pennsylvania Dutch," Tom Platt replied. "You'd better leave a Cape man to tell that tale. The Ca'houns was gypsies frum 'way back." "Wal, I don't profess to be any elocutionist," Salters said. "I'm comin' to the moral o' things. That's jest abaout what aour Harve be! Ha'af on the taown, an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' there's some'll believe he's a rich man. Yah!" "Did ye ever think how sweet 'twould be to sail wid a full crew o' Salterses?" said Long Jack. "Ha'af in the furrer an' other ha'af in the muck-heap, as Ca'houn did not say, an' makes out he's a fisherman!" A little laugh went round at Salters's expense. Disko held his tongue, and wrought over the log-book that he kept in a hatchet-faced, square hand; this was the kind of thing that ran on, page after soiled page: "July 17. This day thick fog and few fish. Made berth to northward. So ends this day. "July 18. This day comes in with thick fog. Caught a few fish. "July 19. This day comes in with light breeze from N.E. and fine weather. Made a berth to eastward. Caught plenty fish. "July 20. This, the Sabbath, comes in with fog and light winds. So ends this day. Total fish caught this week, 3,478." They never worked on Sundays, but shaved, and washed themselves if it were fine, and Pennsylvania sang hymns. Once or twice he suggested that, if it was not an impertinence, he thought he could preach a little. Uncle Salters nearly jumped down his throat at the mere notion, reminding him that he was not a preacher and mustn't think of such things. "We'd hev him rememberin' Johns-town next," Salters explained, "an' what would happen then?" so they compromised on his reading aloud from a book called "Josephus." It was an old leather-bound volume, smelling of a hundred voyages, very solid and very like the Bible, but enlivened with accounts of battles and sieges; and they read it nearly from cover to cover. Otherwise Penn was a silent little body. He would not utter a word for three days on end sometimes, though he played checkers, listened to the songs, and laughed at the stories. When they tried to stir him up, he would answer: "I don't wish to seem unneighbourly, but it is because I have nothing to say. My head feels quite empty. I've almost forgotten my name." He would turn to Uncle Salters with an expectant smile. "Why, Pennsylvania Pratt," Salters would shout "You'll fergit me next!" "No--never," Penn would say, shutting his lips firmly. "Pennsylvania Pratt, of course," he would repeat over and over. Sometimes it was Uncle Salters who forgot, and told him he was Haskins or Rich or McVitty; but Penn was equally content--till next time. He was always very tender with Harvey, whom he pitied both as a lost child and as a lunatic; and when Salters saw that Penn liked the boy, he relaxed, too. Salters was not an amiable person (He esteemed it his business to keep the boys in order); and the first time Harvey, in fear and trembling, on a still day, managed to shin up to the main-truck (Dan was behind him ready to help), he esteemed it his duty to hang Salters's big sea-boots up there--a sight of shame and derision to the nearest schooner. With Disko, Harvey took no liberties; not even when the old man dropped direct orders, and treated him, like the rest of the crew, to "Don't you want to do so and so?" and "Guess you'd better," and so forth. There was something about the clean-shaven lips and the puckered corners of the eyes that was mightily sobering to young blood. Disko showed him the meaning of the thumbed and pricked chart, which, he said, laid over any government publication whatsoever; led him, pencil in hand, from berth to berth over the whole string of banks--Le Have, Western, Banquereau, St. Pierre, Green, and Grand--talking "cod" meantime. Taught him, too, the principle on which the "hog-yoke" was worked. In this Harvey excelled Dan, for he had inherited a head for figures, and the notion of stealing information from one glimpse of the sullen Bank sun appealed to all his keen wits. For other sea-matters his age handicapped him. As Disko said, he should have begun when he was ten. Dan could bait up trawl or lay his hand on any rope in the dark; and at a pinch, when Uncle Salters had a gurry-score on his palm, could dress down by sense of touch. He could steer in anything short of half a gale from the feel of the wind on his face, humouring the _We're Here_ just when she needed it. These things he did as automatically as he skipped about the rigging, or made his dory a part of his own will and body. But he could not communicate his knowledge to Harvey. Still there was a good deal of general information flying about the schooner on stormy days, when they lay up in the foc'sle or sat on the cabin lockers, while spare eye-bolts, leads, and rings rolled and rattled in the pauses of the talk. Disko spoke of whaling voyages in the Fifties; of great she-whales slain beside their young; of death agonies on the black tossing seas, and blood that spurted forty feet in the air; of boats smashed to splinters; of patent rockets that went off wrong-end-first and bombarded the trembling crews; of cutting-in and boiling-down, and that terrible "nip" of '71, when twelve hundred men were made homeless on the ice in three days--wonderful tales, all true. But more wonderful still were his stories of the cod, and how they argued and reasoned on their private businesses deep down below the keel. Long Jack's tastes ran more to the supernatural. He held them silent with ghastly stories of the "Yo-hoes" on Monomoy Beach, that mock and terrify lonely clam-diggers; of sand-walkers and dune-haunters who were never properly buried; of hidden treasure on Fire Island guarded by the spirits of Kidd's men; of ships that sailed in the fog straight over Truro township; of that harbor in Maine where no one but a stranger will lie at anchor twice in a certain place because of a dead crew who row alongside at midnight with the anchor in the bow of their old-fashioned boat, whistling--not calling, but whistling--for the soul of the man who broke their rest. Harvey had a notion that the east coast of his native land, from Mount Desert south, was populated chiefly by people who took their horses there in the summer and entertained in country-houses with hardwood floors and Vantine portires. He laughed at the ghost-tales,--not as much as he would have done a month before,--but ended by sitting still and shuddering. Tom Platt dealt with his interminable trip round the Horn on the old Ohio in flogging days, with a navy more extinct than the dodo--the navy that passed away in the great war. He told them how red-hot shot are dropped into a cannon, a wad of wet clay between them and the cartridge; how they sizzle and reek when they strike wood, and how the little ship-boys of the Miss Jim Buck hove water over them and shouted to the fort to try again. And he told tales of blockade--long weeks of swaying at anchor, varied only by the departure and return of steamers that had used up their coal (there was no chance for the sailing-ships); of gales and cold that kept two hundred men, night and day, pounding and chopping at the ice on cable, blocks, and rigging, when the galley was as red-hot as the fort's shot, and men drank cocoa by the bucket. Tom Platt had no use for steam. His service closed when that thing was comparatively new. He admitted that it was a specious invention in time of peace, but looked hopefully for the day when sails should come back again on ten-thousand-ton frigates with hundred-and-ninety-foot booms. Manuel's talk was slow and gentle--all about pretty girls in Madeira washing clothes in the dry beds of streams, by moonlight, under waving bananas; legends of saints, and tales of queer dances or fights away in the cold Newfoundland baiting-ports. Salters was mainly agricultural; for, though he read "Josephus" and expounded it, his mission in life was to prove the value of green manures, and specially of clover, against every form of phosphate whatsoever. He grew libellous about phosphates; he dragged greasy "Orange Judd" books from his bunk and intoned them, wagging his finger at Harvey, to whom it was all Greek. Little Penn was so genuinely pained when Harvey made fun of Salters's lectures that the boy gave it up, and suffered in polite silence. That was very good for Harvey. The cook naturally did not join in these conversations. As a rule, he spoke only when it was absolutely necessary; but at times a queer gift of speech descended on him, and he held forth, half in Gaelic, half in broken English, an hour at a time. He was especially communicative with the boys, and he never withdrew his prophecy that one day Harvey would be Dan's master, and that he would see it. He told them of mail-carrying in the winter up Cape Breton way, of the dog-train that goes to Coudray, and of the ram-steamer _Arctic_, that breaks the ice between the mainland and Prince Edward Island. Then he told them stories that his mother had told him, of life far to the southward, where water never froze; and he said that when he died his soul would go to lie down on a warm white beach of sand with palm-trees waving above. That seemed to the boys a very odd idea for a man who had never seen a palm in his life. Then, too, regularly at each meal, he would ask Harvey, and Harvey alone, whether the cooking was to his taste; and this always made the "second half" laugh. Yet they had a great respect for the cook's judgment, and in their hearts considered Harvey something of a mascot by consequence. And while Harvey was taking in knowledge of new things at each pore and hard health with every gulp of the good air, the We're Here went her ways and did her business on the Bank, and the silvery-gray kenches of well-pressed fish mounted higher and higher in the hold. No one day's work was out of common, but the average days were many and close together. Naturally, a man of Disko's reputation was closely watched--"scrowged upon," Dan called it--by his neighbours, but he had a very pretty knack of giving them the slip through the curdling, glidy fog-banks. Disko avoided company for two reasons. He wished to make his own experiments, in the first place; and in the second, he objected to the mixed gatherings of a fleet of all nations. The bulk of them were mainly Gloucester boats, with a scattering from Provincetown, Harwich, Chatham, and some of the Maine ports, but the crews drew from goodness knows where. Risk breeds recklessness, and when greed is added there are fine chances for every kind of accident in the crowded fleet, which, like a mob of sheep, is huddled round some unrecognized leader. "Let the two Jeraulds lead 'em," said Disko. "We're baound to lay among 'em for a spell on the Eastern Shoals; though ef luck holds, we won't hev to lay long. Where we are naow, Harve, ain't considered noways good graound." "Ain't it?" said Harvey, who was drawing water (he had learned just how to wiggle the bucket), after an unusually long dressing-down. "Shouldn't mind striking some poor ground for a change, then." "All the graound I want to see--don't want to strike her--is Eastern Point," said Dan. "Say, Dad, it looks's if we wouldn't hev to lay more'n two weeks on the Shoals. You'll meet all the comp'ny you want then, Harve. That's the time we begin to work. No reg'lar meals fer no one then. 'Mug-up when ye're hungry, an' sleep when ye can't keep awake. Good job you wasn't picked up a month later than you was, or we'd never ha' had you dressed in shape fer the Old Virgin." Harvey understood from the Eldridge chart that the Old Virgin and a nest of curiously named shoals were the turning-point of the cruise, and that with good luck they would wet the balance of their salt there. But seeing the size of the Virgin (it was one tiny dot), he wondered how even Disko with the hog-yoke and the lead could find her. He learned later that Disko was entirely equal to that and any other business and could even help others. A big four-by-five blackboard hung in the cabin, and Harvey never understood the need of it till, after some blinding thick days, they heard the unmelodious tooting of a foot-power fog-horn--a machine whose note is as that of a consumptive elephant. They were making a short berth, towing the anchor under their foot to save trouble. "Square-rigger bellowin' fer his latitude," said Long Jack. The dripping red head-sails of a bark glided out of the fog, and the _We're Here_ rang her bell thrice, using sea shorthand. The larger boat backed her topsail with shrieks and shoutings. "Frenchman," said Uncle Salters, scornfully. "Miquelon boat from St. Malo." The farmer had a weatherly sea-eye. "I'm 'most outer 'baccy, too, Disko." "Same here," said Tom Platt. "Hi! Backez vous--backez vous! Standez awayez, you butt-ended mucho-bono! Where you from--St. Malo, eh?" "Ah, ha! Mucho bono! Oui! oui! Clos Poulet--St. Malo! St. Pierre et Miquelon," cried the other crowd, waving woollen caps and laughing. Then all together, "Bord! Bord!" "Bring up the board, Danny. Beats me how them Frenchmen fetch anywheres, exceptin' America's fairish broadly. Forty-six forty-nine's good enough fer them; an' I guess it's abaout right, too." Dan chalked the figures on the board, and they hung it in the main-rigging to a chorus of mercis from the bark. "Seems kinder uneighbourly to let 'em swedge off like this," Salters suggested, feeling in his pockets. "Hev ye learned French then sence last trip?" said Disko. "I don't want no more stone-ballast hove at us 'long o' your callin' Miquelon boats 'footy cochins,' same's you did off Le Have." "Harmon Rush he said that was the way to rise 'em. Plain United States is good enough fer me. We're all dretful short on terbakker. Young feller, don't you speak French?" "Oh, yes," said Harvey valiantly; and he bawled: "Hi! Say! Arretez vous! Attendez! Nous sommes venant pour tabac." "Ah, tabac, tabac!" they cried, and laughed again. "That hit 'em. Let's heave a dory over, anyway," said Tom Platt. "I don't exactly hold no certificates on French, but I know another lingo that goes, I guess. Come on, Harve, an' interpret." The raffle and confusion when he and Harvey were hauled up the bark's black side was indescribable. Her cabin was all stuck round with glaring coloured prints of the Virgin--the Virgin of Newfoundland, they called her. Harvey found his French of no recognized Bank brand, and his conversation was limited to nods and grins. But Tom Platt waved his arms and got along swimmingly. The captain gave him a drink of unspeakable gin, and the opera-comique crew, with their hairy throats, red caps, and long knives, greeted him as a brother. Then the trade began. They had tobacco, plenty of it--American, that had never paid duty to France. They wanted chocolate and crackers. Harvey rowed back to arrange with the cook and Disko, who owned the stores, and on his return the cocoa-tins and cracker-bags were counted out by the Frenchman's wheel. It looked like a piratical division of loot; but Tom Platt came out of it roped with black pigtail and stuffed with cakes of chewing and smoking tobacco. Then those jovial mariners swung off into the mist, and the last Harvey heard was a gay chorus: "Par derriere chez ma tante, Il'y a un bois joli, Et le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit.... Que donneriez vous, belle, Qui l'amenerait ici? Je donnerai Quebec, Sorel et Saint Denis." "How was it my French didn't go, and your sign-talk did?" Harvey demanded when the barter had been distributed among the We're Heres. "Sign-talk!" Platt guffawed. "Well, yes, 'twas sign-talk, but a heap older'n your French, Harve. Them French boats are chockfull o' Freemasons, an' that's why." "Are you a Freemason, then?" "Looks that way, don't it?" said the man-o'-war's man, stuffing his pipe; and Harvey had another mystery of the deep sea to brood upon. CHAPTER VI The thing that struck him most was the exceedingly casual way in which some craft loafed about the broad Atlantic. Fishing-boats, as Dan said, were naturally dependent on the courtesy and wisdom of their neighbours; but one expected better things of steamers. That was after another interesting interview, when they had been chased for three miles by a big lumbering old cattle-boat, all boarded over on the upper deck, that smelt like a thousand cattle-pens. A very excited officer yelled at them through a speaking-trumpet, and she lay and lollopped helplessly on the water while Disko ran the _We're Here_ under her lee and gave the skipper a piece of his mind. "Where might ye be--eh? Ye don't deserve to be anywheres. You barn-yard tramps go hoggin' the road on the high seas with no blame consideration fer your neighbours, an' your eyes in your coffee-cups instid o' in your silly heads." At this the skipper danced on the bridge and said something about Disko's own eyes. "We haven't had an observation for three days. D'you suppose we can run her blind?" he shouted. "Wa-al, I can," Disko retorted. "What's come to your lead? Et it? Can't ye smell bottom, or are them cattle too rank?" "What d' ye feed 'em?" said Uncle Salters with intense seriousness, for the smell of the pens woke all the farmer in him. "They say they fall off dretful on a v'yage. Dunno as it's any o' my business, but I've a kind o' notion that oil-cake broke small an' sprinkled--" "Thunder!" said a cattle-man in a red jersey as he looked over the side. "What asylum did they let His Whiskers out of?" "Young feller," Salters began, standing up in the fore-rigging, "let me tell yeou 'fore we go any further that I've--" The officer on the bridge took off his cap with immense politeness. "Excuse me," he said, "but I've asked for my reckoning. If the agricultural person with the hair will kindly shut his head, the sea-green barnacle with the wall-eye may per-haps condescend to enlighten us." "Naow you've made a show o' me, Salters," said Disko, angrily. He could not stand up to that particular sort of talk, and snapped out the latitude and longitude without more lectures. "Well, that's a boat-load of lunatics, sure," said the skipper, as he rang up the engine-room and tossed a bundle of newspapers into the schooner. "Of all the blamed fools, next to you, Salters, him an' his crowd are abaout the likeliest I've ever seen," said Disko as the _We're Here_ slid away. "I was jest givin' him my jedgment on lullsikin' round these waters like a lost child, an' you must cut in with your fool farmin'. Can't ye never keep things sep'rate?" Harvey, Dan, and the others stood back, winking one to the other and full of joy; but Disko and Salters wrangled seriously till evening, Salters arguing that a cattle-boat was practically a barn on blue water, and Disko insisting that, even if this were the case, decency and fisher-pride demanded that he should have kept "things sep'rate." Long Jack stood it in silence for a time,--an angry skipper makes an unhappy crew,--and then he spoke across the table after supper: "Fwhat's the good o' bodderin' fwhat they'll say?" said he. "They'll tell that tale agin us fer years--that's all," said Disko. "Oil-cake sprinkled!" "With salt, o' course," said Salters, impenitent, reading the farming reports from a week-old New York paper. "It's plumb mortifyin' to all my feelin's," the skipper went on. "Can't see ut that way," said Long Jack, the peacemaker "Look at here, Disko! Is there another packet afloat this day in this weather cud ha' met a tramp an' over an' above givin' her her reckonin',--over an' above that, I say,--cud ha' discoorsed wid her quite intelligent on the management av steers an' such at sea? Forgit ut! Av coorse they will not. 'Twas the most compenjus conversation that iver accrued. Double game an' twice runnin'--all to us." Dan kicked Harvey under the table, and Harvey choked in his cup. "Well," said Salters, who felt that his honour had been somewhat plastered, "I said I didn't know as 'twuz any business o' mine, 'fore I spoke." "An' right there," said Tom Platt, experienced in discipline and etiquette--"right there, I take it, Disko, you should ha' asked him to stop ef the conversation wuz likely, in your jedgment, to be anyways--what it shouldn't." "Dunno but that's so," said Disko, who saw his way to an honourable retreat from a fit of the dignities. "Why, o' course it was so," said Salters, "you bein' skipper here; an' I'd cheerful hev stopped on a hint--not from any leadin' or conviction, but fer the sake o' bearin' an example to these two blame boys of aours." "Didn't I tell you, Harve, 'twould come araound to us 'fore we'd done? Always those blame boys. But I wouldn't have missed the show fer a half-share in a halibutter," Dan whispered. "Still, things should ha' been kep' sep'rate," said Disko, and the light of new argument lit in Salters's eye as he crumbled cut plug into his pipe. "There's a power av vartue in keepin' things sep'rate," said Long Jack, intent on stilling the storm. "That's fwhat Steyning of Steyning and Hare's f'und when he sent Counahan fer skipper on the _Marilla D. Kuhn_, instid o' Cap. Newton that was took with inflam'try rheumatism an' couldn't go. Counahan the Navigator we called him." "Nick Counahan he never went aboard fer a night 'thout a pond o' rum somewheres in the manifest," said Tom Platt, playing up to the lead. "He used to bum araound the c'mission houses to Boston lookin' fer the Lord to make him captain of a tow-boat on his merits. Sam Coy, up to Atlantic Avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. "Counahan the Navigator! Tck! Tck! Dead these fifteen year, ain't he?" "Seventeen, I guess. He died the year the _Caspar McVeagh_ was built; but he could niver keep things sep'rate. Steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove--bekaze there was nothin' else that season. The men was all to the Banks, and Counahan he whacked up an iverlastin' hard crowd fer crew. Rum! Ye cud ha' floated the _Marilla_, insurance an' all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her. They lef' Boston Harbour for the great Grand Bank wid a roarin' nor'wester behind 'em an' all hands full to the bung. An' the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an' divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they'd seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o' bug-juice. That was about wan week, so far as Counahan remembered. (If I cud only tell the tale as he told ut!) All that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an' the _Marilla_--'twas summer, and they'd give her a foretopmast--struck her gait and kept ut. Then Counahan tuk the hog-yoke an' thrembled over it for a whoile, an' made out, betwix' that an' the chart an' the singin' in his head, that they was to the south'ard o' Sable Island, gettin' along glorious, but speakin' nothin'. Then they broached another keg, an' quit speculatin' about anythin' fer another spell. The _Marilla_ she lay down whin she dropped Boston Light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time--hustlin' on one an' the same slant. But they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an' prisintly they obsarved they'd bin out a matter o' fourteen days and they mis-trusted the Bank has suspinded payment. So they sounded, an' got sixty fathom. 'That's me,' sez Counahan. 'That's me iv'ry time! I've run her slat on the Bank fer you, an' when we get thirty fathom we'll turn in like little men. Counahan is the b'y,' sez he. 'Counahan the Navigator!' "Nex' cast they got ninety. Sez Counahan: 'Either the lead-line's tuk to stretchin' or else the Bank's sunk.' "They hauled ut up, bein' just about in that state when ut seemed right an' reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin' the knots, an' gettin' her snarled up hijjus. The _Marilla_ she'd struck her gait, an' she hild ut, an' prisintly along came a tramp, an' Counahan spoke her. "'Hev ye seen any fishin'-boats now?' sez he, quite casual. "'There's lashin's av them off the Irish coast,' sez the tramp. "'Aah! go shake yerself,' sez Counahan. 'Fwhat have I to do wid the Irish coast?' "'Then fwhat are ye doin' here?' sez the tramp. "'Sufferin' Christianity!' sez Counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked an' he was not feelin' good)--'Sufferin' Christianity!' he sez, 'where am I at?' "'Thirty-five mile west-sou'west o' Cape Clear,' sez the tramp, 'if that's any consolation to you.' "Counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook. "'Consolation!' sez he, bould as brass. 'D'ye take me fer a dialect? Thirty-five mile from Cape Clear, an' fourteen days from Boston Light. Sufferin' Christianity, 'tis a record, an' by the same token I've a mother to Skibbereen!' Think av ut! The gall av um! But ye see he could niver keep things sep'rate. "The crew was mostly Cork an' Kerry men, barrin' one Marylander that wanted to go back, but they called him a mutineer, an' they ran the ould _Marilla_ into Skibbereen, an' they had an illigant time visitin' around with frinds on the ould sod fer a week. Thin they wint back, an' it cost 'em two an' thirty days to beat to the Banks again. 'Twas gettin' on towards fall, and grub was low, so Counahan ran her back to Boston, wid no more bones to ut." "And what did the firm say?" Harvey demanded. "Fwhat could they? The fish was on the Banks, an' Counahan was at T-wharf talkin' av his record trip east! They tuk their satisfaction out av that, an' ut all came av not keepin' the crew and the rum sep'rate in the first place; an' confusin' Skibbereen wid 'Queereau, in the second. Counahan the Navigator, rest his sowl! He was an imprompju citizen!" "Once I was in the Lucy Holmes," said Manuel, in his gentle voice. "They not want any of her feesh in Gloucester. Eh, wha-at? Give us no price. So we go across the water, and think to sell to some Fayal man. Then it blow fresh, and we cannot see well. Eh, wha-at? Then it blow some more fresh, and we go down below and drive very fast--no one know where. By and by we see a land, and it get some hot. Then come two, three nigger in a brick. Eh, wha-at? We ask where we are, and they say--now, what you all think?" "Grand Canary," said Disko, after a moment. Manuel shook his head, smiling. "Blanco," said Tom Platt. "No. Worse than that. We was below Bezagos, and the brick she was from Liberia! So we sell our feesh there! Not bad, so? Eh, wha-at?" "Can a schooner like this go right across to Africa?" said Harvey. "Go araound the Horn ef there's anythin' worth goin' fer, and the grub holds aout," said Disko. "My father he run his packet, an' she was a kind o' pinkey, abaout fifty ton, I guess,--the Rupert,--he run her over to Greenland's icy mountains the year ha'af our fleet was tryin' after cod there. An' what's more, he took my mother along with him,--to show her haow the money was earned, I presoom,--an' they was all iced up, an' I was born at Disko. Don't remember nothin' abaout it, o' course. We come back when the ice eased in the spring, but they named me fer the place. Kinder mean trick to put up on a baby, but we're all baound to make mistakes in aour lives." "Sure! Sure!" said Salters, wagging his head. "All baound to make mistakes, an' I tell you two boys here thet after you've made a mistake--ye don't make fewer'n a hundred a day--the next best thing's to own up to it like men." Long Jack winked one tremendous wink that embraced all hands except Disko and Salters, and the incident was closed. Then they made berth after berth to the northward, the dories out almost every day, running along the east edge of the Grand Bank in thirty- to forty-fathom water, and fishing steadily. It was here Harvey first met the squid, who is one of the best cod-baits, but uncertain in his moods. They were waked out of their bunks one black night by yells of "Squid O!" from Salters, and for an hour and a half every soul aboard hung over his squid-jig--a piece of lead painted red and armed at the lower end with a circle of pins bent backward like half-opened umbrella ribs. The squid--for some unknown reason--likes, and wraps himself round, this thing, and is hauled up ere he can escape from the pins. But as he leaves his home he squirts first water and next ink into his captor's face; and it was curious to see the men weaving their heads from side to side to dodge the shot. They were as black as sweeps when the flurry ended; but a pile of fresh squid lay on the deck, and the large cod thinks very well of a little shiny piece of squid tentacle at the tip of a clam-baited hook. Next day they caught many fish, and met the _Carrie Pitman_, to whom they shouted their luck, and she wanted to trade--seven cod for one fair-sized squid; but Disko would not agree at the price, and the _Carrie_ dropped sullenly to leeward and anchored half a mile away, in the hope of striking on to some for herself. Disco said nothing till after supper, when he sent Dan and Manuel out to buoy the _We're Here's_ cable and announced his intention of turning in with the broad-axe. Dan naturally repeated these remarks to the dory from the _Carrie_, who wanted to know why they were buoying their cable, since they were not on rocky bottom. "Dad sez he wouldn't trust a ferryboat within five mile o' you," Dan howled cheerfully. "Why don't he git out, then? Who's hinderin'?" said the other. "'Cause you've jest the same ez lee-bowed him, an' he don't take that from any boat, not to speak o' sech a driftin' gurry-butt as you be." "She ain't driftin' any this trip," said the man angrily, for the _Carrie Pitman_ had an unsavory reputation for breaking her ground-tackle. "Then haow d'you make berths?" said Dan. "It's her best p'int o' sailin'. An' ef she's quit driftin', what in thunder are you doin' with a new jib-boom?" That shot went home. "Hey, you Portugoosy organ-grinder, take your monkey back to Gloucester. Go back to school, Dan Troop," was the answer. "O-ver-alls! O-ver-alls!" yelled Dan, who knew that one of the _Carrie's_ crew had worked in an overall factory the winter before. "Shrimp! Gloucester shrimp! Git aout, you Novy!" To call a Gloucester man a Nova Scotian is not well received. Dan answered in kind. "Novy yourself, ye Scrabble-towners! ye Chatham wreckers! Git aout with your brick in your stockin'!" And the forces separated, but Chatham had the worst of it. "I knew haow 'twould be," said Disko. "She's drawed the wind raound already. Some one oughter put a deesist on thet packet. She'll snore till midnight, an' jest when we're gettin' our sleep she'll strike adrift. Good job we ain't crowded with craft hereaways. But I ain't goin' to up anchor fer Chatham. She may hold." The wind, which had hauled round, rose at sundown and blew steadily. There was not enough sea, though, to disturb even a dory's tackle, but the _Carrie Pitman_ was a law unto herself. At the end of the boys' watch they heard the crack-crack-crack of a huge muzzle-loading revolver aboard her. "Glory, glory, hallelujah!" sung Dan. "Here she comes, Dad; butt-end first, walkin' in her sleep same's she done on 'Queereau." Had she been any other boat Disko would have taken his chances, but now he cut the cable as the _Carrie Pitman_, with all the North Atlantic to play in, lurched down directly upon them. The _We're Here_, under jib and riding-sail, gave her no more room than was absolutely necessary,--Disko did not wish to spend a week hunting for his cable,--but scuttled up into the wind as the _Carrie_ passed within easy hail, a silent and angry boat, at the mercy of a raking broadside of Bank chaff. "Good evenin'," said Disko, raising his head-gear, "an' haow does your garden grow?" "Go to Ohio an' hire a mule," said Uncle Salters. "We don't want no farmers here." "Will I lend YOU my dory-anchor?" cried Long Jack. "Unship your rudder an' stick it in the mud," bawled Tom Platt. "Say!" Dan's voice rose shrill and high, as he stood on the wheel-box. "Sa-ay! Is there a strike in the o-ver-all factory; or hev they hired girls, ye Shackamaxons?" "Veer out the tiller-lines," cried Harvey, "and nail 'em to the bottom!" That was a salt-flavoured jest he had been put up to by Tom Platt. Manuel leaned over the stern and yelled: "Johanna Morgan play the organ! Ahaaaa!" He flourished his broad thumb with a gesture of unspeakable contempt and derision, while little Penn covered himself with glory by piping up: "Gee a little! Hssh! Come here. Haw!" They rode on their chain for the rest of the night, a short, snappy, uneasy motion, as Harvey found, and wasted half the forenoon recovering the cable. But the boys agreed the trouble was cheap at the price of triumph and glory, and they thought with grief over all the beautiful things that they might have said to the discomfited _Carrie_. CHAPTER VII Next day they fell in with more sails, all circling slowly from the east northerly towards the west. But just when they expected to make the shoals by the Virgin the fog shut down, and they anchored, surrounded by the tinklings of invisible bells. There was not much fishing, but occasionally dory met dory in the fog and exchanged news. That night, a little before dawn, Dan and Harvey, who had been sleeping most of the day, tumbled out to "hook" fried pies. There was no reason why they should not have taken them openly; but they tasted better so, and it made the cook angry. The heat and smell below drove them on deck with their plunder, and they found Disko at the bell, which he handed over to Harvey. "Keep her goin'," said he. "I mistrust I hear somethin'. Ef it's anything, I'm best where I am so's to get at things." It was a forlorn little jingle; the thick air seemed to pinch it off, and in the pauses Harvey heard the muffled shriek of a liner's siren, and he knew enough of the Banks to know what that meant. It came to him, with horrible distinctness, how a boy in a cherry-coloured jersey--he despised fancy blazers now with all a fisher-man's contempt--how an ignorant, rowdy boy had once said it would be "great" if a steamer ran down a fishing-boat. That boy had a stateroom with a hot and cold bath, and spent ten minutes each morning picking over a gilt-edged bill of fare. And that same boy--no, his very much older brother--was up at four of the dim dawn in streaming, crackling oilskins, hammering, literally for the dear life, on a bell smaller than the steward's breakfast-bell, while somewhere close at hand a thirty-foot steel stem was storming along at twenty miles an hour! The bitterest thought of all was that there were folks asleep in dry, upholstered cabins who would never learn that they had massacred a boat before breakfast. So Harvey rang the bell. "Yes, they slow daown one turn o' their blame propeller," said Dan, applying himself to Manuel's conch, "fer to keep inside the law, an' that's consolin' when we're all at the bottom. Hark to her! She's a humper!" "Aooo-whoo-whupp!" went the siren. "Wingle-tingle-tink," went the bell. "Graaa-ouch!" went the conch, while sea and sky were all mired up in milky fog. Then Harvey felt that he was near a moving body, and found himself looking up and up at the wet edge of a cliff-like bow, leaping, it seemed, directly over the schooner. A jaunty little feather of water curled in front of it, and as it lifted it showed a long ladder of Roman numerals-XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII., and so forth--on a salmon-coloured gleaming side. It tilted forward and downward with a heart-stilling "Ssssooo"; the ladder disappeared; a line of brass-rimmed port-holes flashed past; a jet of steam puffed in Harvey's helplessly uplifted hands; a spout of hot water roared along the rail of the _We're Here_, and the little schooner staggered and shook in a rush of screw-torn water, as a liner's stern vanished in the fog. Harvey got ready to faint or be sick, or both, when he heard a crack like a trunk thrown on a sidewalk, and, all small in his ear, a far-away telephone voice drawling: "Heave to! You've sunk us!" "Is it us?" he gasped. "No! Boat out yonder. Ring! We're goin' to look," said Dan, running out a dory. In half a minute all except Harvey, Penn, and the cook were overside and away. Presently a schooner's stump-foremast, snapped clean across, drifted past the bows. Then an empty green dory came by, knocking on the _We're Here's_ side, as though she wished to be taken in. Then followed something, face down, in a blue jersey, but--it was not the whole of a man. Penn changed colour and caught his breath with a click. Harvey pounded despairingly at the bell, for he feared they might be sunk at any minute, and he jumped at Dan's hail as the crew came back. "The Jennie Cushman," said Dan, hysterically, "cut clean in half--graound up an' trompled on at that! Not a quarter of a mile away. Dad's got the old man. There ain't any one else, and--there was his son, too. Oh, Harve, Harve, I can't stand it! I've seen--" He dropped his head on his arms and sobbed while the others dragged a gray-headed man aboard. "What did you pick me up for?" the stranger groaned. "Disko, what did you pick me up for?" Disko dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, for the man's eyes were wild and his lips trembled as he stared at the silent crew. Then up and spoke Pennsylvania Pratt, who was also Haskins or Rich or McVitty when Uncle Salters forgot; and his face was changed on him from the face of a fool to the countenance of an old, wise man, and he said in a strong voice: "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord! I was--I am a minister of the Gospel. Leave him to me." "Oh, you be, be you?" said the man. "Then pray my son back to me! Pray back a nine-thousand-dollar boat an' a thousand quintal of fish. If you'd left me alone my widow could ha' gone on to the Provident an' worked fer her board, an' never known--an' never known. Now I'll hev to tell her." "There ain't nothin' to say," said Disko. "Better lie down a piece, Jason Olley." When a man has lost his only son, his summer's work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation. "All Gloucester men, wasn't they?" said Tom Platt, fiddling helplessly with a dory-becket. "Oh, that don't make no odds," said Jason, wringing the wet from his beard. "I'll be rowin' summer boarders araound East Gloucester this fall." He rolled heavily to the rail, singing: "Happy birds that sing and fly Round thine altars, O Most High!" "Come with me. Come below!" said Penn, as though he had a right to give orders. Their eyes met and fought for a quarter of a minute. "I dunno who you be, but I'll come," said Jason submissively. "Mebbe I'll get back some o' the--some o' the-nine thousand dollars." Penn led him into the cabin and slid the door behind. "That ain't Penn," cried Uncle Salters. "It's Jacob Boiler, an'--he's remembered Johnstown! I never seed such eyes in any livin' man's head. What's to do naow? What'll I do naow?" They could hear Penn's voice and Jason's together. Then Penn's went on alone, and Salters slipped off his hat, for Penn was praying. Presently the little man came up the steps, huge drops of sweat on his face, and looked at the crew. Dan was still sobbing by the wheel. "He don't know us," Salters groaned. "It's all to do over again, checkers and everything--an' what'll he say to me?" Penn spoke; they could hear that it was to strangers. "I have prayed," said he. "Our people believe in prayer. I have prayed for the life of this man's son. Mine were drowned before my eyes--she and my eldest and--the others. Shall a man be more wise than his Maker? I prayed never for their lives, but I have prayed for this man's son, and he will surely be sent him." Salters looked pleadingly at Penn to see if he remembered. "How long have I been mad?" Penn asked suddenly. His mouth was twitching. "Pshaw, Penn! You weren't never mad," Salters began "Only a little distracted like." "I saw the houses strike the bridge before the fires broke out. I do not remember any more. How long ago is that?" "I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" cried Dan, and Harvey whimpered in sympathy. "Abaout five year," said Disko, in a shaking voice. "Then I have been a charge on some one for every day of that time. Who was the man?" Disko pointed to Salters. "Ye hain't--ye hain't!" cried the sea-farmer, twisting his hands together. "Ye've more'n earned your keep twice-told; an' there's money owin' you, Penn, besides ha'af o' my quarter-share in the boat, which is yours fer value received." "You are good men. I can see that in your faces. But--" "Mother av Mercy," whispered Long Jack, "an' he's been wid us all these trips! He's clean bewitched." A schooner's bell struck up alongside, and a voice hailed through the fog: "O Disko! 'Heard abaout the Jennie Cushman?" "They have found his son," cried Penn. "Stand you still and see the salvation of the Lord!" "Got Jason aboard here," Disko answered, but his voice quavered. "There--warn't any one else?" "We've fund one, though. 'Run acrost him snarled up in a mess o' lumber thet might ha' bin a foc'sle. His head's cut some." "Who is he?" The _We're Here's_ heart-beats answered one another. "Guess it's young Olley," the voice drawled. Penn raised his hands and said something in German. Harvey could have sworn that a bright sun was shining upon his lifted face; but the drawl went on: "Sa-ay! You fellers guyed us consid'rable t'other night." "We don't feel like guyin' any now," said Disko. "I know it; but to tell the honest truth we was kinder--kinder driftin' when we run agin young Olley." It was the irrepressible _Carrie Pitman_, and a roar of unsteady laughter went up from the deck of the _We're Here_. "Hedn't you 'baout's well send the old man aboard? We're runnin' in fer more bait an' graound-tackle. Guess you won't want him, anyway, an' this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. We'll take care of him. He married my woman's aunt." "I'll give you anything in the boat," said Troop. "Don't want nothin', 'less, mebbe, an anchor that'll hold. Say! Young Olley's gittin' kinder baulky an' excited. Send the old man along." Penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and Tom Platt rowed him over. He went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all. "And now," said Penn, drawing a deep breath as though about to preach. "And now"--the erect body sank like a sword driven home into the scabbard; the light faded from the overbright eyes; the voice returned to its usual pitiful little titter--"and now," said Pennsylvania Pratt, "do you think it's too early for a little game of checkers, Mr. Salters?" "The very thing--the very thing I was goin' to say myself," cried Salters promptly. "It beats all, Penn, how ye git on to what's in a man's mind." The little fellow blushed and meekly followed Salters forward. "Up anchor! Hurry! Let's quit these crazy waters," shouted Disko, and never was he more swiftly obeyed. "Now what in creation d'ye suppose is the meanin' o' that all?" said Long Jack, when they were working through the fog once more, damp, dripping, and bewildered. "The way I sense it," said Disko, at the wheel, "is this: The Jennie Cushman business comin' on an empty stummick--" "H-he saw one of them go by," sobbed Harvey. "An' that, o' course, kinder hove him outer water, julluk runnin' a craft ashore; hove him right aout, I take it, to rememberin' Johnstown an' Jacob Boiler an' such-like reminiscences. Well, consolin' Jason there held him up a piece, same's shorin' up a boat. Then, bein' weak, them props slipped an' slipped, an' he slided down the ways, an' naow he's water-borne agin. That's haow I sense it." They decided that Disko was entirely correct. "'Twould ha' bruk Salters all up," said Long Jack, "if Penn had stayed Jacob Boilerin'. Did ye see his face when Penn asked who he'd been charged on all these years? How is ut, Salters?" "Asleep--dead asleep. Turned in like a child," Salters replied, tiptoeing aft. "There won't be no grub till he wakes, natural. Did ye ever see sech a gift in prayer? He everlastin'ly hiked young Olley outer the ocean. Thet's my belief. Jason was tur'ble praoud of his boy, an' I mistrusted all along 'twas a jedgment on worshippin' vain idols." "There's others jes as sot," said Disko. "That's difrunt," Salters retorted quickly. "Penn's not all caulked, an' I ain't only but doin' my duty by him." They waited, those hungry men, three hours, till Penn reappeared with a smooth face and a blank mind. He said he believed that he had been dreaming. Then he wanted to know why they were so silent, and they could not tell him. Disko worked all hands mercilessly for the next three or four days; and when they could not go out, turned them into the hold to stack the ship's stores into smaller compass, to make more room for the fish. The packed mass ran from the cabin partition to the sliding door behind the foc'sle stove; and Disko showed how there is great art in stowing cargo so as to bring a schooner to her best draft. The crew were thus kept lively till they recovered their spirits; and Harvey was tickled with a rope's end by Long Jack for being, as the Galway man said, "sorrowful as a sick cat over fwhat couldn't be helped." He did a great deal of thinking in those weary days, and told Dan what he thought, and Dan agreed with him--even to the extent of asking for fried pies instead of hooking them. But a week later the two nearly upset the Hattie S. in a wild attempt to stab a shark with an old bayonet tied to a stick. The grim brute rubbed alongside the dory begging for small fish, and between the three of them it was a mercy they all got off alive. At last, after playing blindman's-buff in the fog, there came a morning when Disko shouted down the foc'sle: "Hurry, boys! We're in taown!" CHAPTER VIII To the end of his days, Harvey will never forget that sight. The sun was just clear of the horizon they had not seen for nearly a week, and his low red light struck into the riding-sails of three fleets of anchored schooners--one to the north, one to the westward, and one to the south. There must have been nearly a hundred of them, of every possible make and build, with, far away, a square-rigged Frenchman, all bowing and courtesying one to the other. From every boat dories were dropping away like bees from a crowded hive, and the clamour of voices, the rattling of ropes and blocks, and the splash of the oars carried for miles across the heaving water. The sails turned all colours, black, pearly-gray, and white, as the sun mounted; and more boats swung up through the mists to the southward. The dories gathered in clusters, separated, reformed, and broke again, all heading one way; while men hailed and whistled and cat-called and sang, and the water was speckled with rubbish thrown overboard. "It's a town," said Harvey. "Disko was right. It IS a town!" "I've seen smaller," said Disko. "There's about a thousand men here; an' yonder's the Virgin." He pointed to a vacant space of greenish sea, where there were no dories. The _We're Here_ skirted round the northern squadron, Disko waving his hand to friend after friend, and anchored as nearly as a racing yacht at the end of the season. The Bank fleet pass good seamanship in silence; but a bungler is jeered all along the line. "Jest in time fer the caplin," cried the Mary Chilton. "'Salt 'most wet?" asked the King Philip. "Hey, Tom Platt! Come t' supper to-night?" said the Henry Clay; and so questions and answers flew back and forth. Men had met one another before, dory-fishing in the fog, and there is no place for gossip like the Bank fleet. They all seemed to know about Harvey's rescue, and asked if he were worth his salt yet. The young bloods jested with Dan, who had a lively tongue of his own, and inquired after their health by the town-nicknames they least liked. Manuel's countrymen jabbered at him in their own language; and even the silent cook was seen riding the jib-boom and shouting Gaelic to a friend as black as himself. After they had buoyed the cable--all around the Virgin is rocky bottom, and carelessness means chafed ground-tackle and danger from drifting--after they had buoyed the cable, their dories went forth to join the mob of boats anchored about a mile away. The schooners rocked and dipped at a safe distance, like mother ducks watching their brood, while the dories behaved like mannerless ducklings. As they drove into the confusion, boat banging boat, Harvey's ears tingled at the comments on his rowing. Every dialect from Labrador to Long Island, with Portuguese, Neapolitan, Lingua Franca, French, and Gaelic, with songs and shoutings and new oaths, rattled round him, and he seemed to be the butt of it all. For the first time in his life he felt shy--perhaps that came from living so long with only the _We're Heres_--among the scores of wild faces that rose and fell with the reeling small craft. A gentle, breathing swell, three furlongs from trough to barrel, would quietly shoulder up a string of variously painted dories. They hung for an instant, a wonderful frieze against the sky-line, and their men pointed and hailed. Next moment the open mouths, waving arms, and bare chests disappeared, while on another swell came up an entirely new line of characters like paper figures in a toy theatre. So Harvey stared. "Watch out!" said Dan, flourishing a dip-net "When I tell you dip, you dip. The caplin'll school any time from naow on. Where'll we lay, Tom Platt?" Pushing, shoving, and hauling, greeting old friends here and warning old enemies there, Commodore Tom Platt led his little fleet well to leeward of the general crowd, and immediately three or four men began to haul on their anchors with intent to lee-bow the _We're Heres_. But a yell of laughter went up as a dory shot from her station with exceeding speed, its occupant pulling madly on the roding. "Give her slack!" roared twenty voices. "Let him shake it out." "What's the matter?" said Harvey, as the boat flashed away to the southward. "He's anchored, isn't he?" "Anchored, sure enough, but his graound-tackle's kinder shifty," said Dan, laughing. "Whale's fouled it. . . . Dip Harve! Here they come!" The sea round them clouded and darkened, and then frizzed up in showers of tiny silver fish, and over a space of five or six acres the cod began to leap like trout in May; while behind the cod three or four broad gray-backs broke the water into boils. Then everybody shouted and tried to haul up his anchor to get among the school, and fouled his neighbour's line and said what was in his heart, and dipped furiously with his dip-net, and shrieked cautions and advice to his companions, while the deep fizzed like freshly opened soda-water, and cod, men, and whales together flung in upon the luckless bait. Harvey was nearly knocked overboard by the handle of Dan's net. But in all the wild tumult he noticed, and never forgot, the wicked, set little eye--something like a circus elephant's eye--of a whale that drove along almost level with the water, and, so he said, winked at him. Three boats found their rodings fouled by these reckless mid-sea hunters, and were towed half a mile ere their horses shook the line free. Then the caplin moved off, and five minutes later there was no sound except the splash of the sinkers overside, the flapping of the cod, and the whack of the muckles as the men stunned them. It was wonderful fishing. Harvey could see the glimmering cod below, swimming slowly in droves, biting as steadily as they swam. Bank law strictly forbids more than one hook on one line when the dories are on the Virgin or the Eastern Shoals; but so close lay the boats that even single hooks snarled, and Harvey found himself in hot argument with a gentle, hairy Newfoundlander on one side and a howling Portuguese on the other. Worse than any tangle of fishing-lines was the confusion of the dory-rodings below water. Each man had anchored where it seemed good to him, drifting and rowing round his fixed point. As the fish struck on less quickly, each man wanted to haul up and get to better ground; but every third man found himself intimately connected with some four or five neighbours. To cut another's roding is crime unspeakable on the Banks; yet it was done, and done without detection, three or four times that day. Tom Platt caught a Maine man in the black act and knocked him over the gunwale with an oar, and Manuel served a fellow-countryman in the same way. But Harvey's anchor-line was cut, and so was Penn's, and they were turned into relief-boats to carry fish to the _We're Here_ as the dories filled. The caplin schooled once more at twilight, when the mad clamour was repeated; and at dusk they rowed back to dress down by the light of kerosene-lamps on the edge of the pen. It was a huge pile, and they went to sleep while they were dressing. Next day several boats fished right above the cap of the Virgin; and Harvey, with them, looked down on the very weed of that lonely rock, which rises to within twenty feet of the surface. The cod were there in legions, marching solemnly over the leathery kelp. When they bit, they bit all together; and so when they stopped. There was a slack time at noon, and the dories began to search for amusement. It was Dan who sighted the Hope Of Prague just coming up, and as her boats joined the company they were greeted with the question: "Who's the meanest man in the Fleet?" Three hundred voices answered cheerily: "Nick Bra-ady." It sounded like an organ chant. "Who stole the lampwicks?" That was Dan's contribution. "Nick Bra-ady," sang the boats. "Who biled the salt bait fer soup?" This was an unknown backbiter a quarter of a mile away. Again the joyful chorus. Now, Brady was not especially mean, but he had that reputation, and the Fleet made the most of it. Then they discovered a man from a Truro boat who, six years before, had been convicted of using a tackle with five or six hooks--a "scrowger," they call it--in the Shoals. Naturally, he had been christened "Scrowger Jim"; and though he had hidden himself on the Georges ever since, he found his honours waiting for him full blown. They took it up in a sort of firecracker chorus: "Jim! O Jim! Jim! O Jim! Sssscrowger Jim!" That pleased everybody. And when a poetical Beverly man--he had been making it up all day, and talked about it for weeks--sang, "The _Carrie Pitman's_ anchor doesn't hold her for a cent" the dories felt that they were indeed fortunate. Then they had to ask that Beverly man how he was off for beans, because even poets must not have things all their own way. Every schooner and nearly every man got it in turn. Was there a careless or dirty cook anywhere? The dories sang about him and his food. Was a schooner badly found? The Fleet was told at full length. Had a man hooked tobacco from a mess-mate? He was named in meeting; the name tossed from roller to roller. Disko's infallible judgments, Long Jack's market-boat that he had sold years ago, Dan's sweetheart (oh, but Dan was an angry boy!), Penn's bad luck with dory-anchors, Salter's views on manure, Manuel's little slips from virtue ashore, and Harvey's ladylike handling of the oar--all were laid before the public; and as the fog fell around them in silvery sheets beneath the sun, the voices sounded like a bench of invisible judges pronouncing sentence. The dories roved and fished and squabbled till a swell underran the sea. Then they drew more apart to save their sides, and some one called that if the swell continued the Virgin would break. A reckless Galway man with his nephew denied this, hauled up anchor, and rowed over the very rock itself. Many voices called them to come away, while others dared them to hold on. As the smooth-backed rollers passed to the southward, they hove the dory high and high into the mist, and dropped her in ugly, sucking, dimpled water, where she spun round her anchor, within a foot or two of the hidden rock. It was playing with death for mere bravado; and the boats looked on in uneasy silence till Long Jack rowed up behind his countrymen and quietly cut their roding. "Can't ye hear ut knockin'?" he cried. "Pull for you miserable lives! Pull!" The men swore and tried to argue as the boat drifted; but the next swell checked a little, like a man tripping on a carpet. There was a deep sob and a gathering roar, and the Virgin flung up a couple of acres of foaming water, white, furious, and ghastly over the shoal sea. Then all the boats greatly applauded Long Jack, and the Galway men held their tongue. "Ain't it elegant?" said Dan, bobbing like a young seal at home. "She'll break about once every ha'af hour now, 'les the swell piles up good. What's her reg'lar time when she's at work, Tom Platt?" "Once ivry fifteen minutes, to the tick. Harve, you've seen the greatest thing on the Banks; an' but for Long Jack you'd seen some dead men too." There came a sound of merriment where the fog lay thicker and the schooners were ringing their bells. A big bark nosed cautiously out of the mist, and was received with shouts and cries of, "Come along, darlin'," from the Irishry. "Another Frenchman?" said Harvey. "Hain't you eyes? She's a Baltimore boat; goin' in fear an' tremblin'," said Dan. "We'll guy the very sticks out of her. Guess it's the fust time her skipper ever met up with the Fleet this way." She was a black, buxom, eight-hundred-ton craft. Her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving. Now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys. That was very much her situation. She knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way. This is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories: "The Virgin? Fwhat are you talkin' of? 'This is Le Have on a Sunday mornin'. Go home an' sober up." "Go home, ye tarrapin! Go home an' tell 'em we're comin'." Half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: "Thay-aah-she-strikes!" "Hard up! Hard up fer your life! You're on top of her now." "Daown! Hard daown! Let go everything!" "All hands to the pumps!" "Daown jib an' pole her!" Here the skipper lost his temper and said things. Instantly fishing was suspended to answer him, and he heard many curious facts about his boat and her next port of call. They asked him if he were insured; and whence he had stolen his anchor, because, they said, it belonged to the _Carrie Pitman_; they called his boat a mud-scow, and accused him of dumping garbage to frighten the fish; they offered to tow him and charge it to his wife; and one audacious youth slipped up almost under the counter, smacked it with his open palm, and yelled: "Gid up, Buck!" The cook emptied a pan of ashes on him, and he replied with cod-heads. The bark's crew fired small coal from the galley, and the dories threatened to come aboard and "razee" her. They would have warned her at once had she been in real peril; but, seeing her well clear of the Virgin, they made the most of their chances. The fun was spoilt when the rock spoke again, a half-mile to windward, and the tormented bark set everything that would draw and went her ways; but the dories felt that the honours lay with them. All that night the Virgin roared hoarsely; and next morning, over an angry, white-headed sea, Harvey saw the Fleet with flickering masts waiting for a lead. Not a dory was hove out till ten o'clock, when the two Jeraulds of the Day's Eye, imagining a lull which did not exist, set the example. In a minute half the boats were out and bobbing in the cockly swells, but Troop kept the _We're Heres_ at work dressing down. He saw no sense in "dares"; and as the storm grew that evening they had the pleasure of receiving wet strangers only too glad to make any refuge in the gale. The boys stood by the dory-tackles with lanterns, the men ready to haul, one eye cocked for the sweeping wave that would make them drop everything and hold on for dear life. Out of the dark would come a yell of "Dory, dory!" They would hook up and haul in a drenched man and a half-sunk boat, till their decks were littered down with nests of dories and the bunks were full. Five times in their watch did Harvey, with Dan, jump at the foregaff where it lay lashed on the boom, and cling with arms, legs, and teeth to rope and spar and sodden canvas as a big wave filled the decks. One dory was smashed to pieces, and the sea pitched the man head first on to the decks, cutting his forehead open; and about dawn, when the racing seas glimmered white all along their cold edges, another man, blue and ghastly, crawled in with a broken hand, asking news of his brother. Seven extra mouths sat down to breakfast: A Swede; a Chatham skipper; a boy from Hancock, Maine; one Duxbury, and three Provincetown men. There was a general sorting out among the Fleet next day; and though no one said anything, all ate with better appetites when boat after boat reported full crews aboard. Only a couple of Portuguese and an old man from Gloucester were drowned, but many were cut or bruised; and two schooners had parted their tackle and been blown to the southward, three days' sail. A man died on a Frenchman--it was the same bark that had traded tobacco with the _We're Heres_. She slipped away quite quietly one wet, white morning, moved to a patch of deep water, her sails all hanging anyhow, and Harvey saw the funeral through Disko's spy-glass. It was only an oblong bundle slid overside. They did not seem to have any form of service, but in the night, at anchor, Harvey heard them across the star-powdered black water, singing something that sounded like a hymn. It went to a very slow tune. "La brigantine Qui va tourner, Roule et s'incline Pour m'entrainer. Oh, Vierge Marie, Pour moi priez Dieu! Adieu, patrie; Quebec, adieu!" Tom Platt visited her, because, he said, the dead man was his brother as a Freemason. It came out that a wave had doubled the poor fellow over the heel of the bowsprit and broken his back. The news spread like a flash, for, contrary to general custom, the Frenchman held an auction of the dead man's kit,--he had no friends at St Malo or Miquelon,--and everything was spread out on the top of the house, from his red knitted cap to the leather belt with the sheath-knife at the back. Dan and Harvey were out on twenty-fathom water in the Hattie S., and naturally rowed over to join the crowd. It was a long pull, and they stayed some little time while Dan bought the knife, which had a curious brass handle. When they dropped overside and pushed off into a drizzle of rain and a lop of sea, it occurred to them that they might get into trouble for neglecting the lines. "Guess 'twon't hurt us any to be warmed up," said Dan, shivering under his oilskins, and they rowed on into the heart of a white fog, which, as usual, dropped on them without warning. "There's too much blame tide hereabouts to trust to your instinks," he said. "Heave over the anchor, Harve, and we'll fish a piece till the thing lifts. Bend on your biggest lead. Three pound ain't any too much in this water. See how she's tightened on her rodin' already." There was quite a little bubble at the bows, where some irresponsible Bank current held the dory full stretch on her rope; but they could not see a boat's length in any direction. Harvey turned up his collar and bunched himself over his reel with the air of a wearied navigator. Fog had no special terrors for him now. They fished a while in silence, and found the cod struck on well. Then Dan drew the sheath-knife and tested the edge of it on the gunwale. "That's a daisy," said Harvey. "How did you get it so cheap?" "On account o' their blame Cath'lic superstitions," said Dan, jabbing with the bright blade. "They don't fancy takin' iron from off a dead man, so to speak. 'See them Arichat Frenchmen step back when I bid?" "But an auction ain't taking anythink off a dead man. It's business." "We know it ain't, but there's no goin' in the teeth o' superstition. That's one o' the advantages o' livin' in a progressive country." And Dan began whistling: "Oh, Double Thatcher, how are you? Now Eastern Point comes inter view. The girls an' boys we soon shall see, At anchor off Cape Ann!" "Why didn't that Eastport man bid, then? He bought his boots. Ain't Maine progressive?" "Maine? Pshaw! They don't know enough, or they hain't got money enough, to paint their haouses in Maine. I've seen 'em. The Eastport man he told me that the knife had been used--so the French captain told him--used up on the French coast last year." "Cut a man? Heave 's the muckle." Harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over. "Killed him! Course, when I heard that I was keener'n ever to get it." "Christmas! I didn't know it," said Harvey, turning round. "I'll give you a dollar for it when I--get my wages. Say, I'll give you two dollars." "Honest? D'you like it as much as all that?" said Dan, flushing. "Well, to tell the truth, I kinder got it for you--to give; but I didn't let on till I saw how you'd take it. It's yours and welcome, Harve, because we're dory-mates, and so on and so forth, an' so followin'. Catch a-holt!" He held it out, belt and all. "But look at here. Dan, I don't see--" "Take it. 'Tain't no use to me. I wish you to hev it." The temptation was irresistible. "Dan, you're a white man," said Harvey. "I'll keep it as long as I live." "That's good hearin'," said Dan, with a pleasant laugh; and then, anxious to change the subject: "'Look's if your line was fast to somethin'." "Fouled, I guess," said Harve, tugging. Before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. "Concern the thing!" he cried. "She acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. It's all sand here, ain't it?" Dan reached over and gave a judgmatic tweak. "Hollbut'll act that way 'f he's sulky. Thet's no strawberry-bottom. Yank her once or twice. She gives, sure. Guess we'd better haul up an' make certain." They pulled together, making fast at each turn on the cleats, and the hidden weight rose sluggishly. "Prize, oh! Haul!" shouted Dan, but the shout ended in a shrill, double shriek of horror, for out of the sea came the body of the dead Frenchman buried two days before! The hook had caught him under the right armpit, and he swayed, erect and horrible, head and shoulders above water. His arms were tied to his side, and--he had no face. The boys fell over each other in a heap at the bottom of the dory, and there they lay while the thing bobbed alongside, held on the shortened line. "The tide--the tide brought him!" said Harvey with quivering lips, as he fumbled at the clasp of the belt. "Oh, Lord! Oh, Harve!" groaned Dan, "be quick. He's come for it. Let him have it. Take it off." "I don't want it! I don't want it!" cried Harvey. "I can't find the bu-buckle." "Quick, Harve! He's on your line!" Harvey sat up to unfasten the belt, facing the head that had no face under its streaming hair. "He's fast still," he whispered to Dan, who slipped out his knife and cut the line, as Harvey flung the belt far overside. The body shot down with a plop, and Dan cautiously rose to his knees, whiter than the fog. "He come for it. He come for it. I've seen a stale one hauled up on a trawl and I didn't much care, but he come to us special." "I wish--I wish I hadn't taken the knife. Then he'd have come on your line." "Dunno as thet would ha' made any differ. We're both scared out o' ten years' growth. Oh, Harve, did ye see his head?" "Did I? I'll never forget it. But look at here, Dan; it couldn't have been meant. It was only the tide." "Tide! He come for it, Harve. Why, they sunk him six miles to south'ard o' the Fleet, an' we're two miles from where she's lyin' now. They told me he was weighted with a fathom an' a half o' chain-cable." "Wonder what he did with the knife--up on the French coast?" "Something bad. 'Guess he's bound to take it with him to the Judgment, an' so-- What are you doin' with the fish?" "Heaving 'em overboard," said Harvey. "What for? We sha'n't eat 'em." "I don't care. I had to look at his face while I was takin' the belt off. You can keep your catch if you like. I've no use for mine." Dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again. "Guess it's best to be on the safe side," he murmured at last. "I'd give a month's pay if this fog 'u'd lift. Things go abaout in a fog that ye don't see in clear weather--yo-hoes an' hollerers and such like. I'm sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o' walkin'. He might ha' walked." "Don't, Dan! We're right on top of him now. 'Wish I was safe aboard, hem' pounded by Uncle Salters." "They'll be lookin' fer us in a little. Gimme the tooter." Dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew. "Go on," said Harvey. "I don't want to stay here all night" "Question is, haow he'd take it. There was a man frum down the coast told me once he was in a schooner where they darsen't ever blow a horn to the dories, becaze the skipper--not the man he was with, but a captain that had run her five years before--he'd drowned a boy alongside in a drunk fit; an' ever after, that boy he'd row along-side too and shout, 'Dory! dory!' with the rest." "Dory! dory!" a muffled voice cried through the fog. They cowered again, and the horn dropped from Dan's hand. "Hold on!" cried Harvey; "it's the cook." "Dunno what made me think o' thet fool tale, either," said Dan. "It's the doctor, sure enough." "Dan! Danny! Oooh, Dan! Harve! Harvey! Oooh, Haarveee!" "We're here," sung both boys together. They heard oars, but could see nothing till the cook, shining and dripping, rowed into them. "What iss happened?" said he. "You will be beaten at home." "Thet's what we want. Thet's what we're sufferin' for" said Dan. "Anything homey's good enough fer us. We've had kinder depressin' company." As the cook passed them a line, Dan told him the tale. "Yess! He come for hiss knife," was all he said at the end. Never had the little rocking _We're Here_ looked so deliciously home-like as when the cook, born and bred in fogs, rowed them back to her. There was a warm glow of light from the cabin and a satisfying smell of food forward, and it was heavenly to hear Disko and the others, all quite alive and solid, leaning over the rail and promising them a first-class pounding. But the cook was a black; master of strategy. He did not get the dories aboard till he had given the more striking points of the tale, explaining as he backed and bumped round the counter how Harvey was the mascot to destroy any possible bad luck. So the boys came override as rather uncanny heroes, and every one asked them questions instead of pounding them for making trouble. Little Penn delivered quite a speech on the folly of superstitions; but public opinion was against him and in favour of Long Jack, who told the most excruciating ghost-stories, till nearly midnight. Under that influence no one except Salters and Penn said anything about "idolatry," when the cook put a lighted candle, a cake of flour and water, and a pinch of salt on a shingle, and floated them out astern to keep the Frenchman quiet in case he was still restless. Dan lit the candle because he had bought the belt, and the cook grunted and muttered charms as long as he could see the ducking point of flame. Said Harvey to Dan, as they turned in after watch: "How about progress and Catholic superstitions?" "Huh! I guess I'm as enlightened and progressive as the next man, but when it comes to a dead St. Malo deck-hand scarin' a couple o' pore boys stiff fer the sake of a thirty-cent knife, why, then, the cook can take hold fer all o' me. I mistrust furriners, livin' or dead." Next morning all, except the cook, were rather ashamed of the ceremonies, and went to work double tides, speaking gruffly to one another. The _We're Here_ was racing neck and neck for her last few loads against the Parry Norman; and so close was the struggle that the Fleet took side and betted tobacco. All hands worked at the lines or dressing-down till they fell asleep where they stood--beginning before dawn and ending when it was too dark to see. They even used the cook as pitcher, and turned Harvey into the hold to pass salt, while Dan helped to dress down. Luckily a Parry Norman man sprained his ankle falling down the foc'sle, and the _We're Heres_ gained. Harvey could not see how one more fish could be crammed into her, but Disko and Tom Platt stowed and stowed, and planked the mass down with big stones from the ballast, and there was always "jest another day's work." Disko did not tell them when all the salt was wetted. He rolled to the lazarette aft the cabin and began hauling out the big mainsail. This was at ten in the morning. The riding-sail was down and the main- and topsail were up by noon, and dories came alongside with letters for home, envying their good fortune. At last she cleared decks, hoisted her flag,--as is the right of the first boat off the Banks,--up-anchored, and began to move. Disko pretended that he wished to accomodate folk who had not sent in their mail, and so worked her gracefully in and out among the schooners. In reality, that was his little triumphant procession, and for the fifth year running it showed what kind of mariner he was. Dan's accordion and Tom Platt's fiddle supplied the music of the magic verse you must not sing till all the salt is wet: "Hih! Yih! Yoho! Send your letters raound! All our salt is wetted, an' the anchor's off the graound! Bend, oh, bend your mains'l, we're back to Yankeeland-- With fifteen hunder' quintal, An' fifteen hunder' quintal, 'Teen hunder' toppin' quintal, 'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand." The last letters pitched on deck wrapped round pieces of coal, and the Gloucester men shouted messages to their wives and womenfolks and owners, while the _We're Here_ finished the musical ride through the Fleet, her headsails quivering like a man's hand when he raises it to say good-by. Harvey very soon discovered that the _We're Here_, with her riding-sail, strolling from berth to berth, and the _We're Here_ headed west by south under home canvas, were two very different boats. There was a bite and kick to the wheel even in "boy's" weather; he could feel the dead weight in the hold flung forward mightily across the surges, and the streaming line of bubbles overside made his eyes dizzy. Disko kept them busy fiddling with the sails; and when those were flattened like a racing yacht's, Dan had to wait on the big topsail, which was put over by hand every time she went about. In spare moments they pumped, for the packed fish dripped brine, which does not improve a cargo. But since there was no fishing, Harvey had time to look at the sea from another point of view. The low-sided schooner was naturally on most intimate terms with her surroundings. They saw little of the horizon save when she topped a swell; and usually she was elbowing, fidgeting, and coasting her steadfast way through gray, gray-blue, or black hollows laced across and across with streaks of shivering foam; or rubbing herself caressingly along the flank of some bigger water-hill. It was as if she said: "You wouldn't hurt me, surely? I'm only the little _We're Here_." Then she would slide away chuckling softly to herself till she was brought up by some fresh obstacle. The dullest of folk cannot see this kind of thing hour after hour through long days without noticing it; and Harvey, being anything but dull, began to comprehend and enjoy the dry chorus of wave-tops turning over with a sound of incessant tearing; the hurry of the winds working across open spaces and herding the purple-blue cloud-shadows; the splendid upheaval of the red sunrise; the folding and packing away of the morning mists, wall after wall withdrawn across the white floors; the salty glare and blaze of noon; the kiss of rain falling over thousands of dead, flat square miles; the chilly blackening of everything at the day's end; and the million wrinkles of the sea under the moonlight, when the jib-boom solemnly poked at the low stars, and Harvey went down to get a doughnut from the cook. But the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, Tom Platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass. Then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of Thatcher's Island. They left the cold gray of the Bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for Quebec by the Straits of St. Lawrence, with the Jersey salt-brigs from Spain and Sicily; found a friendly northeaster off Artimon Bank that drove them within view of the East light of Sable Island,--a sight Disko did not linger over,--and stayed with them past Western and Le Have, to the northern fringe of George's. From there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily. "Hattie's pulling on the string," Dan confided to Harvey. "Hattie an' Ma. Next Sunday you'll be hirin' a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep. 'Guess you'll keep with us till your folks come. Do you know the best of gettin' ashore again?" "Hot bath?" said Harvey. His eyebrows were all white with dried spray. "That's good, but a night-shirt's better. I've been dreamin' o' night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail. Ye can wiggle your toes then. Ma'll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft. It's home, Harve. It's home! Ye can sense it in the air. We're runnin' into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an' I can smell the bayberries. Wonder if we'll get in fer supper. Port a trifle." The hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them. When they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-August. They lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight. A Gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourished his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet. "And all's well!" he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner. "Wouverman's waiting fer you, Disko. What's the news o' the Fleet?" Disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once. It gave the low circle of hills round Gloucester Harbor, Ten Pound Island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the _We're Here_ crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her. Then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence. "The flag, the flag!" said Disko, suddenly, pointing upward. "What is ut?" said Long Jack. "Otto! Ha'af mast. They can see us frum shore now." "I'd clean forgot. He's no folk to Gloucester, has he?" "Girl he was goin' to be married to this fall." "Mary pity her!" said Long Jack, and lowered the little flag half-mast for the sake of Otto, swept overboard in a gale off Le Have three months before. Disko wiped the wet from his eyes and led the _We're Here_ to Wouverman's wharf, giving his orders in whispers, while she swung round moored tugs and night-watchmen hailed her from the ends of inky-black piers. Over and above the darkness and the mystery of the procession, Harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. They heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse-tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds fall of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound. Then Harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed Dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the _We're Here_ by the lightning flashes. She took no notice of Harvey till he had recovered himself a little and Disko had told her his story. Then they went to Disko's house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire his folk, Harvey Cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all America. But the curious thing was that Disko and Dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying. Wouverman was not ready for Disko's prices till Disko, sure that the _We're Here_ was at least a week ahead of any other Gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and Long Jack stopped the Rocky Neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. But Dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bung-full of mystery and most haughty to his family. "Dan, I'll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way," said Troop, pensively. "Sence we've come ashore this time you've bin a heap too fresh." "I'd lay into him naow ef he was mine," said Uncle Salters, sourly. He and Penn boarded with the Troops. "Oho!" said Dan, shuffling with the accordion round the backyard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. "Dad, you're welcome to your own judgment, but remember I've warned ye. Your own flesh an' blood ha' warned ye! 'Tain't any o' my fault ef you're mistook, but I'll be on deck to watch ye. An' ez fer yeou, Uncle Salters, Pharaoh's chief butler ain't in it 'longside o' you! You watch aout an' wait. You'll be plowed under like your own blamed clover; but me--Dan Troop--I'll flourish like a green bay-tree because I warn't stuck on my own opinion." Disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet-slippers. "You're gettin' ez crazy as poor Harve. You two go araound gigglin' an' squinchin' an' kickin' each other under the table till there's no peace in the haouse," said he. "There's goin' to be a heap less--fer some folks," Dan replied. "You wait an' see." He and Harvey went out on the trolley to East Gloucester, where they tramped through the bayberry bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. Harvey had shown Dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst. "Harve's folk?" said Dan, with an unruffled face after supper. "Well, I guess they don't amount to much of anything, or we'd ha' heard from 'em by naow. His pop keeps a kind o' store out West. Maybe he'll give you 's much as five dollars, Dad." "What did I tell ye?" said Salters. "Don't sputter over your vittles, Dan." CHAPTER IX Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas. He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. Hope she had none, and who could offer it? All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. Of his own sorrow he spoke little--hardly realized the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, "What's the use of going on?" There had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. Then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together--the old head backing the young fire. Now his boy was dead--lost at sea, as it might have been a Swede sailor from one of Cheyne's big teaships; the wife dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies. He had taken the wife to his raw new palace in San Diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and Cheyne, in a veranda-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. There was a war of rates among four Western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber camps in Oregon, and the legislature of the State of California, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him. Ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. But now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the Chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary's questions as he opened the Saturday mail. Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. On the other hand-- The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white. He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco: Picked up by fishing schooner _We're Here_ having fallen off boat great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is Mama Harvey N. Cheyne. The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs. Cheyne's doctor who found Cheyne pacing to and fro. "What--what d' you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning to it? I can't quite make it out," he cried. "I can," said the doctor. "I lose seven thousand a year--that's all." He thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at Cheyne's imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh. "You mean you'd tell her? 'May be a fraud?" "What's the motive?" said the doctor, coolly. "Detection's too certain. It's the boy sure enough." Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages. "Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are seek." The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: "What is it? What has happened?" No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news. "And that's all right," said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. "About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don't kill, Miss Kinzey." "I know it; but we've a heap to do first." Miss Kinzey was from Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall. "Milsom, we're going right across. Private car--straight through--Boston. Fix the connections," shouted Cheyne down the staircase. "I thought so." The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story--nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey's white fingers called up the Continent of America. "_K. H. Wade, Los Angeles--_ The 'Constance' is at Los Angeles, isn't she, Miss Kinzey?" "Yep." Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch. "Ready? _Send 'Constance,' private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next_." Click-click-click! "Couldn't you better that?" "Not on those grades. That gives 'em sixty hours from here to Chicago. They won't gain anything by taking a special east of that. Ready? _Also arrange with Lake Shore and Michigan Southern to take 'Constance' on New York Central and Hudson River Buffalo to Albany, and B. and A. the same Albany to Boston. Indispensable I should reach Boston Wednesday evening. Be sure nothing prevents. Have also wired Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes._--Sign, Cheyne." Miss Kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on. "Now then. Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes, of course. Ready? _Canniff, Chicago. Please take my private car 'Constance' from Santa Fe at Sixteenth Street next Tuesday p. m. on N. Y. Limited through to Buffalo and deliver N. Y. C. for Albany._--Ever bin to N' York, Miss Kinzey? We'll go some day.--Ready? _Take car Buffalo to Albany on Limited Tuesday p. m._ That's for Toucey." "Haven't bin to Noo York, but I know that!" with a toss of the head. "Beg pardon. Now, Boston and Albany, Barnes, same instructions from Albany through to Boston. Leave three-five P. M. (you needn't wire that); arrive nine-five P. M. Wednesday. That covers everything Wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers." "It's great," said Miss Kinzey, with a look of admiration. This was the kind of man she understood and appreciated. "'Tisn't bad," said Milsom, modestly. "Now, any one but me would have lost thirty hours and spent a week working out the run, instead of handing him over to the Santa Fe straight through to Chicago." "But see here, about that Noo York Limited. Chauncey Depew himself couldn't hitch his car to her," Miss Kinzey suggested, recovering herself. "Yes, but this isn't Chauncey. It's Cheyne--lightning. It goes." "Even so. Guess we'd better wire the boy. You've forgotten that, anyhow." "I'll ask." When he returned with the father's message bidding Harvey meet them in Boston at an appointed hour, he found Miss Kinzey laughing over the keys. Then Milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from Los Angeles ran: "We want to know why-why-why? General uneasiness developed and spreading." Ten minutes later Chicago appealed to Miss Kinzey in these words: "If crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time. We are all getting to cover here." This was capped by a message from Topeka (and wherein Topeka was concerned even Milsom could not guess): "Don't shoot, Colonel. We'll come down." Cheyne smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies when the telegrams were laid before him. "They think we're on the warpath. Tell 'em we don't feel like fighting just now, Milsom. Tell 'em what we're going for. I guess you and Miss Kinsey had better come along, though it isn't likely I shall do any business on the road. Tell 'em the truth--for once." So the truth was told. Miss Kinzey clicked in the sentiment while the secretary added the memorable quotation, "Let us have peace," and in board rooms two thousand miles away the representatives of sixty-three million dollars' worth of variously manipulated railroad interests breathed more freely. Cheyne was flying to meet the only son, so miraculously restored to him. The bear was seeking his cub, not the bulls. Hard men who had their knives drawn to fight for their financial lives put away the weapons and wished him God-speed, while half a dozen panic-smitten tin-pot toads perked up their heads and spoke of the wonderful things they would have done had not Cheyne buried the hatchet. It was a busy week-end among the wires; for now that their anxiety was removed, men and cities hastened to accommodate. Los Angeles called to San Diego and Barstow that the Southern California engineers might know and be ready in their lonely roundhouses; Barstow passed the word to the Atlantic and Pacific; and Albuquerque flung it the whole length of the Atchinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe management, even into Chicago. An engine, combination-car with crew, and the great and gilded "Constance" private car were to be "expedited" over those two thousand three hundred and fifty miles. The train would take precedence of one hundred and seventy-seven others meeting and passing; despatchers and crews of every one of those said trains must be notified. Sixteen locomotives, sixteen engineers, and sixteen firemen would be needed--each and every one the best available. Two and one half minutes would be allowed for changing engines, three for watering, and two for coaling. "Warn the men, and arrange tanks and chutes accordingly; for Harvey Cheyne is in a hurry, a hurry, a hurry," sang the wires. "Forty miles an hour will be expected, and division superintendents will accompany this special over their respective divisions. From San Diego to Sixteenth Street, Chicago, let the magic carpet be laid down. Hurry! Oh, hurry!" "It will be hot," said Cheyne, as they rolled out of San Diego in the dawn of Sunday. "We're going to hurry, Mama, just as fast as ever we can; but I really don't think there's any good of your putting on your bonnet and gloves yet. You'd much better lie down and take your medicine. I'd play you a game of dominoes, but it's Sunday." "I'll be good. Oh, I will be good. Only--taking off my bonnet makes me feel as if we'd never get there." "Try to sleep a little, Mama, and we'll be in Chicago before you know." "But it's Boston, Father. Tell them to hurry." The six-foot drivers were hammering their way to San Bernardino and the Mohave wastes, but this was no grade for speed. That would come later. The heat of the desert followed the heat of the hills as they turned east to the Needles and the Colorado River. The car cracked in the utter drouth and glare, and they put crushed ice to Mrs. Cheyne's neck, and toiled up the long, long grades, past Ash Fork, towards Flagstaff, where the forests and quarries are, under the dry, remote skies. The needle of the speed-indicator flicked and wagged to and fro; the cinders rattled on the roof, and a whirl of dust sucked after the whirling wheels. The crew of the combination sat on their bunks, panting in their shirtsleeves, and Cheyne found himself among them shouting old, old stories of the railroad that every trainman knows, above the roar of the car. He told them about his son, and how the sea had given up its dead, and they nodded and spat and rejoiced with him; asked after "her, back there," and whether she could stand it if the engineer "let her out a piece," and Cheyne thought she could. Accordingly, the great fire-horse was "let 'ut" from Flagstaff to Winslow, till a division superintendent protested. But Mrs. Cheyne, in the boudoir stateroom, where the French maid, sallow-white with fear, clung to the silver door-handle, only moaned a little and begged her husband to bid them "hurry." And so they dropped the dry sands and moon-struck rocks of Arizona behind them, and grilled on till the crash of the couplings and the wheeze of the brake-hose told them they were at Coolidge by the Continental Divide. Three bold and experienced men--cool, confident, and dry when they began; white, quivering, and wet when they finished their trick at those terrible wheels--swung her over the great lift from Albuquerque to Glorietta and beyond Springer, up and up to the Raton Tunnel on the State line, whence they dropped rocking into La Junta, had sight of the Arkansaw, and tore down the long slope to Dodge City, where Cheyne took comfort once again from setting his watch an hour ahead. There was very little talk in the car. The secretary and typewriter sat together on the stamped Spanish-leather cushions by the plate-glass observation-window at the rear end, watching the surge and ripple of the ties crowded back behind them, and, it is believed, making notes of the scenery. Cheyne moved nervously between his own extravagant gorgeousness and the naked necessity of the combination, an unlit cigar in his teeth, till the pitying crews forgot that he was their tribal enemy, and did their best to entertain him. At night the bunched electrics lit up that distressful palace of all the luxuries, and they fared sumptuously, swinging on through the emptiness of abject desolation. Now they heard the swish of a water-tank, and the guttural voice of a Chinaman, the click-clink of hammers that tested the Krupp steel wheels, and the oath of a tramp chased off the rear-platform; now the solid crash of coal shot into the tender; and now a beating back of noises as they flew past a waiting train. Now they looked out into great abysses, a trestle purring beneath their tread, or up to rocks that barred out half the stars. Now scour and ravine changed and rolled back to jagged mountains on the horizon's edge, and now broke into hills lower and lower, till at last came the true plains. At Dodge City an unknown hand threw in a copy of a Kansas paper containing some sort of an interview with Harvey, who had evidently fallen in with an enterprising reporter, telegraphed on from Boston. The joyful journalese revealed that it was beyond question their boy, and it soothed Mrs. Cheyne for a while. Her one word "hurry" was conveyed by the crews to the engineers at Nickerson, Topeka, and Marceline, where the grades are easy, and they brushed the Continent behind them. Towns and villages were close together now, and a man could feel here that he moved among people. "I can't see the dial, and my eyes ache so. What are we doing?" "The very best we can, Mama. There's no sense in getting in before the Limited. We'd only have to wait." "I don't care. I want to feel we're moving. Sit down and tell me the miles." Cheyne sat down and read the dial for her (there were some miles which stand for records to this day), but the seventy-foot car never changed its long steamer-like roll, moving through the heat with the hum of a giant bee. Yet the speed was not enough for Mrs. Cheyne; and the heat, the remorseless August heat, was making her giddy; the clock-hands would not move, and when, oh, when would they be in Chicago? It is not true that, as they changed engines at Fort Madison, Cheyne passed over to the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers an endowment sufficient to enable them to fight him and his fellows on equal terms for evermore. He paid his obligations to engineers and firemen as he believed they deserved, and only his bank knows what he gave the crews who had sympathized with him. It is on record that the last crew took entire charge of switching operations at Sixteenth Street, because "she" was in a doze at last, and Heaven was to help any one who bumped her. Now the highly paid specialist who conveys the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Limited from Chicago to Elkhart is something of an autocrat, and he does not approve of being told how to back up to a car. None the less he handled the "Constance" as if she might have been a load of dynamite, and when the crew rebuked him, they did it in whispers and dumb show. "Pshaw!" said the Atchinson, Topeka, and Santa Fe men, discussing life later, "we weren't runnin' for a record. Harvey Cheyne's wife, she were sick back, an' we didn't want to jounce her. 'Come to think of it, our runnin' time from San Diego to Chicago was 57.54. You can tell that to them Eastern way-trains. When we're tryin' for a record, we'll let you know." To the Western man (though this would not please either city) Chicago and Boston are cheek by jowl, and some railroads encourage the delusion. The Limited whirled the "Constance" into Buffalo and the arms of the New York Central and Hudson River (illustrious magnates with white whiskers and gold charms on their watch-chains boarded her here to talk a little business to Cheyne), who slid her gracefully into Albany, where the Boston and Albany completed the run from tide-water to tide-water--total time, eighty-seven hours and thirty-five minutes, or three days, fifteen hours and one half. Harvey was waiting for them. After violent emotion most people and all boys demand food. They feasted the returned prodigal behind drawn curtains, cut off in their great happiness, while the trains roared in and out around them. Harvey ate, drank, and enlarged on his adventures all in one breath, and when he had a hand free his mother fondled it. His voice was thickened with living in the open, salt air; his palms were rough and hard, his wrists dotted with marks of gurrysores; and a fine full flavour of codfish hung round rubber boots and blue jersey. The father, well used to judging men, looked at him keenly. He did not know what enduring harm the boy might have taken. Indeed, he caught himself thinking that he knew very little whatever of his son; but he distinctly remembered an unsatisfied, dough-faced youth who took delight in "calling down the old man," and reducing his mother to tears--such a person as adds to the gaiety of public rooms and hotel piazzas, where the ingenuous young of the wealthy play with or revile the bell-boys. But this well set-up fisher-youth did not wriggle, looked at him with eyes steady, clear, and unflinching, and spoke in a tone distinctly, even startlingly, respectful. There was that in his voice, too, which seemed to promise that the change might be permanent, and that the new Harvey had come to stay. "Some one's been coercing him," thought Cheyne. "Now Constance would never have allowed that. Don't see as Europe could have done it any better." "But why didn't you tell this man, Troop, who you were?" the mother repeated, when Harvey had expanded his story at least twice. "Disko Troop, dear. The best man that ever walked a deck. I don't care who the next is." "Why didn't you tell him to put you ashore? You know Papa would have made it up to him ten times over." "I know it; but he thought I was crazy. I'm afraid I called him a thief because I couldn't find the bills in my pocket." "A sailor found them by the flagstaff that--that night," sobbed Mrs. Cheyne. "That explains it, then. I don't blame Troop any. I just said I wouldn't work--on a Banker, too--and of course he hit me on the nose, and oh! I bled like a stuck hog." "My poor darling! They must have abused you horribly." "Dunno quite. Well, after that, I saw a light." Cheyne slapped his leg and chuckled. This was going to be a boy after his own hungry heart. He had never seen precisely that twinkle in Harvey's eye before. "And the old man gave me ten and a half a month; he's paid me half now; and I took hold with Dan and pitched right in. I can't do a man's work yet. But I can handle a dory 'most as well as Dan, and I don't get rattled in a fog--much; and I can take my trick in light winds--that's steering, dear--and I can 'most bait up a trawl, and I know my ropes, of course; and I can pitch fish till the cows come home, and I'm great on old Josephus, and I'll show you how I can clear coffee with a piece of fish-skin, and--I think I'll have another cup, please. Say, you've no notion what a heap of work there is in ten and a half a month!" "I began with eight and a half, my son," said Cheyne. "That so? You never told me, sir." "You never asked, Harve. I'll tell you about it some day, if you care to listen. Try a stuffed olive." "Troop says the most interesting thing in the world is to find out how the next man gets his vittles. It's great to have a trimmed-up meal again. We were well fed, though. But mug on the Banks. Disko fed us first-class. He's a great man. And Dan--that's his son--Dan's my partner. And there's Uncle Salters and his manures, an' he reads Josephus. He's sure I'm crazy yet. And there's poor little Penn, and he is crazy. You mustn't talk to him about Johnstown, because-- "And, oh, you must know Tom Platt and Long Jack and Manuel. Manuel saved my life. I'm sorry he's a Portuguee. He can't talk much, but he's an everlasting musician. He found me struck adrift and drifting, and hauled me in." "I wonder your nervous system isn't completely wrecked," said Mrs. Cheyne. "What for, Mama? I worked like a horse and I ate like a hog and I slept like a dead man." That was too much for Mrs. Cheyne, who began to think of her visions of a corpse rocking on the salty seas. She went to her stateroom, and Harvey curled up beside his father, explaining his indebtedness. "You can depend upon me to do everything I can for the crowd, Harve. They seem to be good men on your showing." "Best in the Fleet, sir. Ask at Gloucester," said Harvey. "But Disko believes still he's cured me of being crazy. Dan's the only one I've let on to about you, and our private cars and all the rest of it, and I'm not quite sure Dan believes. I want to paralyze 'em to-morrow. Say, can't they run the 'Constance' over to Gloucester? Mama don't look fit to be moved, anyway, and we're bound to finish cleaning out by tomorrow. Wouverman takes our fish. You see, we're the first off the Banks this season, and it's four twenty-five a quintal. We held out till he paid it. They want it quick." "You mean you'll have to work to-morrow, then?" "I told Troop I would. I'm on the scales. I've brought the tallies with me." He looked at the greasy notebook with an air of importance that made his father choke. "There isn't but three--no--two ninety-four or five quintal more by my reckoning." "Hire a substitute," suggested Cheyne, to see what Harvey would say. "Can't, sir. I'm tally-man for the schooner. Troop says I've a better head for figures than Dan. Troop's a mighty just man." "Well, suppose I don't move the 'Constance' to-night, how'll you fix it?" Harvey looked at the clock, which marked twenty past eleven. "Then I'll sleep here till three and catch the four o'clock freight. They let us men from the Fleet ride free as a rule." "That's a notion. But I think we can get the 'Constance' around about as soon as your men's freight. Better go to bed now." Harvey spread himself on the sofa, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before his father could shade the electrics. Cheyne sat watching the young face under the shadow of the arm thrown over the forehead, and among many things that occurred to him was the notion that he might perhaps have been neglectful as a father. "One never knows when one's taking one's biggest risks," he said. "It might have been worse than drowning; but I don't think it has--I don't think it has. If it hasn't, I haven't enough to pay Troop, that's all; and I don't think it has." Morning brought a fresh sea breeze through the windows, the "Constance" was side-tracked among freight-cars at Gloucester, and Harvey had gone to his business. "Then he'll fall overboard again and be drowned," the mother said bitterly. "We'll go and look, ready to throw him a rope in case. You've never seen him working for his bread," said the father. "What nonsense! As if any one expected--" "Well, the man that hired him did. He's about right, too." They went down between the stores full of fishermen's oilskins to Wouverman's wharf where the _We're Here_ rode high, her Bank flag still flying, all hands busy as beavers in the glorious morning light. Disko stood by the main hatch superintending Manuel, Penn, and Uncle Salters at the tackle. Dan was swinging the loaded baskets inboard as Long Jack and Tom Platt filled them, and Harvey, with a notebook, represented the skipper's interests before the clerk of the scales on the salt-sprinkled wharf-edge. "Ready!" cried the voices below. "Haul!" cried Disko. "Hi!" said Manuel. "Here!" said Dan, swinging the basket. Then they heard Harvey's voice, clear and fresh, checking the weights. The last of the fish had been whipped out, and Harvey leaped from the string-piece six feet to a ratline, as the shortest way to hand Disko the tally, shouting, "Two ninety-seven, and an empty hold!" "What's the total, Harve?" said Disko. "Eight sixty-five. Three thousand six hundred and seventy-six dollars and a quarter. 'Wish I'd share as well as wage." "Well, I won't go so far as to say you hevn't deserved it, Harve. Don't you want to slip up to Wouverman's office and take him our tallies?" "Who's that boy?" said Cheyne to Dan, well used to all manner of questions from those idle imbeciles called summer boarders. "Well, he's kind o' supercargo," was the answer. "We picked him up struck adrift on the Banks. Fell overboard from a liner, he sez. He was a passenger. He's by way o' hem' a fisherman now." "Is he worth his keep?" "Ye-ep. Dad, this man wants to know ef Harve's worth his keep. Say, would you like to go aboard? We'll fix up a ladder for her." "I should very much, indeed. 'Twon't hurt you, Mama, and you'll be able to see for yourself." The woman who could not lift her head a week ago scrambled down the ladder, and stood aghast amid the mess and tangle aft. "Be you anyways interested in Harve?" said Disko. "Well, ye-es." "He's a good boy, an' ketches right hold jest as he's bid. You've heard haow we found him? He was sufferin' from nervous prostration, I guess, 'r else his head had hit somethin', when we hauled him aboard. He's all over that naow. Yes, this is the cabin. 'Tain't in order, but you're quite welcome to look araound. Those are his figures on the stove-pipe, where we keep the reckonin' mostly." "Did he sleep here?" said Mrs. Cheyne, sitting on a yellow locker and surveying the disorderly bunks. "No. He berthed forward, madam, an' only fer him an' my boy hookin' fried pies an muggin' up when they ought to ha' been asleep, I dunno as I've any special fault to find with him." "There weren't nothin' wrong with Harve," said Uncle Salters, descending the steps. "He hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain't over an' above respectful to such as knows more'n he do, specially about farmin'; but he were mostly misled by Dan." Dan in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from Harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. "Tom, Tom!" he whispered down the hatch. "His folks has come, an' Dad hain't caught on yet, an' they're pow-wowin' in the cabin. She's a daisy, an' he's all Harve claimed he was, by the looks of him." "Howly Smoke!" said Long Jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. "D'ye belave his tale av the kid an' the little four-horse rig was thrue?" "I knew it all along," said Dan. "Come an' see Dad mistook in his judgments." They came delightedly, just in time to hear Cheyne say: "I'm glad he has a good character, because--he's my son." Disko's jaw fell,--Long Jack always vowed that he heard the click of it,--and he stared alternately at the man and the woman. "I got his telegram in San Diego four days ago, and we came over." "In a private car?" said Dan. "He said ye might." "In a private car, of course." Dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks. "There was a tale he told us av drivin' four little ponies in a rig av his own," said Long Jack. "Was that thrue now?" "Very likely," said Cheyne. "Was it, Mama?" "He had a little drag when we were in Toledo, I think," said the mother. Long Jack whistled. "Oh, Disko!" said he, and that was all. "I wuz--I am mistook in my jedgments--worse'n the men o' Marblehead," said Disko, as though the words were being windlassed out of him. "I don't mind ownin' to you, Mr. Cheyne, as I mistrusted the boy to be crazy. He talked kinder odd about money." "So he told me." "Did he tell ye anything else? 'Cause I pounded him once." This with a somewhat anxious glance at Mrs. Cheyne. "Oh, yes," Cheyne replied. "I should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world." "I jedged 'twuz necessary, er I wouldn't ha' done it. I don't want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet." "I don't think you do, Mr. Troop." Mrs. Cheyne had been looking at the faces--Disko's ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; Uncle Salters's, with its rim of agricultural hair; Penn's bewildered simplicity; Manuel's quiet smile; Long Jack's grin of delight, and Tom Platt's scar. Rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother's wits in her eyes, and she rose with out-stretched hands. "Oh, tell me, which is who?" said she, half sobbing. "I want to thank you and bless you--all of you." "Faith, that pays me a hunder time," said Long Jack. Disko introduced them all in due form. The captain of an old-time Chinaman could have done no better, and Mrs. Cheyne babbled incoherently. She nearly threw herself into Manuel's arms when she understood that he had first found Harvey. "But how shall I leave him dreeft?" said poor Manuel. "What do you yourself if you find him so? Eh, wha-at? We are in one good boy, and I am ever so pleased he come to be your son." "And he told me Dan was his partner!" she cried. Dan was already sufficiently pink, but he turned a rich crimson when Mrs. Cheyne kissed him on both cheeks before the assembly. Then they led her forward to show her the foc'sle, at which she wept again, and must needs go down to see Harvey's identical bunk, and there she found the nigger cook cleaning up the stove, and he nodded as though she were some one he had expected to meet for years. They tried, two at a time, to explain the boat's daily life to her, and she sat by the pawl-post, her gloved hands on the greasy table, laughing with trembling lips and crying with dancing eyes. "And who's ever to use the _We're Here_ after this?" said Long Jack to Tom Platt. "I feel as if she'd made a cathedral av ut all." "Cathedral!" sneered Tom Platt. "Oh, if it had bin even the Fish C'mmission boat instid of this bally-hoo o' blazes. If we only hed some decency an' order an' side-boys when she goes over! She'll have to climb that ladder like a hen, an' we--we ought to be mannin' the yards!" "Then Harvey was not mad," said Penn, slowly, to Cheyne. "No, indeed--thank God," the big millionaire replied, stooping down tenderly. "It must be terrible to be mad. Except to lose your child, I do not know anything more terrible. But your child has come back? Let us thank God for that." "Hello!" cried Harvey, looking down upon them benignly from the wharf. "I wuz mistook, Harve. I wuz mistook," said Disko, swiftly, holding up a hand. "I wuz mistook in my jedgments. Ye needn't rub in any more." "Guess I'll take care o' that," said Dan, under his breath. "You'll be goin' off naow, won't ye?" "Well, not without the balance of my wages, 'less you want to have the _We're Here_ attached." "Thet's so; I'd clean forgot"; and he counted out the remaining dollars. "You done all you contracted to do, Harve; and you done it 'baout's well as if you'd been brought up--" Here Disko brought himself up. He did not quite see where the sentence was going to end. "Outside of a private car?" suggested Dan, wickedly. "Come on, and I'll show her to you," said Harvey. Cheyne stayed to talk with Disko, but the others made a procession to the depot, with Mrs. Cheyne at the head. The French maid shrieked at the invasion; and Harvey laid the glories of the "Constance" before them without a word. They took them in in equal silence--stamped leather, silver door-handles and rails, cut velvet, plate-glass, nickel, bronze, hammered iron, and the rare woods of the continent inlaid. "I told you," said Harvey; "I told you." This was his crowning revenge, and a most ample one. Mrs. Cheyne decreed a meal, and that nothing might be lacking to the tale Long Jack told afterwards in his boarding-house, she waited on them herself. Men who are accustomed to eat at tiny tables in howling gales have curiously neat and finished manners; but Mrs. Cheyne, who did not know this, was surprised. She longed to have Manuel for a butler; so silently and easily did he comport himself among the frail glassware and dainty silver. Tom Platt remembered the great days on the Ohio and the manners of foreign potentates who dined with the officers; and Long Jack, being Irish, supplied the small talk till all were at their ease. In the _We're Here's_ cabin the fathers took stock of each other behind their cigars. Cheyne knew well enough when he dealt with a man to whom he could not offer money; equally well he knew that no money could pay for what Disko had done. He kept his own counsel and waited for an opening. "I hevn't done anything to your boy or fer your boy excep' make him work a piece an' learn him how to handle the hog-yoke," said Disko. "He has twice my boy's head for figgers." "By the way," Cheyne answered casually, "what d'you calculate to make of your boy?" Disko removed his cigar and waved it comprehensively round the cabin. "Dan's jest plain boy, an' he don't allow me to do any of his thinkin'. He'll hev this able little packet when I'm laid by. He ain't noways anxious to quit the business. I know that." "Mmm! 'Ever been West, Mr. Troop?" "'Bin's fer ez Noo York once in a boat. I've no use for railroads. No more hez Dan. Salt water's good enough fer the Troops. I've been 'most everywhere--in the nat'ral way, o' course." "I can give him all the salt water he's likely to need--till he's a skipper." "Haow's that? I thought you wuz a kinder railroad king. Harve told me so when--I was mistook in my jedgments." "We're all apt to be mistaken. I fancied perhaps you might know I own a line of tea-clippers--San Francisco to Yokohama--six of 'em--iron-built, about seventeen hundred and eighty tons apiece. "Blame that boy! He never told. I'd ha' listened to that, instid o' his truck abaout railroads an' pony-carriages." "He didn't know." "'Little thing like that slipped his mind, I guess." "No, I only capt--took hold of the 'Blue M.' freighters--Morgan and McQuade's old line--this summer." Disko collapsed where he sat, beside the stove. "Great Caesar Almighty! I mistrust I've been fooled from one end to the other. Why, Phil Airheart he went from this very town six year back--no, seven--an' he's mate on the San Jose--now--twenty-six days was her time out. His sister she's livin' here yet, an' she reads his letters to my woman. An' you own the 'Blue M.' freighters?" Cheyne nodded. "If I'd known that I'd ha' jerked the _We're Here_ back to port all standin', on the word." "Perhaps that wouldn't have been so good for Harvey." "If I'd only known! If he'd only said about the cussed Line, I'd ha' understood! I'll never stand on my own jedgments again--never. They're well-found packets. Phil Airheart he says so." "I'm glad to have a recommend from that quarter. Airheart's skipper of the San Jose now. What I was getting at is to know whether you'd lend me Dan for a year or two, and we'll see if we can't make a mate of him. Would you trust him to Airheart?" "It's a resk taking a raw boy--" "I know a man who did more for me." "That's diff'runt. Look at here naow, I ain't recommendin' Dan special because he's my own flesh an' blood. I know Bank ways ain't clipper ways, but he hain't much to learn. Steer he can--no boy better, if I say it--an' the rest's in our blood an' get; but I could wish he warn't so cussed weak on navigation." "Airheart will attend to that. He'll ship as boy for a voyage or two, and then we can put him in the way of doing better. Suppose you take him in hand this winter, and I'll send for him early in the spring. I know the Pacific's a long ways off--" "Pshaw! We Troops, livin' an' dead, are all around the earth an' the seas thereof." "But I want you to understand--and I mean this--any time you think you'd like to see him, tell me, and I'll attend to the transportation. 'Twon't cost you a cent." "If you'll walk a piece with me, we'll go to my house an' talk this to my woman. I've bin so crazy mistook in all my jedgments, it don't seem to me this was like to be real." They went blue-trimmed of nasturtiums over to Troop's eighteen-hundred-dollar, white house, with a retired dory full in the front yard and a shuttered parlour which was a museum of oversea plunder. There sat a large woman, silent and grave, with the dim eyes of those who look long to sea for the return of their beloved. Cheyne addressed himself to her, and she gave consent wearily. "We lose one hundred a year from Gloucester only, Mr. Cheyne," she said--"one hundred boys an' men; and I've come so's to hate the sea as if 'twuz alive an' listenin'. God never made it fer humans to anchor on. These packets o' yours they go straight out, I take it' and straight home again?" "As straight as the winds let 'em, and I give a bonus for record passages. Tea don't improve by being at sea." "When he wuz little he used to play at keeping store, an' I had hopes he might follow that up. But soon's he could paddle a dory I knew that were goin' to be denied me." "They're square-riggers, Mother; iron-built an' well found. Remember what Phil's sister reads you when she gits his letters." "I've never known as Phil told lies, but he's too venturesome (like most of 'em that use the sea). If Dan sees fit, Mr. Cheyne, he can go--fer all o' me." "She jest despises the ocean," Disko explained, "an' I--I dunno haow to act polite, I guess, er I'd thank you better." "My father--my own eldest brother--two nephews--an' my second sister's man," she said, dropping her head on her hand. "Would you care fer any one that took all those?" Cheyne was relieved when Dan turned up and accepted with more delight than he was able to put into words. Indeed, the offer meant a plain and sure road to all desirable things; but Dan thought most of commanding watch on broad decks, and looking into far-away harbours. Mrs. Cheyne had spoken privately to the unaccountable Manuel in the matter of Harvey's rescue. He seemed to have no desire for money. Pressed hard, he said that he would take five dollars, because he wanted to buy something for a girl. Otherwise--"How shall I take money when I make so easy my eats and smokes? You will giva some if I like or no? Eh, wha-at? Then you shall giva me money, but not that way. You shall giva all you can think." He introduced her to a snuffy Portuguese priest with a list of semi-destitute widows as long as his cassock. As a strict Unitarian, Mrs. Cheyne could not sympathize with the creed, but she ended by respecting the brown, voluble little man. Manuel, faithful son of the Church, appropriated all the blessings showered on her for her charity. "That letta me out," said he. "I have now ver' good absolutions for six months"; and he strolled forth to get a handkerchief for the girl of the hour and to break the hearts of all the others. Salters went West for a season with Penn, and left no address behind. He had a dread that these millionary people, with wasteful private cars, might take undue interest in his companion. It was better to visit inland relatives till the coast was clear. "Never you be adopted by rich folk, Penn," he said in the cars, "or I'll take 'n' break this checker-board over your head. Ef you forgit your name agin--which is Pratt--you remember you belong with Salters Troop, an' set down right where you are till I come fer you. Don't go taggin' araound after them whose eyes bung out with fatness, accordin' to Scripcher." CHAPTER X But it was otherwise with the _We're Here's_ silent cook, for he came up, his kit in a handkerchief, and boarded the "Constance." Pay was no particular object, and he did not in the least care where he slept. His business, as revealed to him in dreams, was to follow Harvey for the rest of his days. They tried argument and, at last, persuasion; but there is a difference between one Cape Breton and two Alabama negroes, and the matter was referred to Cheyne by the cook and porter. The millionaire only laughed. He presumed Harvey might need a body-servant some day or other, and was sure that one volunteer was worth five hirelings. Let the man stay, therefore; even though he called himself MacDonald and swore in Gaelic. The car could go back to Boston, where, if he were still of the same mind, they would take him West. With the "Constance," which in his heart of hearts he loathed, departed the last remnant of Cheyne's millionairedom, and he gave himself up to an energetic idleness. This Gloucester was a new town in a new land, and he purposed to "take it in," as of old he had taken in all the cities from Snohomish to San Diego of that world whence he hailed. They made money along the crooked street which was half wharf and half ship's store: as a leading professional he wished to learn how the noble game was played. Men said that four out of every five fish-balls served at New England's Sunday breakfast came from Gloucester, and overwhelmed him with figures in proof--statistics of boats, gear, wharf-frontage, capital invested, salting, packing, factories, insurance, wages, repairs, and profits. He talked with the owners of the large fleets whose skippers were little more than hired men, and whose crews were almost all Swedes or Portuguese. Then he conferred with Disko, one of the few who owned their craft, and compared notes in his vast head. He coiled himself away on chain-cables in marine junk-shops, asking questions with cheerful, unslaked Western curiosity, till all the water-front wanted to know "what in thunder that man was after, anyhow." He prowled into the Mutual Insurance rooms, and demanded explanations of the mysterious remarks chalked up on the blackboard day by day; and that brought down upon him secretaries of every Fisherman's Widow and Orphan Aid Society within the city limits. They begged shamelessly, each man anxious to beat the other institution's record, and Cheyne tugged at his beard and handed them all over to Mrs. Cheyne. She was resting in a boarding-house near Eastern Point--a strange establishment, managed, apparently, by the boarders, where the table-cloths were red-and-white-checkered and the population, who seemed to have known one another intimately for years, rose up at midnight to make Welsh rarebits if it felt hungry. On the second morning of her stay Mrs. Cheyne put away her diamond solitaires before she came down to breakfast. "They're most delightful people," she confided to her husband; "so friendly and simple, too, though they are all Boston, nearly." "That isn't simpleness, Mama," he said, looking across the boulders behind the apple-trees where the hammocks were slung. "It's the other thing, that what I haven't got." "It can't be," said Mrs. Cheyne quietly. "There isn't a woman here owns a dress that cost a hundred dollars. Why, we--" "I know it, dear. We have--of course we have. I guess it's only the style they wear East. Are you having a good time?" "I don't see very much of Harvey; he's always with you; but I ain't near as nervous as I was." "I haven't had such a good time since Willie died. I never rightly understood that I had a son before this. Harve's got to be a great boy. 'Anything I can fetch you, dear? 'Cushion under your head? Well, we'll go down to the wharf again and look around." Harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled along side by side, Cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his hand on the boy's square shoulder. It was then that Harvey noticed and admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street. "How d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head?" demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft. "I've dealt with quite a few men in my time, Harve, and one sizes 'em up somehow, I guess. I know something about myself, too." Then, after a pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "Men can 'most always tell when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as one of themselves." "Same as they treat me down at Wouverman's wharf. I'm one of the crowd now. Disko has told every one I've earned my pay." Harvey spread out his hands and rubbed the palms together. "They're all soft again," he said dolefully. "Keep 'em that way for the next few years, while you're getting your education. You can harden 'em up after." "Ye-es, I suppose so," was the reply, in no delighted voice. "It rests with you, Harve. You can take cover behind your mama, of course, and put her on to fussing about your nerves and your high-strungness and all that kind of poppycock." "Have I ever done that?" said Harvey, uneasily. His father turned where he sat and thrust out a long hand. "You know as well as I do that I can't make anything of you if you don't act straight by me. I can handle you alone if you'll stay alone, but I don't pretend to manage both you and Mama. Life's too short, anyway." "Don't make me out much of a fellow, does it?" "I guess it was my fault a good deal; but if you want the truth, you haven't been much of anything up to date. Now, have you?" "Umm! Disko thinks . . . Say, what d'you reckon it's cost you to raise me from the start--first, last and all over?" Cheyne smiled. "I've never kept track, but I should estimate, in dollars and cents, nearer fifty than forty thousand; maybe sixty. The young generation comes high. It has to have things, and it tires of 'em, and--the old man foots the bill." Harvey whistled, but at heart he was rather pleased to think that his upbringing had cost so much. "And all that's sunk capital, isn't it?" "Invested, Harve. Invested, I hope." "Making it only thirty thousand, the thirty I've earned is about ten cents on the hundred. That's a mighty poor catch." Harvey wagged his head solemnly. Cheyne laughed till he nearly fell off the pile into the water. "Disko has got a heap more than that out of Dan since he was ten; and Dan's at school half the year, too." "Oh, that's what you're after, is it?" "No. I'm not after anything. I'm not stuck on myself any just now--that's all. . . . I ought to be kicked." "I can't do it, old man; or I would, I presume, if I'd been made that way." "Then I'd have remembered it to the last day I lived--and never forgiven you," said Harvey, his chin on his doubled fists. "Exactly. That's about what I'd do. You see?" "I see. The fault's with me and no one else. All the same, something's got to be done about it." Cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking. Father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid Cheyne's mouth, and Harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones. With a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a Red Indian of the story-books. "Now you can go on from here," said Cheyne, slowly, "costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter. Well, we'll call you a man then. You can go right on from that, living on me to the tune of forty or fifty thousand, besides what your mother will give you, with a valet and a yacht or a fancy-ranch where you can pretend to raise trotting-stock and play cards with your own crowd." "Like Lorry Tuck?" Harvey put in. "Yep; or the two De Vitre boys or old man McQuade's son. California's full of 'em, and here's an Eastern sample while we're talking." A shiny black steam-yacht, with mahogany deck-house, nickel-plated binnacles, and pink-and-white-striped awnings puffed up the harbour, flying the burgee of some New York club. Two young men in what they conceived to be sea costumes were playing cards by the saloon skylight; and a couple of women with red and blue parasols looked on and laughed noisily. "Shouldn't care to be caught out in her in any sort of a breeze. No beam," said Harvey, critically, as the yacht slowed to pick up her mooring-buoy. "They're having what stands them for a good time. I can give you that, and twice as much as that, Harve. How'd you like it?" "Caesar! That's no way to get a dinghy overside," said Harvey, still intent on the yacht. "If I couldn't slip a tackle better than that I'd stay ashore. . . . What if I don't?" "Stay ashore--or what?" "Yacht and ranch and live on 'the old man,' and--get behind Mama where there's trouble," said Harvey, with a twinkle in his eye. "Why, in that case, you come right in with me, my son." "Ten dollars a month?" Another twinkle. "Not a cent more until you're worth it, and you won't begin to touch that for a few years." "I'd sooner begin sweeping out the office--isn't that how the big bugs start?--and touch something now than--" "I know it; we all feel that way. But I guess we can hire any sweeping we need. I made the same mistake myself of starting in too soon." "Thirty million dollars' worth o' mistake, wasn't it? I'd risk it for that." "I lost some; and I gained some. I'll tell you." Cheyne pulled his beard and smiled as he looked over the still water, and spoke away from Harvey, who presently began to be aware that his father was telling the story of his life. He talked in a low, even voice, without gesture and without expression; and it was a history for which a dozen leading journals would cheerfully have paid many dollars--the story of forty years that was at the same time the story of the New West, whose story is yet to be written. It began with a kinless boy turned loose in Texas, and went on fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes shifting from State after Western State, from cities that sprang up in a month and--in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. It covered the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth. It told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging these. It touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand, train-hand, contractor, boarding-house keeper, journalist, engineer, drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rum-seller, mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved Harvey Cheyne, alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and advancement of his country. He told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the ragged edge of despair--the faith that comes of knowing men and things. He enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great courage and resource at all times. The thing was so evident in the man's mind that he never even changed his tone. He described how he had bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good; crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his character to shreds. The tale held Harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. It seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the dark--a mile between each glare of the open fire-door: but this locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the core of his soul. At last Cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the two sat in the dark over the lapping water. "I've never told that to any one before," said the father. Harvey gasped. "It's just the greatest thing that ever was!" said he. "That's what I got. Now I'm coming to what I didn't get. It won't sound much of anything to you, but I don't wish you to be as old as I am before you find out. I can handle men, of course, and I'm no fool along my own lines, but--but--I can't compete with the man who has been taught! I've picked up as I went along, and I guess it sticks out all over me." "I've never seen it," said the son, indignantly. "You will, though, Harve. You will--just as soon as you're through college. Don't I know it? Don't I know the look on men's faces when they think me a--a 'mucker,' as they call it out here? I can break them to little pieces--yes--but I can't get back at 'em to hurt 'em where they live. I don't say they're 'way 'way up, but I feel I'm 'way, 'way, 'way off, somehow. Now you've got your chance. You've got to soak up all the learning that's around, and you'll live with a crowd that are doing the same thing. They'll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a year at most; but remember you'll be doing it for millions. You'll learn law enough to look after your own property when I'm out o' the light, and you'll have to be solid with the best men in the market (they are useful later); and above all, you'll have to stow away the plain, common, sit-down-with-your chin-on your-elbows book-learning. Nothing pays like that, Harve, and it's bound to pay more and more each year in our country--in business and in politics. You'll see." "There's no sugar in my end of the deal," said Harvey. "Four years at college! 'Wish I'd chosen the valet and the yacht!" "Never mind, my son," Cheyne insisted. "You're investing your capital where it'll bring in the best returns; and I guess you won't find our property shrunk any when you're ready to take hold. Think it over, and let me know in the morning. Hurry! We'll be late for supper!" As this was a business talk, there was no need for Harvey to tell his mother about it; and Cheyne naturally took the same point of view. But Mrs. Cheyne saw and feared, and was a little jealous. Her boy, who rode rough-shod over her, was gone, and in his stead reigned a keen-faced youth, abnormally silent, who addressed most of his conversation to his father. She understood it was business, and therefore a matter beyond her premises. If she had any doubts, they were resolved when Cheyne went to Boston and brought back a new diamond marquise ring. "What have you two been doing now?" she said, with a weak little smile, as she turned it in the light. "Talking--just talking, Mama; there's nothing mean about Harvey." There was not. The boy had made a treaty on his own account. Railroads, he explained gravely, interested him as little as lumber, real estate, or mining. What his soul yearned after was control of his father's newly purchased sailing-ship. If that could be promised him within what he conceived to be a reasonable time, he, for his part, guaranteed diligence and sobriety at college for four or five years. In vacation he was to be allowed full access to all details connected with the line--he had not asked more than two thousand questions about it,--from his father's most private papers in the safe to the tug in San Francisco harbour. "It's a deal," said Cheyne at the last. "You'll alter your mind twenty times before you leave college, o' course; but if you take hold of it in proper shape, and if you don't tie it up before you're twenty-three, I'll make the thing over to you. How's that, Harve?" "Nope; never pays to split up a going concern. There's too much competition in the world anyway, and Disko says 'blood-kin hev to stick together.' His crowd never go back on him. That's one reason, he says, why they make such big fares. Say, the _We're Here_ goes off to the Georges on Monday. They don't stay long ashore, do they?" "Well, we ought to be going, too, I guess. I've left my business hung up at loose ends between two oceans, and it's time to connect again. I just hate to do it, though; haven't had a holiday like this for twenty years." "We can't go without seeing Disko off," said Harvey; "and Monday's Memorial Day. Let's stay over that, anyway." "What is this memorial business? They were talking about it at the boarding-house," said Cheyne weakly. He, too, was not anxious to spoil the golden days. "Well, as far as I can make out, this business is a sort of song-and-dance act, whacked up for the summer boarders. Disko don't think much of it, he says, because they take up a collection for the widows and orphans. Disko's independent. Haven't you noticed that?" "Well--yes. A little. In spots. Is it a town show, then?" "The summer convention is. They read out the names of the fellows drowned or gone astray since last time, and they make speeches, and recite, and all. Then, Disko says, the secretaries of the Aid Societies go into the back yard and fight over the catch. The real show, he says, is in the spring. The ministers all take a hand then, and there aren't any summer boarders around." "I see," said Cheyne, with the brilliant and perfect comprehension of one born into and bred up to city pride. "We'll stay over for Memorial Day, and get off in the afternoon." "Guess I'll go down to Disko's and make him bring his crowd up before they sail. I'll have to stand with them, of course." "Oh, that's it, is it," said Cheyne. "I'm only a poor summer boarder, and you're--" "A Banker--full-blooded Banker," Harvey called back as he boarded a trolley, and Cheyne went on with his blissful dreams for the future. Disko had no use for public functions where appeals were made for charity, but Harvey pleaded that the glory of the day would be lost, so far as he was concerned, if the _We're Heres_ absented themselves. Then Disko made conditions. He had heard--it was astonishing how all the world knew all the world's business along the water-front--he had heard that a "Philadelphia actress-woman" was going to take part in the exercises; and he mistrusted that she would deliver "Skipper Ireson's Ride." Personally, he had as little use for actresses as for summer boarders; but justice was justice, and though he himself (here Dan giggled) had once slipped up on a matter of judgment, this thing must not be. So Harvey came back to East Gloucester, and spent half a day explaining to an amused actress with a royal reputation on two seaboards the inwardness of the mistake she contemplated; and she admitted that it was justice, even as Disko had said. Cheyne knew by old experience what would happen; but anything of the nature of a public palaver was meat and drink to the man's soul. He saw the trolleys hurrying west, in the hot, hazy morning, full of women in light summer dresses, and white-faced straw-hatted men fresh from Boston desks; the stack of bicycles outside the post office; the come-and-go of busy officials, greeting one another; the slow flick and swash of bunting in the heavy air; and the important man with a hose sluicing the brick sidewalk. "Mother," he said suddenly, "don't you remember--after Seattle was burned out--and they got her going again?" Mrs. Cheyne nodded, and looked critically down the crooked street. Like her husband, she understood these gatherings, all the West over, and compared them one against another. The fishermen began to mingle with the crowd about the town-hall doors--blue-jowled Portuguese, their women bare-headed or shawled for the most part; clear-eyed Nova Scotians, and men of the Maritime Provinces; French, Italians, Swedes, and Danes, with outside crews of coasting schooners; and everywhere women in black, who saluted one another with gloomy pride, for this was their day of great days. And there were ministers of many creeds,--pastors of great, gilt-edged congregations, at the seaside for a rest, with shepherds of the regular work,--from the priests of the Church on the Hill to bush-bearded ex-sailor Lutherans, hail-fellow with the men of a score of boats. There were owners of lines of schooners, large contributors to the societies, and small men, their few craft pawned to the mastheads, with bankers and marine-insurance agents, captains of tugs and water-boats, riggers, fitters, lumpers, salters, boat-builders, and coopers, and all the mixed population of the water-front. They drifted along the line of seats made gay with the dresses of the summer boarders, and one of the town officials patrolled and perspired till he shone all over with pure civic pride. Cheyne had met him for five minutes a few days before, and between the two there was entire understanding. "Well, Mr. Cheyne, and what d'you think of our city?--Yes, madam, you can sit anywhere you please.--You have this kind of thing out West, I presume?" "Yes, but we aren't as old as you." "That's so, of course. You ought to have been at the exercises when we celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth birthday. I tell you, Mr. Cheyne, the old city did herself credit." "So I heard. It pays, too. What's the matter with the town that it don't have a first-class hotel, though?" "--Right over there to the left, Pedro. Heaps o' room for you and your crowd.--Why, that's what I tell 'em all the time, Mr. Cheyne. There's big money in it, but I presume that don't affect you any. What we want is--" A heavy hand fell on his broadcloth shoulder, and the flushed skipper of a Portland coal-and-ice coaster spun him half round. "What in thunder do you fellows mean by clappin' the law on the town when all decent men are at sea this way? Heh? Town's dry as a bone, an' smells a sight worse sence I quit. 'Might ha' left us one saloon for soft drinks, anyway." "Don't seem to have hindered your nourishment this morning, Carsen. I'll go into the politics of it later. Sit down by the door and think over your arguments till I come back." "What good is arguments to me? In Miquelon champagne's eighteen dollars a case and--" The skipper lurched into his seat as an organ-prelude silenced him. "Our new organ," said the official proudly to Cheyne. "Cost us four thousand dollars, too. We'll have to get back to high-license next year to pay for it. I wasn't going to let the ministers have all the religion at their convention. Those are some of our orphans standing up to sing. My wife taught 'em. See you again later, Mr. Cheyne. I'm wanted on the platform." High, clear, and true, children's voices bore down the last noise of those settling into their places. "O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him for ever!" The women throughout the hall leaned forward to look as the reiterated cadences filled the air. Mrs. Cheyne, with some others, began to breathe short; she had hardly imagined there were so many widows in the world; and instinctively searched for Harvey. He had found the _We're Heres_ at the back of the audience, and was standing, as by right, between Dan and Disko. Uncle Salters, returned the night before with Penn, from Pamlico Sound, received him suspiciously. "Hain't your folk gone yet?" he grunted. "What are you doin' here, young feller?" "O ye Seas and Floods, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" "Hain't he good right?" said Dan. "He's bin there, same as the rest of us." "Not in them clothes," Salters snarled. "Shut your head, Salters," said Disko. "Your bile's gone back on you. Stay right where ye are, Harve." Then up and spoke the orator of the occasion, another pillar of the municipality, bidding the world welcome to Gloucester, and incidentally pointing out wherein Gloucester excelled the rest of the world. Then he turned to the sea-wealth of the city, and spoke of the price that must be paid for the yearly harvest. They would hear later the names of their lost dead one hundred and seventeen of them. (The widows stared a little, and looked at one another here.) Gloucester could not boast any overwhelming mills or factories. Her sons worked for such wage as the sea gave; and they all knew that neither Georges nor the Banks were cow-pastures. The utmost that folk ashore could accomplish was to help the widows and the orphans, and after a few general remarks he took this opportunity of thanking, in the name of the city, those who had so public-spiritedly consented to participate in the exercises of the occasion. "I jest despise the beggin' pieces in it," growled Disko. "It don't give folk a fair notion of us." "Ef folk won't be fore-handed an' put by when they've the chance," returned Salters, "it stands in the nature o' things they hev to be 'shamed. You take warnin' by that, young feller. Riches endureth but for a season, ef you scatter them araound on lugsuries--" "But to lose everything, everything," said Penn. "What can you do then? Once I"--the watery blue eyes stared up and down as if looking for something to steady them--"once I read--in a book, I think--of a boat where every one was run down--except some one--and he said to me--" "Shucks!" said Salters, cutting in. "You read a little less an' take more int'rust in your vittles, and you'll come nearer earnin' your keep, Penn." Harvey, jammed among the fishermen, felt a creepy, crawly, tingling thrill that began in the back of his neck and ended at his boots. He was cold, too, though it was a stifling day. "That the actress from Philadelphia?" said Disko Troop, scowling at the platform. "You've fixed it about old man Ireson, hain't ye, Harve? Ye know why naow." It was not "Ireson's Ride" that the woman delivered, but some sort of poem about a fishing-port called Brixham and a fleet of trawlers beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on. "They took the grandma's blanket, Who shivered and bade them go; They took the baby's cradle, Who could not say them no." "Whew!" said Dan, peering over Long Jack's shoulder. "That's great! Must ha' bin expensive, though." "Ground-hog case," said the Galway man. "Badly lighted port, Danny." * * * * * * "And knew not all the while If they were lighting a bonfire Or only a funeral pile." The wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when she told how the drenched crews were flung ashore, living and dead, and they carried the bodies to the glare of the fires, asking: "Child, is this your father?" or "Wife, is this your man?" you could hear hard breathing all over the benches. "And when the boats of Brixham Go out to face the gales, Think of the love that travels Like light upon their sails!" There was very little applause when she finished. The women were looking for their handkerchiefs, and many of the men stared at the ceiling with shiny eyes. "H'm," said Salters; "that 'u'd cost ye a dollar to hear at any theatre--maybe two. Some folk, I presoom, can afford it. 'Seems downright waste to me. . . . Naow, how in Jerusalem did Cap. Bart Edwardes strike adrift here?" "No keepin' him under," said an Eastport man behind. "He's a poet, an' he's baound to say his piece. 'Comes from daown aour way, too." He did not say that Captain B. Edwardes had striven for five consecutive years to be allowed to recite a piece of his own composition on Gloucester Memorial Day. An amused and exhausted committee had at last given him his desire. The simplicity and utter happiness of the old man, as he stood up in his very best Sunday clothes, won the audience ere he opened his mouth. They sat unmurmuring through seven-and-thirty hatchet-made verses describing at fullest length the loss of the schooner _Joan Hasken_ off the Georges in the gale of 1867, and when he came to an end they shouted with one kindly throat. A far-sighted Boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer Captain Bart Edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and poet, in the seventy-third year of his age. "Naow, I call that sensible," said the Eastport man. "I've bin over that graound with his writin', jest as he read it, in my two hands, and I can testify that he's got it all in." "If Dan here couldn't do better'n that with one hand before breakfast, he ought to be switched," said Salters, upholding the honor of Massachusetts on general principles. "Not but what I'm free to own he's considerable litt'ery--fer Maine. Still--" "Guess Uncle Salters's goin' to die this trip. Fust compliment he's ever paid me," Dan sniggered. "What's wrong with you, Harve? You act all quiet and you look greenish. Feelin' sick?" "Don't know what's the matter with me," Harvey implied. "Seems if my insides were too big for my outsides. I'm all crowded up and shivery." "Dispepsy? Pshaw--too bad. We'll wait for the readin', an' then we'll quit, an' catch the tide." The widows--they were nearly all of that season's making--braced themselves rigidly like people going to be shot in cold blood, for they knew what was coming. The summer-boarder girls in pink and blue shirt-waists stopped tittering over Captain Edwardes's wonderful poem, and looked back to see why all was silent. The fishermen pressed forward as that town official who had talked to Cheyne bobbed up on the platform and began to read the year's list of losses, dividing them into months. Last September's casualties were mostly single men and strangers, but his voice rang very loud in the stillness of the hall. "September 9th. Schooner _Florrie Anderson_ lost, with all aboard, off the Georges. "Reuben Pitman, master, 50, single, Main Street, City. "Emil Olsen, 19, single, 329 Hammond Street, City. Denmark. "Oscar Standberg, single, 25. Sweden. "Carl Stanberg, single, 28, Main Street. City. "Pedro, supposed Madeira, single, Keene's boardinghouse. City. "Joseph Welsh, alias Joseph Wright, 30, St. John's, Newfoundland." "No--Augusty, Maine," a voice cried from the body of the hall. "He shipped from St. John's," said the reader, looking to see. "I know it. He belongs in Augusty. My nevvy." The reader made a pencilled correction on the margin of the list, and resumed. "Same schooner, Charlie Ritchie, Liverpool, Nova Scotia, 33, single. "Albert May, 267 Rogers Street, City, 27, single. "September 27th.--Orvin Dollard, 30, married, drowned in dory off Eastern Point." That shot went home, for one of the widows flinched where she sat, clasping and unclasping her hands. Mrs. Cheyne, who had been listening with wide-opened eyes, threw up her head and choked. Dan's mother, a few seats to the right, saw and heard and quickly moved to her side. The reading went on. By the time they reached the January and February wrecks the shots were falling thick and fast, and the widows drew breath between their teeth. "February 14th.--Schooner _Harry Randolph_ dismasted on the way home from Newfoundland; Asa Musie, married, 32, Main Street, City, lost overboard. "February 23d.--Schooner _Gilbert Hope_; went astray in dory, Robert Beavon, 29, married, native of Pubnico, Nova Scotia." But his wife was in the hall. They heard a low cry, as though a little animal had been hit. It was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out of the hall. She had been hoping against hope for months, because some who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by deep-sea sailing-ships. Now she had her certainty, and Harvey could see the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her. "It's fifty cents to the depot"--the driver began, but the policeman held up his hand--"but I'm goin' there anyway. Jump right in. Look at here, Al; you don't pull me next time my lamps ain't lit. See?" The side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and Harvey's eyes turned again to the reader and his endless list. "April 19th.--Schooner _Mamie Douglas_ lost on the Banks with all hands. "Edward Canton, 43, master, married, City. "D. Hawkins, alias Williams, 34, married, Shelbourne, Nova Scotia. "G. W. Clay, coloured, 28, married, City." And so on, and so on. Great lumps were rising in Harvey's throat, and his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner. "May 10th.--Schooner _We're Here_ [the blood tingled all over him] Otto Svendson, 20, single, City, lost overboard." Once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall. "She shouldn't ha' come. She shouldn't ha' come," said Long Jack, with a cluck of pity. "Don't scrowge, Harve," grunted Dan. Harvey heard that much, but the rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels. Disko leaned forward and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round Mrs. Cheyne, and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands. "Lean your head daown--right daown!" he whispered. "It'll go off in a minute." "I ca-an't! I do-don't! Oh, let me--" Mrs. Cheyne did not at all know what she said. "You must," Mrs. Troop repeated. "Your boy's jest fainted dead away. They do that some when they're gettin' their growth. 'Wish to tend to him? We can git aout this side. Quite quiet. You come right along with me. Psha', my dear, we're both women, I guess. We must tend to aour men-folk. Come!" The _We're Heres_ promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and it was a very white and shaken Harvey that they propped up on a bench in an anteroom. "Favours his ma," was Mrs. Troop's only comment, as the mother bent over her boy. "How d'you suppose he could ever stand it?" she cried indignantly to Cheyne, who had said nothing at all. "It was horrible--horrible! We shouldn't have come. It's wrong and wicked! It--it isn't right! Why--why couldn't they put these things in the papers, where they belong? Are you better, darling?" That made Harvey very properly ashamed. "Oh, I'm all right, I guess," he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. "Must ha' been something I ate for breakfast." "Coffee, perhaps," said Cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as though it had been cut out of bronze. "We won't go back again." "Guess 'twould be 'baout's well to git daown to the wharf," said Disko. "It's close in along with them Dagoes, an' the fresh air will fresh Mrs. Cheyne up." Harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not till he saw the _We're Here_, fresh from the lumper's hands, at Wouverman's wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. Other people--summer boarders and such-like--played about in cat-boats or looked at the sea from pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside--more things than he could begin to think about. None the less, he could have sat down and howled because the little schooner was going off. Mrs. Cheyne simply cried and cried every step of the way and said most extraordinary things to Mrs. Troop, who "babied" her till Dan, who had not been "babied" since he was six, whistled aloud. And so the old crowd--Harvey felt like the most ancient of mariners dropped into the old schooner among the battered dories, while Harvey slipped the stern-fast from the pier-head, and they slid her along the wharf-side with their hands. Every one wanted to say so much that no one said anything in particular. Harvey bade Dan take care of Uncle Salters's sea-boots and Penn's dory-anchor, and Long Jack entreated Harvey to remember his lessons in seamanship; but the jokes fell flat in the presence of the two women, and it is hard to be funny with green harbour-water widening between good friends. "Up jib and fores'l!" shouted Disko, getting to the wheel, as the wind took her. "See you later, Harve. Dunno but I come near thinkin' a heap o' you an' your folks." Then she glided beyond ear-shot, and they sat down to watch her up the harbour, And still Mrs. Cheyne wept. "Pshaw, my dear," said Mrs. Troop: "we're both women, I guess. Like's not it'll ease your heart to hev your cry aout. God He knows it never done me a mite o' good, but then He knows I've had something to cry fer!" Now it was a few years later, and upon the other edge of America, that a young man came through the clammy sea fog up a windy street which is flanked with most expensive houses built of wood to imitate stone. To him, as he was standing by a hammered iron gate, entered on horseback--and the horse would have been cheap at a thousand dollars--another young man. And this is what they said: "Hello, Dan!" "Hello, Harve!" "What's the best with you?" "Well, I'm so's to be that kind o' animal called second mate this trip. Ain't you most through with that triple invoiced college of yours?" "Getting that way. I tell you, the Leland Stanford Junior, isn't a circumstance to the old _We're Here_; but I'm coming into the business for keeps next fall." "Meanin' aour packets?" "Nothing else. You just wait till I get my knife into you, Dan. I'm going to make the old line lie down and cry when I take hold." "I'll resk it," said Dan, with a brotherly grin, as Harvey dismounted and asked whether he were coming in. "That's what I took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres araound? I'll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke an' all." There was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the _We're Here_ came out of the fog to take the horse's bridle. He allowed no one but himself to attend to any of Harvey's wants. "Thick as the Banks, ain't it, doctor?" said Dan, propitiatingly. But the coal-black Celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply till he had tapped Dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear. "Master--man. Man--master," said he. "You remember, Dan Troop, what I said? On the _We're Here_?" "Well, I won't go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things stand at present," said Dan. "She was a noble packet, and one way an' another I owe her a heap--her and Dad." "Me too," quoth Harvey Cheyne. 
61064	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 61064-h.htm or 61064-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/61064/61064-h/61064-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/61064/61064-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/cadetofblackstar00painiala A CADET OF THE BLACK STAR LINE * * * * * THE SCRIBNER SERIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE EACH WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BOOKS FOR BOYS THE MODERN VIKINGS By H. H. Boyesen WILL SHAKESPEARE'S LITTLE LAD By Imogen Clark THE BOY SCOUT and Other Stories for Boys STORIES FOR BOYS By Richard Harding Davis HANS BRINKER, or The Silver Skates By Mary Mapes Dodge THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY By Edward Eggleston THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR By William Henry Frost WITH LEE IN VIRGINIA WITH WOLFE IN CANADA REDSKIN AND COWBOY UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG, a Tale of the Spanish Main By G. A. Henty AT WAR WITH PONTIAC By Kirk Munroe TOMMY TROT'S VISIT TO SANTA CLAUS and A CAPTURED SANTA CLAUS By Thomas Nelson Page THE FULLBACK By Lawrence Perry BOYS OF ST. TIMOTHY'S By Arthur Stanwood Pier KIDNAPPED TREASURE ISLAND BLACK ARROW By Robert Louis Stevenson AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS A JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA By Jules Verne ON THE OLD KEARSARGE IN THE WASP'S NEST By Cyrus Townsend Brady THE BOY SETTLERS THE BOYS OF FAIRPORT By Noah Brooks THE CONSCRIPT OF ISIS By Erckmann-Chatrian A CADET OF THE BLACK STAR LINE THE STEAM-SHOVEL MAN By Ralph D. Paine THE MOUNTAIN DIVIDE By Frank H. Spearman THE STRANGE GRAY CANOE By Paul G. Tomlinson THE ADVENTURES OF A FRESHMAN By J. L. Williams JACK HALL, or, The School Days of an American Boy By Robert Grant BOOKS FOR GIRLS THE RAIN-COAT GIRL By Jennette Lee SMITH COLLEGE STORIES By Josephine Daskam ROSEMARY GREENAWAY ELSIE MARLEY By Joslyn Gray THE HALLOWELL PARTNERSHIP By Katharine Holland Brown MY WONDERFUL VISIT By Elizabeth Hill SARA CREWE, or, What Happened at Miss Minchin's A FAIR BARBARIAN By Frances Hodgson Burnett NEXT-BESTERS By Lulah Ragsdale CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS * * * * * [Illustration: "She can't last much longer. Lay into it, my buckos!" [Page 22]] A CADET OF THE BLACK STAR LINE by RALPH D. PAINE Author of "College Years," "The Head Coach," "The Fugitive Freshman," etc. Illustrated by George Varian New York Charles Scribner's Sons 1922 Copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons Printed in the United States of America [Illustration: Logo THE SCRIBNER PRESS] CONTENTS Chapter Page I. Oil Upon the Waters 3 II. The Sea Waifs 23 III. The Fire-Room Gang 43 IV. Mr. Cochran's Temper 63 V. Mid Fog and Ice 83 VI. The Missing Boat 102 VII. The Bonds of Sympathy 121 VIII. Yankee Topsails 140 IX. Captain Bracewell's Ship 161 X. The Call of Duty 179 ILLUSTRATIONS "She can't last much longer. Lay into it, my buckos!" _Frontispiece_ Facing page Some one was kneeling on his chest, with a choking grip on his neck 50 It was easy work to get alongside and pass them a line 110 David gazed down at the white deck of the _Sea Witch_ 194 A CADET OF THE BLACK STAR LINE CHAPTER I OIL UPON THE WATERS The strength of fifteen thousand horses was driving the great Black Star liner _Roanoke_ across the Atlantic toward New York. Her promenade decks, as long as a city block, swarmed with cabin passengers, while below them a thousand immigrants enjoyed the salty wind that swept around the bow. Far above these noisy throngs towered the liner's bridge as a little world set apart by itself. Full seventy feet from the sea this airy platform spanned the ship, so remote that the talk and laughter of the decks came to it only as a low murmur. The passengers were forbidden to climb to the bridge, and they seldom thought of the quiet men in blue who, two at a time, were always pacing that canvas-screened pathway to guide the _Roanoke_ to port. Midway of the bridge was the wheel-house, in which a rugged quartermaster seemed to be playing with the spokes set round a small brass rim while he kept his eyes on the swaying compass card before him. The huge liner responded like a well-bitted horse to the touch of the bridle rein, for the power of steam had been set at work to move the ponderous rudder, an eighth of a mile away. A lad of seventeen years was cleaning the brasswork in the wheel-house. Trimly clad in blue, his taut jersey was lettered across the chest with the word CADET. When in a cheerful mood he was as wholesome and sailorly a youngster to look at as you could have found afloat, but now he was plainly discontented with his task as with sullen frown and peevish haste he finished rubbing the speaking-tubes with cotton waste. Then as he caught up his kit he burst out: "If my seafaring father could have lived to watch me at this fool kind of work, he'd have been disgusted. I might better be a bell-boy in a hotel ashore at double the wages." The quartermaster uneasily shifted his grip on the wheel and growled: "The old man's on the bridge. No talkin' in here. Go below and tell your troubles to your little playmates, sonny." Young David Downes went slowly down the stairway that led to the boat deck, but his loafing gait was quickened by a strong voice in his ear: "Step lively, there. Another soft-baked landsman that has made up his mind to quit us, eh?" The youth flushed as he flattened himself against the deck house to make room for the captain of the liner who had shrewdly read the cadet's thoughts. As he swung into the doorway of his room the brown and bearded commander flung back with a contemptuous snort: "Like all the rest of them--_no good_!" It was the first time that Captain Thrasher had thought it worth while to speak to the humble cadet who was beneath notice among the four hundred men that made up the crew of the _Roanoke_. From afar, David had viewed this deep-water despot with awe and dislike, thinking him as brutal as he was overbearing. Even now, as he scurried past the captain's room, he heard him say to one of the officers: "Take the irons off the worthless hounds, and if they refuse duty again I will come down to the fire room and make them fit for the hospital." The cadet shook his fist at the captain's door and moved on to join his companions in the fore part of the ship. He was in open rebellion against the life he had chosen only a month before. Bereft of his parents, he had lived with an uncle in New York while he plodded through his grammar-school years, after which he was turned out to shift for himself. He had found a place as a "strong and willing boy" in a wholesale dry-goods store, but his early boyhood memories recalled a father at sea in command of a stately square-rigger, and the love of the calling was in his blood. There were almost no more blue-water Yankee sailing ships and sailors, however, and small chance for an ambitious American boy afloat. Restlessly haunting the wharves in his leisure hours, David had happened to discover that the famous Black Star Line steamers were compelled by act of Congress to carry a certain number of apprentices or "cadets," to be trained until they were fit for berths as junior officers. The news had fired him with eagerness for one of these appointments. But for weeks he faced the cruel placard on the door of the marine superintendent's office: NO CADETS WANTED TO-DAY At last, and he could hardly believe his eyes, when he hurried down from the Broadway store during the noon hour, the sign had been changed to read: TWO CADETS WANTED Partly because he was the son of a ship-master and partly because of his frank and manly bearing, David Downes was asked for his references, and a few days later he received orders to join the _Roanoke_ over the heads of thirty-odd applicants. Now he was completing his first round voyage and, alas! he had almost decided to forsake the sea. He was ready to talk about his grievances with the four other cadets of his watch whom he found in their tiny mess room up under the bow. "I just heard the old man threaten to half kill a couple of firemen," angrily cried David. "He is a great big bully. Why, my father commanded a vessel for thirty years without ever striking a seaman. Mighty little I'll ever learn about real seafaring aboard this marine hotel. All you have to do is head her for her port and the engines do the rest. Yet the captain thinks he's a little tin god in brass buttons and gold braid." An older cadet, who was in his second year aboard the liner, eyed the heated youngster with a grim smile, but only observed: "You must stay in steam if you want to make a living at sea, Davy. And as for Captain Stephen Thrasher--well, you'll know more after a few voyages." A chubby, rosy lad dangled his short legs from a bunk and grinned approval of David's mutiny as he broke in: "There won't be any more voyages for _this_ bold sailor boy. Acting as chambermaid for paint and brasswork doesn't fill me with any wild love for the romance of the sea. We were led aboard under false pretences, hey, David?" "Me, too," put in another cadet. "I'm going to make three hops down the gangway as soon as we tie up in New York." "So I am the only cadet in this watch with sand enough to stick it out," said their elder. "You _are_ a mushy lot, you are. I'm going on deck to find a _man_ to talk to." As the door slammed behind him, David Downes moodily observed: "He has no ambition, that's what's the matter with _him_." But after a while David grew tired of the chatter and horse-play of the mess room and went on deck to think over the problem he must work out for himself. Was it lack of "sand" that made him ready to quit the calling he had longed for all his life? Would he not regret the chance after he had thrown it away? But the life around him was nothing at all like the pictures of his dreams, and he was too much of a boy to look beyond the present. His ideas of the sea were colored through and through by the memories of his father's career. He had come to hate this ugly steel monster crammed with coal and engines, which ate up her three thousand miles like an express train. As he leaned against the rail, staring sadly out to sea, the sunlight flashed into snowy whiteness the distant royals and top-gallant sails of a square-rigger beating to the westward under a foreign flag. The boy's eyes filled with tears of genuine homesickness. Yonder was a ship worthy of the name, such as he longed to be in, but there was no place in her kind for him or his countrymen. A brown paw smote David's shoulder, and he turned to see the German bos'n. The cadet brushed a hand across his eyes, ashamed of his emotion, but the kind-hearted old seaman chuckled: "Vat is it, Mister Downes? You vas sore on the skipper and the ship, so?" David answered with a little break in his voice: "It is all so different from what I expected, Peter." "You stay mit us maybe a dozen or six voyages," returned the other, "and you guess again, boy. I did not t'ink you vas a quitter." "But this isn't like going to sea at all," protested David. "You mean it ist not a big man's work?" shouted the bos'n. "Mein Gott, boy, it vas full up mit splendid kinds of seamanship, what that old bundle of sticks and canvas out yonder never heard about. I know. I vas in sailin' vessels twenty years." The bos'n waved a scornful hand at the passing ship. But David could not be convinced by empty words, and long after the bos'n had left him, he wistfully watched the square-rigger slide under the horizon, like a speck of drifting cloud. There had been bright skies and smooth seas during the outward passage to Dover and Antwerp, and although the season was early spring the _Roanoke_ had reached mid-ocean on her return voyage before the smiling weather shifted. When David was roused out to stand his four-hour watch at midnight, the liner was plunging into head seas which broke over the forward deck and were swept aft by a gale that hurled the spray against her bridge like rain. The cadet had to fight his way to the boat deck to report to the chief officer. Climbing to the bridge he found Captain Thrasher clinging to the railing, a huge and uncouth figure in dripping oil-skins. It was impossible to see overside in the inky darkness, while the clamor of wind and sea and the pelting fury of spray made speech impossible. The cadet crouched in the lee of the wheel-house while the night dragged on, now and then scrambling below on errands of duty until four o'clock sounded on the ship's bell. Then he went below, drenched and shivering, to lie awake for some time and feel the great ship rear and tremble to the shock of the charging seas. When he went on deck in daylight, he was amazed to find the _Roanoke_ making no more than half speed against the storm. The white-crested combers were towering higher than her sides, and as he started to cross the well deck a wall of green water crashed over the bow, picked him up, and tossed him against a hatch, where he clung bruised and strangling until the torrent passed. It was the sturdy bos'n who crawled forward and fetched the boy away from the ring-bolt to which he was hanging like a barnacle. As soon as he had gained shelter, David gasped: "Did you ever see a storm as bad as this, Peter?" "It is a smart gale of wind," spluttered the bos'n, "and two of our boats vas washed away like they vas chips already. But maybe she get worse by night." On his reeling bridge Captain Thrasher still held his post, after an all-night vigil. The cadet was cheered at the sight of this grim and silent figure, no longer a "fair-weather sailor," but the master of the liner, doing his duty as it came to him, braced to meet any crisis. The men were going about their work as usual, and David began cleaning the salt-stained brass in the wheel-house. When he looked out again, the chief officer was waving his arm toward the dim, gray skyline, and at sight of David he beckoned the lad to fetch him his marine glasses. Captain Thrasher also clawed his way to the windward side of the bridge and stared hard at the sea. The two men shouted in each other's ears, then resumed their careful scrutiny of the tempest-torn ocean in which David could see nothing but the racing billows. Presently the chief officer shook his head and folded his arms as if there was nothing more to be said or done. After a while David made out a brown patch of something which was tossed into view for an instant and then vanished as if it would never come up again. If it were a wreck it seemed impossible that any one could be left alive in such weather as this. As the _Roanoke_ forged slowly ahead, the drifting object grew more distinct. With a pair of glasses from the rack in the wheel-house, David fancied he could make out some kind of a signal streaming from the splintered stump of a mast. Captain Thrasher was pulling at his brown beard with nervous hands, but he did not stir from his place on the bridge. Presently he asked David to call the third officer. There was a consultation, and fragments of speech were blown to the cadet's eager ears: "No use in trying to get a boat out.... God help the poor souls ... she'll founder before night...." Could it be that the liner would make no effort to rescue the crew of this sinking vessel, thought David. Was this the kind of seamanship a man learned in steamers? He hated Captain Thrasher with sudden, white-hot anger. He was only a youngster, but he was ready to risk his life, just as his father would have done before him. And still the liner struggled on her course without sign of veering toward the wreck whose deck seemed level with the sea. The forlorn hulk was dropping astern when Captain Thrasher buffeted his way to the wheel-house and stood by a speaking-tube. As if he were working out some difficult problem with himself, he hesitated, and said aloud: "It is the only chance. But I'm afraid the vessel yonder can't live long enough to let me try it." The orders he sent below had to do with tanks, valves, pipes, and strainers. David could not make head or tail of it. What had the engineer's department to do with saving life in time of shipwreck? Stout-hearted sailors and a life-boat were needed to show what Anglo-Saxon courage meant. The cadet ran to the side and looked back at the wreck. He was sure that he could make out two or three people on top of her after deck house, and others clustered far forward. They might be dead for all he knew, but the pitiful distress signal beckoned to the liner as if it were a spoken message. When David went off watch he found a group of cadets as angry and impatient as himself. "He ought to have sent a boat away two hours ago," cried one. "I'd volunteer in a minute," exclaimed another. "The old man's lost his nerve." The bos'n was passing and halted to roar: "Hold your tongues, you know-noddings, you. A boat would be smashed against our side like egg-shells and lose all our people. If the wedder don't moderate pretty quick, it vas good-by and Davy Jones's locker for them poor fellers." But the cadets soon saw that Captain Thrasher was not running away from the wreck, even though he was not trying to send aid. The _Roanoke_ was hovering to leeward as if waiting for something to happen. It was heart-breaking to watch the last hours of the doomed vessel. At last Captain Thrasher was ready to try his own way of sending help. The oldest cadet who was in charge of the signal locker came on deck with an armful of bunting. One by one he bent the bright flags to a halliard; they crept aloft, broke out of stops, and snapped in the wind. David, who had studied the international code in spare hours, was able to read the message: _Will stand by to give you assistance._ Only the iron discipline that ruled the liner from bridge to fire room kept the cadets from cheering. David expected to see a boat dropped from the lofty davits, but there were no signs of activity along the liner's streaming decks. It looked as if Captain Thrasher would let those helpless people drown before his eyes. After a little the _Roanoke_ began to swing very slowly off her course. Then as the seas began to smash against her weather side, she rolled until it seemed as if her funnels must be jerked out by the roots. Inch by inch, however, she crept onward along the arc of a mile-wide circle of which the wreck was the centre. Even now David did not at all understand what the captain was trying to do. The great circle had been half-way covered before the cadet happened to notice that a band of smoother water was stretching to leeward of the steamer, and that as if by a miracle the huge combers were ceasing to break. An eddying gust brought him a strong smell of oil, and he went to the rail and stared down at the sea. The _Roanoke_ heaved up her black side until he saw smears of a yellow liquid trickle from several pipes, and spread out over the frothing billows in shimmering sheets. Slowly the _Roanoke_ plunged and rolled on her circular course until she had ringed the wreck with a streak of oily calm. But still no efforts were made to attempt a rescue. The night was not far off. The gray sky was dusky and the horizon was shutting down nearer and nearer in mist and murk. Once more the liner swung her head around as if to steer a smaller circle about the helpless craft. In an agony of impatience David was praying that she might stay afloat a little longer. Clear around this second and smaller circuit the liner wallowed until two rings of oil-streaked calm were wrapped around the wreck. Now surely, Captain Thrasher would risk sending a boat. But the bearded commander gave no orders and only shook his head now and then, as if arguing with himself. Then for the third and last time the _Roanoke_ began to weave a path around the water-logged hulk, which was so close at hand that the castaways could be counted. One, two, three aft, and three more sprawled up in the bow. One or two of them were waving their arms in feeble signals for help. A great sea washed over them, and one vanished forever. It was cruel beyond words for those who were left alone to have to watch the liner circle them time after time. The stormy twilight was deepening into night when this third or inner circle was completed. The onset of the seas was somewhat broken when it met the outside ring of oil. Then rushing onward, the diminished breakers came to the second protecting streak and their menace was still further lessened. Once more the sea moved on to attack the wreck, and coming to the third floating barrier the combers toppled over in harmless surf, such as that which washes the beach on a summer day when the wind is off shore. It was possible now for the first time to launch a boat from the lee side of the liner, if the help so carefully and shrewdly planned had not come too late. Landlubber though he was, and convinced beforehand that there was no room for seamanship aboard a steamer, David Downes began to perceive the fact that Captain Thrasher knew how to meet problems which would have baffled a seaman of the old school. But even while the third officer was calling the men to one of the leeward boats, the sodden wreck dove from view and rose so sluggishly that it was plain to see her life was nearly done. The hearts of those who looked at her almost ceased to beat. It could not be that she was going to drown with help so near. As the shadows deepened across the leaden sea, David forgot that he was only a cadet, forgot the discipline that had taught him to think only of his own duties, and rushing toward the boat he called to the third officer: "Oh, Mr. Briggs, can't I have an oar? I can pull a man's weight in the boat. Please let me go with you." The ruddy mate spun on his heel and glared at the boy as if about to knock him down. Just then a Norwegian seaman hung back, muttering to himself as if not at all anxious to join this forlorn hope. The mate glanced from him to the flushed face and quivering lip of the stalwart lad. Mr. Briggs was an American, and in this moment blood was thicker than water. "Pile in amidships," said he. "You are my kind, youngster." Mr. Briggs shoved the Norwegian headlong, and David leaped into the boat just as the creaking falls began to lower her from the davits. The boat swung between sea and sky as the liner rolled far down to leeward and back again. Then in a smother of broken water the stout life-boat met the rising sea, the automatic tackle set her free, and she was shoved away in the nick of time to escape being shattered against the steamer. As the seven seamen and the cadet tugged madly at the sweeps and the boat climbed the slope of a green swell, Mr. Briggs shouted: "She can't last much longer. Lay into it, my buckos. Give it to her. There's a woman on board, God bless her. I can see her skirt. No, it's a little girl. She's lashed aft with the skipper. Now break your backs. H-e-a-v-e a-l-l!" CHAPTER II THE SEA WAIFS As the liner's life-boat drew nearer the foundering hulk, the men at the oars could see how fearful was the plight of the handful of survivors. The arms of a gray-haired man were clasped around a slip of a girl, whose long, fair hair whipped in the wind like seaweed. They were bound fast to a jagged bit of the mizzen-mast and appeared to be lifeless. Far forward amid a tangle of rigging and broken spars, three seamen sprawled upon the forecastle head. If any of them were alive, they were too far gone to help save themselves. Just beyond the innermost ring of oil-streaked sea there was a patch of quiet water, and as the boat hovered on the greasy swells, the third officer called to his men: "One of us must swim aboard with a line." The excited cadet, straining at his sweep, yelled back that he was ready to try it, but the officer gruffly replied: "This is a man's job. Bos'n, you sung out next. Over you go." The bos'n was already knotting the end of a heaving line around his waist, and without a word he tossed the end to the officer in the stern. David Downes bent to his oar again with bitter disappointment in his dripping face. He was a strong swimmer and not afraid of the task, for this was the kind of sea life he had fondly pictured for himself. But he had to watch the bos'n battle hand-over-hand toward the wreck, the line trailing in his wake. Then a sea picked up the swimmer and flung him on the broken deck that was awash with the sea. Those in the boat feared that he had been killed or crippled by the shock, and waited tensely until his hoarse shout came back to them. They could see him creeping on hands and knees across the poop, now and then halting to grasp a block or rope's end until he could shake himself clear of the seas that buried him. At length he gained the cabin roof, and his shadowy figure toiled desperately while he wrenched the little girl from the arms of her protector and tied the line about her. The life-boat was warily steered under the stern as the bos'n staggered to the bulwark with his burden. With a warning cry he swung her clear. A white-backed wave caught her up and bore her swiftly toward the boat as if she were cradled. Two seamen grasped her as she was swept past them and lifted her over the gunwale. Again the bos'n shouted, and the master of the vessel was heaved overboard and rescued with the same deft quickness. Mr. Briggs rejoiced to find that both had life in them, and forced stimulants between their locked and pallid lips, while his men rowed toward the bow of the wreck. The three survivors still left on board could no longer be seen in the gray darkness. David Downes, fairly beside himself with pity and with anger at the sea which must surely swallow the wreck before daylight could come again, had tied the end of a second line around his middle while the boat was waiting under the stern. Now, as the mate hesitated whether to attempt another rescue, the cadet called out: "It's my turn next, sir. I know I can make it. Oh, won't you let me try?" "Shut your mouth and sit still," hotly returned Mr. Briggs. He had no more than spoken when David jumped overboard and began to swim with confident stroke toward the vague outlines of the vessel's bow. The whistle of the liner was bellowing a recall, and her signal lamps twinkled their urgent message from aloft. It was plain to read that Captain Thrasher was troubled about the safety of his boat's crew, but they doggedly hung to their station. As for David, his strength was almost spent before he was able to fetch alongside his goal. He had never fought for his life in water like this which clubbed and choked him. By great good luck he was tossed close to a broken gap in the vessel's waist, and gained a foothold after barking his hands and knees. Half stunned, he groped his way forward until a feeble cry for help from the gloom nerved him to a supreme effort. He found the man whose voice had guided him, and was trying to pull him toward the side when the wreck seemed to drop from under their feet. Then David felt the bow rise, rearing higher and higher, until it hung for a moment and descended in a long, sickening swoop as if it were heading straight for the bottom. There was barely time to make fast a bight of the line under the sailor's shoulders before, clinging to each other, the two were washed out to sea. The men in the boat discerned the wild plunge of the sinking craft, and guessing that she was in the last throes, they hauled on the line with might and main. Their double burden was dragged clear, just as the bark rose once more as if doing her best to make a brave finish of it, and a few moments later there was nothing but seething water where she had been. When David came to himself he was slumped on the bottom boards beside the groaning seaman he had saved. They were close to the _Roanoke_ and her passengers were cheering from the promenade deck. It was a dangerous task to hoist the boat up the liner's side, but cool-headed seamanship accomplished it without mishap. Several stewards and the ship's doctor were waiting to care for the rescued, and as David limped forward he caught a glimpse of the slender girl being borne toward the staterooms of the second cabin. Men and women passengers hurried after the cadet, for the bos'n had lost no time in telling the story, winding up with the verdict: "A cadet vas good for somethings if you give him a chance." Wobbly and water-logged, David dodged the ovation and steered for his bunk as fast as he was able. The other cadets of his watch shook his hand and slapped him on the back until he feebly cried for mercy, and brought him enough hot coffee and food to stock a schooner's galley. "There will be speeches in the first cabin saloon, and the hat passed for the heroes, and maybe a medal for your manly little chest," said one of the boys. "You are a lucky pup. How did you get a chance to kick up such a fuss?" David was proud that he had been able to play a part in a deed of real seafaring, such as he had thought was no longer to be found in steamers. He had changed his mind. He was going to stick by the _Roanoke_ and Captain Thrasher, by Jove, and with swelling heart he answered: "I just did it, that's all, without waiting for orders. I tell you, fellows, that's the kind of thing that makes going to sea worth while, even in a tea-kettle." "You did it without orders?" echoed the oldest cadet with a whistle of surprise. "Um-m-m! wait till the old man gets after you. You may wish you hadn't." "What! When I saved a man's life in the dark from a vessel that went down under us? I did my duty, that is all there is to it." "It wasn't discipline. It was plain foolishness," was the unwelcome reply. "I am mighty well pleased with you myself, but--well, there's no use spoiling your fun." Next day the _Roanoke_ was steaming full speed ahead toward the Newfoundland banks, the storm left far behind her. David Downes, every muscle stiff and sore, went on duty, still hoping that his deed would be applauded by the ship's officers. While he scoured, cleaned, and trotted this way and that at the beck and call of the bos'n, a bebuttoned small boy in a bob-tailed jacket hailed him with this brief message: "_He_ wants to see you in his room, right away." The cadet followed the captain's cabin boy in some fear and trembling. He found the sea lord of the _Roanoke_ stretched in an arm-chair, while a steward was cutting his shoes from his feet with a sailor's knife. The captain tried to hide the pitiable condition of his swollen feet as if ashamed of being caught in such a plight, and grumbled to the steward: "Thirty-six hours on the bridge ought not to do that. But those shoes never did fit me." To David he exclaimed more severely: "So you are the cadet that jumped overboard without orders. Don't do it again. If you are going to sail with us next voyage, the watch officer will see that you have no shore leave in New York. You will be on duty at the gangway while the ship is in port. What kind of a vessel would this be if all hands did as they pleased?" Standing very stiffly in the middle of the cabin, David chewed his lip to hold back his grief and anger. Overnight he had come to love the sea and to feel that he was ready to work and wait for the slow process of promotion. But this punishment fairly crushed him. He could only stammer: "I did the best I could to be of service, sir." The captain's stern face softened a trifle and there was a kindly gleam in his gray eye as he said: "I put Mr. Briggs in charge of the boat, not you. That is all now. Hold on a minute. I hope you are going to sail with us next voyage." The cadet tried to speak but the words would not come, and he hurried on deck. After the first shock he found himself repeating the captain's final words: "I hope you are going to sail with us next voyage." Said David to himself a little more cheerfully: "That means he wants me to stay with him. It is a whole lot for him to say, and more than he ever told the other fellows. Maybe I did wrong, but I'm glad of it." He would have been in a happier frame of mind could he have overheard Captain Thrasher say to Mr. Briggs after the boy had gone forward: "I don't want the silly passengers to spoil the boy with a lot of heroics. He has the right stuff in him. He is worth hammering into shape. I guess I knocked some of the hero nonsense out of his noddle, and now I want you to work him hard and watch how he takes his medicine." As soon as he was again off watch, David was very anxious to go in search of the castaways, but he was forbidden to be on the passenger deck except when sent there. The captain's steward had told him that the captain of the lost bark, the _Pilgrim_, was able to lie in a steamer chair on deck, but that the little girl could not leave her berth. The bos'n was quick to read the lad's anxiety to know more about these two survivors, and craftily suggested in passing: "Mebbe I could use one more hand mit the awnings on the promenade deck, eh?" David was more than willing, and as he busied himself with stays and lashings he cast his eye aft until he could see the gray-haired skipper of the _Pilgrim_ huddled limply in a chair, a forlorn picture of misery and weakness. David managed to work his way nearer until he was able to greet the haggard, brooding ship-master who was dwelling more with his great loss than with his wonderful escape, as he tremulously muttered in response: "Ten good men and a fine vessel gone. My mate and four hands went when the masts fell. The others were caught forrud. And all I owned went with her, all but my little Margaret. If it wasn't for her I'd wish I was with the _Pilgrim_." "Is she coming around all right?" asked David, eagerly. "We were afraid we were too late." "She's too weak to talk much, but she smiled at me," and the ship-master's seamed face suddenly became radiant. "So you were in the boat. It was a fine bit of work, and your skipper ought to be proud of you, and proud of himself. That three-ringed oil circus he invented was new to me. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart." The cadet grinned at thought of Captain Thrasher's "pride" in him, but said nothing about his own part in the rescue and inquired in an anxious tone: "Does the doctor think she will be able to walk ashore? Had you been dismasted and awash very long?" "Two days," was the slow reply. "But I don't want to think of it now. My mind kind of breaks away from its moorings when I try to talk about it, and my head feels awful queer. John Bracewell is my name. I live in Brooklyn when ashore. You must come over and see us when I feel livelier." "But about the little girl," persisted David. "Is she your granddaughter?" "Yes, my only one, and all I have to tie to. My boy was lost at sea and his wife with him. And she is all there is left. She's sailed with me since she was ten years old. She's most thirteen now, and I never lost a man or a spar before." The broken ship-master fell to brooding again, and there was so much grief in his tired eyes and uncertain voice that David forbore to ask him any more questions. When he went forward again, David sought the forecastle to learn what he could about the lone seaman of the _Pilgrim's_ crew. A group of _Roanoke_ hands were listening to the story of the loss of the bark as told by the battered man with bandaged head and one arm in a sling who sat propped in a spare bunk. The cadets were forbidden to loaf in the forecastle, and after a word or two David lingered in the doorway, where he could hear the sailor's voice rise and fall in such fragments of his tale as these: "Broke his heart in two to lose her ... American-built bark of the good old times, the _Pilgrim_ was ... me the only Yankee seaman aboard, too ... I'll ship out of New York in one of these tin pots, I guess.... No, the old man ain't likely to find another ship.... He's down and out.... I'm sorry for him and the little girl. She's all right, she is." The _Roanoke_ was nearing port at a twenty-knot gait, and the cadets were hard at work helping to make the great ship spick and span for her stately entry at New York. Now and then David Downes found an errand to the second cabin deck, hoping to find Captain Bracewell's granddaughter strong enough to leave her room. But he had to content himself with talking to the master of the _Pilgrim_, who was like a man benumbed in mind and body. He was all adrift and the future was black with doubts and fears. He had lived and toiled and dared in his lost bark for twenty years. David could understand something of his emotions. His father had been one of this race of old-fashioned seamen, and the boy could recall his sorrow at seeing the American sailing ships vanish one by one from the seas they had ruled. Captain Bracewell was fit for many active years afloat, but he was too old to begin at the foot of the ladder in steam vessels, and there was the slenderest hope of his finding a command in the kind of a ship he had lost. These thoughts haunted David and troubled his sleep. But he did not realize how much he was taking the tragedy to heart until the afternoon of the last day out. He was overjoyed to see the "little girl" snuggled in a chair beside her grandfather. She was so slight and delicate by contrast with the ship-master's rugged bulk that she looked like a drooping white flower nestled against a rock. But her eyes were brave and her smile was bright, as her grandfather called out: "David Downes, ahoy! Here's my Margaret that wants to know the fine big boy I've been telling her so much about." Boy and girl gazed at each other with frank interest and curiosity. Even before David had a chance to know her, he felt as if he were her big brother standing ready to help her in any time of need. Margaret was the first to speak: "I wish I could have seen you swimming off to the poor old _Pilgrim_. Oh, but that was splendid." David blushed and made haste to say: "I haven't had a chance to do anything for you aboard ship. I wish I could hear how you are after you get ashore." "You are coming over to see us before you sail, aren't you?" spoke up Captain Bracewell, with a trace of his old hearty manner. "I'd be awful glad to," David began, and then he remembered that if he intended sticking to the _Roanoke_ he must stay aboard as punishment for trying to do his duty. So he finished very lamely. "I--I can't see you in port this time." Margaret looked so disappointed that he stumbled through an excuse which did not mean much of anything. He had made up his mind to stay in the ship as a cadet, even though he was forbidden to be a hero. He realized, for one thing, how ashamed he would be to let these two know that he had almost decided to quit the sea. He had played a man's part and the call of the deep water had a new meaning. But it would never do to let Margaret know that his part in the _Pilgrim_ rescue had got him into trouble with his captain. David was called away from his friends, and did not see them again until evening. A concert was held in the first-class dining saloon, and the president of a great corporation, a famous author, and a clergyman of renown made speeches in praise of the heroism of the _Roanoke's_ boat crew. Then the prima donna of a grand-opera company volunteered to collect a fund which should be divided among the heroes and the castaways. She returned from her quest through the crowded saloon with a heaping basket of bank-notes and coin. There was more applause when Captain Bracewell was led forward, much against his will. But instead of the expected thanks for the generous gift, he squared his slouching shoulders and standing as if he were on his own quarter-deck, his deep voice rang out with its old-time resonance: "You mean well, ladies and gentlemen, but my little girl and I don't want your charity. I expect to get back my health and strength, and I'm not ready for Sailor's Snug Harbor yet. We thank you just the same, though, but there's those that need it worse." David Downes was outside, peering through an open port, for he knew that the concert was no place for a _Roanoke_ "hero." He could not hear all that the captain of the _Pilgrim_ had to say, but the ship-master's manner told the story. The cadet had a glimpse of Margaret sitting in a far corner of the great room. She clapped her hands when her grandfather was done speaking, and there was the same proud independence in the poise of her head. David sighed, and as he turned away bumped into the lone seaman of the _Pilgrim_ who had been gazing over his shoulder. "He's a good skipper," said the sailor. "But he's an old fool. He's goin' to need that cash, and need it bad. All he ever saved at sea his friends took away from him ashore. My daddy and him was raised in the same town, and I know all about him." "Do you mean they'll have to depend on his getting to sea again?" asked David. "That's about the size of it. He's worked for wages all his life, and knowin' no more about shore-goin' folks and ways than a baby, he never risked a dollar that he didn't lose. Here's hopin' he lands a better berth than he lost." "Aye, aye," said David. Next morning the _Roanoke_ steamed through the Narrows with her band playing, colors flying from every mast, and her passengers gay in their best shore-going clothes. David had no chance to look for Captain Bracewell and Margaret. It was sad to think of them amid this jubilant company which had scattered its wealth over Europe with lavish hand. The contrast touched David even more as he watched Captain Thrasher give orders for swinging the huge steamer into her landing. With voice no louder than if he were talking across a dinner table, the master of the liner waved away the tugs that swarmed out to help him, and with flawless judgment turned the six hundred feet of vibrant steel hull almost in its own length and laid her alongside her pier as delicately as a fisherman handles a dory. The strength of fifteen thousand horses and the minds of four hundred men, alert and instantly obedient, did the will of this calm man on the bridge. David thrilled at the sight, and thought of Captain Bracewell, as fine a seaman in his way, but belonging to another era of the ocean. The cadet was on duty at the gangway when the happy passengers streamed ashore to meet the flocks of waiting friends. The decks were almost deserted when the skipper of the _Pilgrim_ and Margaret came along very slowly. David ran to help them. They were grateful and glad to see him, but the "little girl," could not hide her disappointment that her boy hero was not coming to see them before he sailed. She could not understand his refusal, and when she tried to thank him for what he had done for them, there were tears in her eyes. Her grandfather had fallen back into the hopeless depression of his first day aboard. Weak and unnerved as he was, it seemed to frighten him to face the great and roaring city, in which he was only a stranded ship-master without a ship. David tried to be cheery at parting, but his voice was unsteady as he said: "I'll see you both again, as soon as ever I can get ashore. And you must write to me, won't you?" Margaret's last words were: "You will always find us together, David Downes. And we'll think of you every day and pray for you at sea." They went slowly down the gangway and were lost in the crowd on the pier. The cadet stood looking after them and said to himself: "I can never be really happy till he has another ship. But what in the world can I do about it?" CHAPTER III THE FIRE-ROOM GANG Cadet David Downes was on watch with the fourth officer of the _Roanoke_ at the forward gangway. It was their duty, while the liner lay at her pier in New York, to see that nobody came on board except on the ship's business, and to prevent attempts at smuggling by the crew. David had heard nothing from Captain Bracewell and Margaret since they went ashore three days before. They had taken such a strong hold on his affection and sympathy that he was wondering how it fared with these friends of his, when a quartermaster, returning from an evening visit to the offices ashore, handed the cadet two letters from the bundle of ship's mail. One envelope was bordered with black and he opened it first. The letter told him of the sudden death of his uncle, who had gone to live in a Western city. This guardian had shown little fondness for and interest in the motherless boy, and David felt more surprise than grief. But the loss made him think himself left so wholly alone that it seemed as if all his shore moorings were cut. More than ever he longed for some place to call home, and for people who would be glad to see him come back from the sea. It was with a new interest, therefore, that he read his other letter, which was signed in a very precise hand, "Margaret Hale Bracewell." In it the "little girl" told him: DEAR DAVID DOWNES: Grandfather wants me to write you that we are as well as could be expected and hoping very much to see you. We are boarding in the house with an old shipmate, Mr. Abel Becket, who used to sail with us. When are you coming to see us? I am most as well as ever. We have not found a ship, but Grandfather is looking round and maybe we will have good news for you next voyage. He tries to be cheerful, but is very restless and worried. I wish we were in steam instead of sail, don't you? Good luck, and I am YOUR SINCERE AND RESPECTFUL FRIEND. David smiled at the "we" of this stanch partnership of the _Pilgrim_, and as soon as he was off watch he wrote a long reply, in which he told Margaret that his uncle's death made him feel as if he kind of belonged to their little family, for he had nobody else to care for and be of service to. Once or twice he thought of asking permission to leave the ship long enough to run over to Brooklyn, but new notions of discipline had been pounded into him by the events of the homeward voyage, and he decided to take his detention on board as part of the routine which made good sailors "in steam." Two nights before sailing he happened to be left alone at the gangway, for the watch officer had been called to another part of the ship. A drizzling fog filled the harbor, and the arc lights on the pier were no more than vague blobs of sickly yellow. The cadet's attention was roused by a confused noise of shouting, singing, and swearing out toward the end of the pier shed. After making sure that the racket did not come from the ship he concluded that a riotous lot of Belgian firemen and roustabouts were making merry. When the watch officer returned, the cadet reported the unseemly noise. A few minutes later a louder clamor arose, as if the revellers had fallen to fighting among themselves. Then a quartermaster came running forward from the after gangway. "Dose firemen vill kill each odder," he reported. "They tries to come aboard ship and I can't stop 'em." The officer told David to stay at his post, and hurried aft in the wake of the quartermaster. The cadet could hear seamen running from the other side of the ship to re-enforce the peace party, and presently one of them dashed up the pier as if to call the police patrol boat, which lay at the next dock. The cadet had seen enough of the fire-room force, a hundred and fifty strong, to know that the coal-passers and firemen were as brutal and disorderly men ashore as could be found in the slums of a great seaport. But such an uproar as this right alongside the ship was out of the ordinary. While the cadet listened uneasily to the distant riot, his alert ears caught the sound of a splash, as if some heavy object had been dropped from a lower deck. On the chance that one of the crew might have fallen over, he ran to the other side and looked down at the fog-wreathed space of water between the liner and the next pier. He could see nothing and heard no cries for help. A little later there came faintly to his ears a second splash. It somehow disquieted him. The galley force was asleep. Nothing was thrown overboard from the kitchens at this time of night and the ash-hoists were never dumped in port. Firemen sometimes deserted ship, but no deserter would be foolish enough to swim for it in the icy water of early spring. David dared not leave his gangway more than a minute or two at a time. He wanted very much to know what was going on overside in this mysterious fashion, but there was no one in hailing distance, and the watch officer, judging by the noise in the pier, had his hands full. David had quick hearing, and in the still, fog-bound night small sounds travelled far. Presently he fancied he heard words of hushed talk, and a new noise as if an oar had been let fall against a thwart. It was his business to see that the ship was kept clear of strangers, and without knowing quite why, he felt sure that something wrong was going on. Finally, when he could stand the suspense no longer, he tiptoed across the deck, moved aft until he was amidships between the saloon deck houses, and crouched on a bench against the rail. Cautiously poking his head over, he could dimly discern the outline of a small boat riding close to the ship as if she were waiting for something. She was hovering under one of the lower ports, which had been left open to resume coaling at daylight. Two or three men were moving like dark blots in the little craft. Presently a bulky object loomed above their heads and slowly descended. As if suddenly alarmed, the boat did not wait for it, but shot out in the stream, and there was the quick "lap, lap" of muffled oars. It was not long before the boat stole back, however, and seemed to be trying to pick up something adrift. David did not know what to do. He guessed that this might be some kind of a bold smuggling enterprise, but it seemed hardly possible that anybody would risk capture in this rash and wholesale way. He was afraid of being laughed at for his pains if he should raise an alarm. He really knew so little of this vast and complex structure called a steamship that almost any surprising performance might happen among her eight decks. It was duty to report this singular visit, however, and the officers could do the rest. [Illustration: Some one was kneeling on his chest, with a choking grip on his neck.] He rose from his seat and turned to recross the deck, when he was tripped and thrown on his back so suddenly that there was no time to cry out before some one was kneeling on his chest, with a choking grip on his neck. His eyes fairly popping from his head, David could only gurgle, while he tried to free himself from this attack. The man above him wore the uniform of a _Roanoke_ seaman, this much the cadet could make out, but the shadowy face so close to his own was that of a stranger. He was saying something, but the lad was too dazed to understand it. At length the repetition of two or three phrases beat a slow way into David's brain: "Forget it. Forget it. It'll be worth your while. You get your piece of it. Forget it, or overboard you go, with your head stove in." Forget what? It was like a bad dream without head or tail, that such a thing could happen on the deck of a liner in port. Twisting desperately, for he was both quick and strong, David managed to sink his teeth in the arm nearest him. The grip on his throat weakened and he yelled with a volume of sound of which the whistle of a harbor tug might have been proud. The assailant pulled himself free, kicked savagely at the boy's head, missed it, and closed with him again as if trying to heave him overboard. But he had caught a Tartar, and David shouted lustily while he fought. It was Captain Thrasher who came most unexpectedly to the rescue. He was on his way back from an after-theatre supper party ashore, and he launched his two hundred and thirty pounds of seasoned brawn and muscle at the intruder before the pair had heard him coming. Then his great voice boomed from one end of the ship to the other: "On deck! Bring a pair of irons! Are all hands asleep? What's all this devil's business?" The watch officer came running up with a quartermaster and two seamen. Without waiting for explanations they fell upon the captive whom Captain Thrasher had tucked under one arm, and handcuffed him in a twinkling. Swift to get at the heart of a matter, the captain snapped at David: "How did it happen? Anybody with him? I know the face of that dirty murdering scoundrel." "I was just going to report a boat alongside," gasped David. Captain Thrasher sprang to the rail. The fog had begun to lift, and a black blotch was moving out toward the middle of the river. "After 'em, Mr. Enos," roared the captain to the fourth officer. "Jump for the police patrol. It's the Antwerp tobacco smuggling gang. I thought we were rid of 'em." The officer took to his heels, and in a surprisingly short time the captain saw a launch dart out from the pier beyond the _Roanoke_, her engines "chug chugging" at top speed. Making a trumpet of his hands, Captain Thrasher shouted: "I just now lost sight of them, but the boat was headed for the Hoboken shore. They can't get away if you look sharp." Then the captain ordered his men to lock the captive in the ship's prison until the police came back. The chief officer was roused out and told to search the ship and to put double watches on the decks and gangways. Having taken steps to get at the bottom of the mischief, Captain Thrasher fairly picked up David and lugged him to his cabin. Dumping the lad on a divan, the master of the liner pawed him over from head to foot to make sure no bones were broken, and then remarked with great severity: "You are more trouble than all my people put together. Disobeying orders again?" "I guess I was, sir," faltered the cadet. "Mr. Enos told me not to budge from the gangway, and I went over to see what was going on." "What was it? Speak up. I won't bite you," growled the captain. David told him in detail all that happened, but he did not have the wit to put two and two together. This was left for the big man with the wrathful gray eye, who fairly exploded: "Mr. Enos is a good seaman, but his brain needs oiling. It is all as plain as the nose on your face. That row on the dock was all a blind, put up by two or three of those fire-room blackguards from Antwerp, who stand in with the gang of tobacco smugglers. They figured it out that all hands on deck would be pulled over to the port side and kept there by their infernal row, while their pals dumped the tobacco out of the starboard side. It was hidden in the coal bunkers, wrapped in rubber bags. And because the police patrol boat berths close by us, they even decoyed the whole squad away for a little while. Oh, Mr. Enos, but you _were_ soft and easy." The captain was not addressing David so much as the world in general, but the cadet could not help asking: "How about the man that jumped on top of me?" "He was one of them, the head pirate of the lot," said the captain. "He sneaked up from below as soon as the coast was clear, to signal his mates if anybody caught them at work with the boat." It was worth being choked and thumped a little to be here in the captain's cabin, thought David, and to be taken into the confidence of the great man. The guest risked another question: "Did they ever try it before, sir?" "Every ship in the line has had trouble for years with these tobacco-running firemen. But this is the biggest thing they ever tried. Do you expect me to sit here yarning all night with a tuppenny cadet? Go to your bunk and report to me in the morning. You are a young nuisance, but you can go ashore to-morrow night, if you want to. Punishment orders are suspended. Get along with you." David turned in with his mind sadly puzzled. One thing at least was certain. There was more in the life of a cadet than cleaning paint and brass, but was he always going to be in hot water for doing the right thing at the wrong time? Before he went to sleep he heard the police launch return, and stepped on deck long enough to see four prisoners hauled on to the landing stage. When David went on duty next morning he noticed a little group of ill-favored and unkempt-looking men talking together on the end of the pier. One of them made a slight gesture, and the others turned and stared toward the cadet. Then they moved toward the street without trying to get aboard ship. Mr. Enos called David aft and told him: "The police are watching that bunch of thugs. Two of them used to be in our fire room. All four ought to be in jail. They had something to do with the ruction last night, but they can't be identified. The bos'n tells me he thinks they got wind that you were the lad who spoiled the game for their pals. If you go ashore after dark, keep a sharp eye out. They'd love to catch you up a dark street." David looked solemn at this, but it was too much like playing theatricals to let himself believe that he was in any kind of danger along the water front of New York. It was early evening before he was free to get into his one suit of shore-going clothes and head for Brooklyn to look for his friends, Captain Bracewell and Margaret. The bridge cars were blockaded by an accident, and after fidgeting for half an hour David decided to walk across. There was more delay on the other side in trying to find the right street, and it was getting toward nine o'clock before he rang the bell of a small brick house in a solid block of them so much alike that they suggested a row of red pigeon-holes. A sturdy man with hair and mustache redder than his house front opened the door, and to David's rather breathless inquiry answered in a tone of dismay: "Why, Captain John and the little girl left here this very afternoon. Bless my soul, are you the lad from the _Roanoke_ they think so much of? Come aboard and sit down. No, they ain't coming back that I know of. My name is Abel Becket and I'm glad to meet you." David followed Mr. Becket into the parlor, feeling as if the world had been turned upside down. The sympathetic sailor man hastened to add: "They didn't expect to see you this voyage and they was all broke up about it. The old man is kind of flighty and I couldn't ha' held him here with a hawser. They could have berthed here a month of Sundays, for he has been like a daddy to me." "But where did they go?" implored David. "All I know is," said Mr. Becket, rubbing his chin, "that the old man came home this noon mighty glum and fretty after visitin' some ship-brokers' offices. He told me that he heard how an old ship of his, the _Gleaner_, had been cut down to a coal-barge. He was mighty fond of her, and it upset him bad. And I think he was sort of hopin' to get her again. Then he said he was going to move over to New York to be close to the shipping offices in case anything turned up, and with that him and Margaret packed up and away they flew." "But why didn't they stay here with you, Mr. Becket? I can't understand it." Mr. Becket laid a large hand on David's knee and exclaimed: "Captain John is a sudden and a funny man. For one thing, I suspicion he was afraid of being stranded, and that I'd offer to lend him money or something like that. He is that touchy about taking favors from anybody that it's plumb unnatural. I'm worried that he will go all to pieces if he don't get afloat again. I wish I could drag him back here so as to look after him." "And how about Margaret?" David asked. "Oh, she's feelin' fairly chirpy, and she went off with granddaddy as proud and cocksure as if they were expectin' to be offered command of a liner to-morrow." Despite Mr. Becket's explanations, the flight of Captain Bracewell remained a good deal of a mystery to David. He could not bear to think of them adrift in New York, and he declared with decision: "If you will give me their address, I'll look them up to-night." "Bless my stars and buttons, I'll go along with you and make my own mind easy," announced Mr. Becket. "I won't sleep sound unless I know how they're fixed. I'm so used to thinkin' of Cap'n John as fit and ready to ride out any weather, that I don't realize he's so broke up and helpless. And I've got to go to sea before long." The twisted streets of old Greenwich village in down-town New York proved to be a puzzle to this pair of nautical explorers, partly because Mr. Becket had so much confidence in his ability to steer a straight course to Captain Bracewell's new quarters that he positively refused to ask his bearings of policemen or wayfarers. After they had lost themselves several times, the red-headed pilot of the expedition announced with an air of certainty: "It's here or hereabouts. I saw the name of the street on a corner sign three or four years ago, and my memory is a wonder." This was more cheering than definite, and David meekly suggested that he inquire at the next corner store. "Do you think I'm scuppered yet?" snorted Mr. Becket. "Not a bit of it. Bear off to starboard at the next turn." But once again they fetched up all standing, and Mr. Becket was obliged to confess as he meditated with hands in his pockets: "They've gone and moved the street. That's what they've done. It's a trick they have in New York." "You wait here and I'll go back to the cigar store around the last corner," volunteered David. Mr. Becket was left to shout his protests while David ran up the dark and narrow street. But the cigar store was not where he expected to find it, and certain that it must be in the next block beyond, he hurried on. Two crooked streets joined in the shape of the letter Y at the second corner, and the cadet failed to notice which of these two courses he had traversed with Mr. Becket. Without knowing it, David began to head into a district filled with sailors' drinking places and cheap eating-houses. As soon as he was sure that the street was unfamiliar he slowed his pace, looked around him, and not wishing to enter a saloon, went over to a gaudily placarded "oyster house." There were screens in front of the tables, and finding no one behind the cigar-counter David started for the rear of the room. Three rough-looking men jumped up from a table littered with bottles, and one of them cried out with an oath: "It's the very kid himself. Leave him to me." David dodged a chair that was flung at him like lightning, and fled for the street amid a shower of dishes and bottles. He had recognized the unlovely face of the man who yelled at him as that of one of the _Roanoke_ firemen who had stared at him from the pier in the morning. He knew he could expect no mercy at the hands of these ruffians. The three men were at his heels as he blindly doubled the nearest corner, hoping that Mr. Becket might hear his shouts for help. But the silent, shadowy street gave back only the echoes of his own voice and the sound of furious running. The fugitive had lost all sense of direction. He was still stiff from the bruising ordeal of the _Pilgrim_ wreck, and his legs felt benumbed, while the panting firemen seemed to be overhauling him inch by inch. One of them whipped out a revolver and fired. The whine of the bullet past his head made David leap aside, stumble, and lose ground. Were there no policemen in New York? It was beyond belief, thought David, that a man could be hunted for his life through the streets of a great city. Far away David heard the rapping of nightsticks against the pavement. Help was coming, but it might be too late, and where, oh where, was Mr. Becket? To be stamped on, kicked, and crippled by the boots of these ruffians--this was how they fought, David knew, and this was what he feared. Two of his pursuers were lagging, but the pounding footfalls of the third were coming nearer and nearer. The street into which he had now come was lined with warehouses, their iron doors bolted, their windows dark. There was no refuge here. He must gain the water front, whose lights beckoned him like beacons. Then, as he tried to clear the curb, he tripped and fell headlong. He heard a shout of savage joy almost in his ear, just before his head crashed against an iron awning post. A blinding shower of stars filled his eyes, and David sprawled senseless where he fell. CHAPTER IV MR. COCHRAN'S TEMPER David Downes stared at the ceiling, blinked at the long windows, and squirmed until he saw a sweet-faced woman smiling at him from the doorway. She wore a blue dress and white apron, but she was not a _Roanoke_ stewardess nor was this place anything like the bunk-room on shipboard. The cadet put his hands to his head and discovered that it was wrapped in bandages. Then memory began to come back, at first in scattered bits. He had been running through dark and empty streets. Men were after him. How many of his bones had they broken? He raised his knees very carefully and wiggled his toes. He was sound, then, except for his head. Oh, yes, he had banged against something frightfully hard when he fell. But why was he not aboard the _Roanoke_? She sailed at eight o'clock in the morning. He tried in vain to sit up, and called to the nurse: "What time is it, ma'am? Tell me, quick!" "Just past noon, and you have been sleeping beautifully," said she. "The doctor says you can sit up to-morrow and be out in three or four days more." "Oh! oh! my ship has sailed without me," groaned David, hiding his face in his hands. "And Captain Thrasher will think I have quit him. He knew I had a notion of staying ashore." "You must be quiet and not fret," chided the nurse. "You got a nasty bump, that would have broken any ordinary head." "But didn't you send word to the ship?" he implored. "You don't know what it means to me." "You had not come to, when you were brought in, foolish boy, and there were no addresses in your pockets." "But the captain probably signed on another cadet to take my place, first thing this morning," quavered the patient, "and--and I--I'm adrift and dis--disgraced." The nurse was called into the hall and presently returned with the message: "A red-headed sailor man insists upon seeing you. If you are very good you may talk to him five minutes, but no more visitors until to-morrow, understand?" The anxious face of Mr. Becket was framed in the doorway, and at a nod from the nurse he crossed the room with gingerly tread and patted David's cheek, as he exclaimed: "Imagine my feelin's when I read about it in a newspaper, first thing this morning. They didn't know your name, but I figured it out quicker'n scat. You must think I'm the dickens of a shipmate in foul weather, hey, boy?" "You couldn't help it, Mr. Becket, and I'm tickled to death to see you. Please tell me what happened to me. I feel as if I was somebody else." "Well, it was quick work, by what I read," began Mr. Becket. "And as close a shave as there ever was. Accordin' to reports, you, being a well-dressed and unknown young stranger, was rescued from a gang of drunken roustabouts by two policemen, a big red automobile, and a prominent citizen whose name was withheld at his request, as the bright reporter puts it. The machine was coming under full power from a late ferry, and making a short cut to Broadway. It must have bowled around the corner, close hauled, just as you landed on your beam ends, and it scattered the enemy like a bum-shell. They never had a chance to see it coming. The skipper of the gasolene liner, he being the aforesaid prominent citizen, hopped out to pick you up, and had you aboard just as the police came up. So you came to the hospital in the big red wagon, the gentleman taking a fancy to your face, as far as I can make out. And so you've been turned into a regular mystery that ought to be in a book." "But did you find Captain Bracewell?" was David's next spoken thought. "Of course I did, after I got tired waitin' for you," and Mr. Becket's tone was aggrieved. "It was mistrustin' my judgment that landed you in a hospital. Captain John and Margaret will be over to pay their respects as soon as the doctors will let 'em pass the hospital gangway. I just came from telling them about you." But David's mind had harked back to his own ship, and his face was so troubled and despairing that Mr. Becket tugged at his red mustache and waited in a gloomy silence. "I've lost my ship," said David at length. "Captain Bracewell and I are on the beach together." "Why didn't I think to telephone the dock as soon as I guessed it in the newspaper?" mourned Mr. Becket, beating his head with his fists. "But Captain Thrasher or some of 'em aboard will read it." "They won't know it's me," wailed David. "All I can do now is to report to the dock as soon as I can, but I am afraid it will do no good." The boy's distress was so moving that Mr. Becket had to look out of the window to hide his own woe. Then he spun around and announced with a shout that brought nurses and orderlies hurrying from the near-by wards: "I have it, my boy. Abel Becket's intellect is on the mend. Send old Thrasher a wireless, do you hear? Get the hospital folks to sign it." With that Mr. Becket jerked a roll of bills from his waistcoat and demanded a telegraph blank with so commanding an air that an orderly rushed for the office. The sailor-man and David put their heads together and composed this message to the _Roanoke_, which was speeding hull down and under, far beyond Sandy Hook: _Cadet Downes hurt on shore leave. Unable report because senseless. Anxious to rejoin ship._ "No, that doesn't sound right," objected David. "He thinks I have no sense anyhow. I can just hear him saying that he isn't in the least surprised. Try it again, Mr. Becket." "Time is up," put in the nurse. "And I ought to have cut it shorter, with your friend bellowing at you as if he were in a storm at sea." Mr. Becket looked repentant, as he whispered to David: "Sit tight and keep your nerve. I'll get the wireless off all shipshape. Good-by, and God bless you." The patient soon fell asleep. It was late in the afternoon when he awoke, hungry and refreshed. The nurse informed him: "A dear old man and a sweet mite of a girl called to ask after you, and I told them to come back in the morning and they might see you. Mr. Cochran had you put in this private room and left orders that you were to be made as comfortable as possible. So we will have to stretch the rules a bit, I suppose, and let your friends call out of visiting hours to-morrow." David asked who the mysterious Mr. Cochran might be, but he could learn nothing from the nurse, except that he was the wealthy gentleman who had brought him to the hospital in his automobile. David tried to be patient overnight, and was mightily cheered by the arrival of a wireless message, which read: _S.S. Roanoke. At sea._ _Have cadet repaired in first-class shape to join ship next voyage. He is a nuisance._ _Thrasher, Master._ The news that he still belonged in the liner braced David like a strong tonic. What did a cracked head-piece amount to now? Being called a nuisance only made him smile. It was Captain Thrasher's way of trying to cover every kindly deed he did. Next forenoon he was rereading this message for something like the tenth time when Captain Bracewell was shown into the room. Margaret followed rather timidly, as if she feared to find her hero in fragments. The skipper looked even older than when he had left the _Roanoke_, but the "little girl" looked more like a June rose than a white violet, so swiftly had her sparkling color returned. She had both her hands around one of David's as she cried: "Are you always going to get banged up, you poor sailor boy? And we were to blame for it again, weren't we?" "You had no business to run away from me," returned the beaming patient. "The worst of it was that I almost lost my own ship." These were thoughtless words said in fun, but they stung Captain Bracewell with remembrance of his own misfortune, and he stood staring beyond David with troubled eye. Margaret was quick to read his unhappiness, and brought him to himself with a fluttering caress. The derelict shipmaster smiled, and said to David: "Glad to find you doing so well, boy. You just take it that you are one of our family while you are ashore. There is an extra room in our--in our--" He hesitated, and a bit of color came into his leathery cheek as he finished: "We can find a room for you close by us." "He means that just now we can't afford to hire more than three rooms to live in," explained Margaret without embarrassment. "But it will be different when we get our ship." They chatted for a few minutes longer and David promised to find a room as near them as he could, while he waited for the return of the _Roanoke_. It was easy to see that they wanted to take care of him, but, for his own part, he felt a kind of guardian care for the welfare of the two "Pilgrims," and he was very glad of the chance to be with them at a time when Captain Bracewell was so pitifully unlike his reliant self. After they had gone, David fell to wondering anew about this unknown Mr. Cochran who had so lavishly befriended him. It was enough to make even a sound head ache, and when the nurse brought his dinner, David begged her: "If you don't tell me something more about Mr. Cochran, I'll blow up." "He telephoned about you this morning," she answered, "and wanted to call, but you had visitors enough. The doctors have told him who you are, of course, and he seemed very much interested. He said he would bring his son to see you this afternoon. No, not another word. What must you be when you are well and sound? I'd sooner take care of a young cyclone." Some time later the motherly nurse came in to say, with an air of excitement that she could not hide: "Mr. Cochran and his boy to see you. _It is the great Stanley P. Cochran._ I knew him from his pictures in the newspapers and magazines." The portly gentleman with the bald brow, gold-rimmed glasses, and close-cropped gray mustache who entered the room with quick step looked oddly familiar to David. Why, of course, he had seen his portrait and his name as the head of a great Trust, and a director in railroads, banks, and corporations by the dozen. He spoke with curt, clean-clipped emphasis, as if his minutes were dollars: "Pretty fit for a lad that looked as dead as a mackerel when I picked him up. Sailors have no business ashore, but they are hard to kill. Lucky I was so late in getting back from my country place the other night. Wish I'd run over the scoundrels, but the police got two of them. This is my boy, Arthur." The delicate-looking lad, who had been hanging back, shook hands with David and smiled with such an air of shy friendliness and admiration that David liked him on the spot. He looked to be a year or two younger than the strapping cadet, and lacked the hale and rugged aspect of which his illness had not robbed him. Mr. Cochran resumed, as if expecting no reply: "I liked your looks and there was no sense in waiting for the confounded ambulance. I told them to treat you right. If they haven't, I'll get after the hospital, doctors, nurses, and all. When I found out that you were a cadet from the _Roanoke_, my boy had to come along. He is crazy about ships and sailors. Reads all the sea stories he can lay his hands on. Well, I must be off. Arthur, you may stay, but not long, mind you." Mr. Stanley P. Cochran clapped on his silk hat and vanished as if he had dropped through a trap-door. His son said to David, with his shy smile: "He is the best father that ever was, but he never has time to stay anywhere. I wish you would tell me all about your scrape. It sounds terribly interesting. Will it make your head hurt?" The cadet had forgotten all about that hard and damaged head of his, and he plunged into the heart of his adventure without bringing in Captain Bracewell and Margaret. Their fortunes were too personal and intimate to be lugged out for the diversion of strangers. Arthur Cochran followed the flight from the sailors' eating-house with the most breathless attention, and when David wound up with his head against the iron post and a ship's fireman about to kick his brains out, his audience sighed: "Is that all? Things _never_ happen to me. I am not very strong, you know, and they sort of coddle me, and trot me around to health resorts like a set of china done up in cotton. It makes me tired. Tell me all about being a cadet." David fairly ached to spin the yarn of the _Pilgrim_ wreck, but the cruel nurse cut the visit short, and Arthur Cochran had to depart with the assurance that he would come back next day "to hear the rest of it." He was true to his word and found David so much stronger that the unruly patient was sitting up in bed and loudly demanding his clothes. It was the patient's turn to ask questions this time, and he was eager to know all about the occupations of a millionaire's son. The heir of the Cochran fortune had to do most of the talking. David demanded to know all about his automobiles, his horses, and his yacht, his trips to Florida and California, his private tutors, and his several homes among which he flitted to and fro like an uneasy bird. Before they realized how time had fled Mr. Cochran came to take Arthur home. The Trust magnate was in his usual hurry, and he volleyed these commands as if argument were out of the question: "I have looked you up, Downes. The Black Star office speaks very well of you. Also the store in which you used to work. I sent a man out this morning. My boy has taken a great fancy to you. He seldom finds a boy he likes. I think it might do him good to have you around. I have told the people here that you are to be moved to my house to-night. You will stay there until you feel all right. If you wear well, and you are as capable as you look, I shall find something better for you to do than this dog's life at sea. Come along, Arthur. You shall see David this evening." David's head was in a whirl. A gentleman who belonged in the "Arabian Nights" was bent upon kidnapping him. It seemed as rash to question the orders of this lordly parent as to disobey Captain Thrasher, but there was a look of stubborn resolution in the suntanned jaw of the young sailor and he was not to be so easily driven. He wavered in silence for a minute or two while Mr. Stanley P. Cochran eyed him with rising impatience. Visions of an enchanted land of wealth and pleasure danced before David's eyes, but even more clearly he saw the appealing figures of Captain Bracewell and Margaret. They needed him and he had promised to go to them. He looked up and shook his head as he said with much feeling: "I don't know what makes you so good to me, sir. I never heard anything like it. But I can't accept your invitation. I can never thank you enough, but I belong somewhere else." "You have no kinfolk here. I found out all that," exclaimed Mr. Cochran with a very red face. "Why can't you do as I tell you? Of course you can. Not another word! Come along, Arthur." "I mean it," cried David. "I promised to stay with friends I met on shipboard." He wanted to tell him about these friends, but the manner of Mr. Cochran stifled explanation. The magnate was not used to such astonishing rebellion, and it galled him the more because he felt that he was stooping to do an uncommonly good deed. "I seldom urge any one to enter my home," said he. "Nor will I waste words with a boy I picked off the streets; no, not even to humor my own son's fancies. Yes, or no!" "_No_, it is," answered David, "but you mustn't be angry about it. You don't understand it at all. Give me a chance to tell you why." Arthur tried to put in an anxious plea, but his father brushed him aside with the gesture of a Napoleon. "I never spoil an act of charity, Arthur," said the captain of industry. "The lad shall stay in the hospital until he is able to shift for himself, and I will pay his bills. But nothing more! He is ungrateful and contrary. Come along, Arthur." David's wrath had risen to match the mood of the hot-tempered Mr. Stanley P. Cochran. "I will get out of here to-night," cried the cadet. "And I'll pay you back every cent it has cost you as soon as I can save it out of my wages. Good-by, Arthur. I am just as grateful as I can be, don't forget that." Arthur had little time to express his surprise and sorrow, for his domineering parent was towing him down the hall under full steam. David was left to puzzle his wits over his first acquaintance with a millionaire. Of one thing he was sure. He must leave the hospital and have done with Mr. Stanley P. Cochran's singular charity as soon as ever the doctor would let him. But when he tried to rise, his head was very dizzy and his legs were oddly weak. To make his way alone to Captain Bracewell's lodgings was a task beyond his strength to attempt. He must wait another day, and fretting at the thought of Mr. Cochran's hasty misjudgments, the cadet's night was restless and slightly fevered. Although Arthur Cochran sent him a cheery message by telephone next morning, it hurt David to know that the boy had been forbidden to visit him again. He longed for the sight of a friendly face, and his joy was beyond words when the flaming thatch of Mr. Becket burst upon his sight and dispelled the gloom like the sun breaking through a cloud. David at once began to tell the wonderful tale of Mr. Stanley P. Cochran before the seafarer could edge in a word. The listener chewed the ends of his mustache for a while, and then his chin dropped and his mouth stayed open in sheerest amazement. Before David had reached the climax, Mr. Becket broke in: "_Mr. Stanley P. Cochran_ asked you to bunk in his house, to be mess-mates with him and his only boy? Pro-dig-io-ou-s! I'd let any gang of roustabouts knock my head off, close behind the ears, for a gorgeous chance like that. You are the makin's of a first-class sailor, Davy, because you are so many kinds of a stark, starin' fool ashore." "But I had to look after the 'Pilgrims,'" protested David. "You aren't in shape to look after yourself, you poor idiot," cried Mr. Becket. "You ought to see yourself in the glass, with your head all tied in a sling. You look after anybody? Shucks! You turned down Mr. Stanley P. Cochran? Why, he would ha' made you for life. Oh, my! Oh, my!" "But I couldn't feel right if I didn't stand by Captain John and Margaret, Mr. Becket. I'll never be happy till he gets another ship." Mr. Becket buried his face in a pillow and appeared to be wrapped in hopeless dejection. When his florid countenance emerged from its total eclipse he groaned twice, heaved a sigh that fairly shook him, and glared at David with speechless reproach. "What in the world has happened to you now?" peevishly quoth the patient. "You don't come into this. And I haven't done anything to be sorry for." "I hadn't ought to tell you, Davy, and you sick in bed," confessed the dismal Mr. Becket. "It's rubbin' it in too hard. Mr. Stanley P. Cochran has just bought out the Columbia sugar refineries, hook, line, and sinker. I read it in the _Shipping Gazette_ last week. And that included the whole fleet of square-rigged ships that fetches their cargoes from the Far East. He controls 'em all now, does Stanley P. Cochran." "You mean that I might have helped to get a ship for Captain John?" David piteously appealed. "Easy as robbin' a sailor," solemnly answered Mr. Becket. "That boy of his can have anything on earth, up to a herd of white elephants, for the simple askin'. And you could ha' had anything you wanted through the young hopeful. It was a direct act of Providence that you had to go and monkey with." David was in the torments of regret. Yes, Arthur Cochran was just the kind of a boy to feel an affectionate interest in the fortunes of Captain John and Margaret, once he had a chance to know them. But the opportunity was past and dead. Mr. Becket looked a little less hopeless as he exclaimed: "Is it too late to patch it up? Can't we charter a hack and overhaul Stanley P. and tell him the prodigal is ashamed of the error of his ways?" "He is not that kind," said David. "He will never speak to me again. I jolted his pride and he is done with me for good. Oh, but I did try to do what was right. And I've done wrong to my best and dearest friends." "I begin to think you were born to trouble as the sparks fly upward," was Mr. Becket's dreary comment. CHAPTER V MID FOG AND ICE A year had passed since David Downes lay grieving in the hospital over the great chance he had let slip to help mend the fortunes of Captain Bracewell and Margaret. The cadet no longer dreamed of giving up his life's work on the sea. He had sailed twelve voyages in the _Roanoke_, which every month ploughed her stately way across the Atlantic and return, through six thousand miles of hazards. Cadets had come and gone. Few of them who sought to make their careers in this way had the grit and patience to endure the machine-like routine in which advancement lay years and years ahead. But David had begun to understand the meaning of this slow process by which his mind was being taught to act with sure judgment, and he saw how very much there was to learn and suffer before a man could win the mastery of the sea. Because he was strong, quick, and obedient, the navigating officers took a genuine interest in his welfare. They had begun to teach him the uses of their instruments and books. He knew the language of the fluttering signal flags by day and the sputtering Coston lights and winking lamps by night. The taffrail log and the Thompson sounding machine were no longer blind mysteries, and much of his leisure was spent in the chart room. The bos'n taught him what few tricks of old-fashioned seamanship were left to learn in a vessel whose spars were no more than cargo derricks. The cadet had begun to know the liner, the vast and intricate organization, whose ever-throbbing life extended through eight stories that were like so many hotels, machine shops, and factories. And he realized what it must mean to be that calm and ever-ready man in the captain's cabin, whose mind was in touch with every one of these myriad activities by night and day. Meanwhile David had become more and more fond of and intimate with his sea waifs of the _Pilgrim_. Every time the _Roanoke_ wove her way back to New York, like a giant shuttle plying over a vast blue carpet, the cadet was with Margaret and her grandfather as often as he was allowed ashore. Captain Bracewell had not found the ship for which he yearned, but his former owners had given him a berth as stevedore on their wharf, and in faithful drudgery he earned a living and a home for Margaret. He had never become his old self again. He was like one of the splendid square-rigged ships which had been degraded to spend its last days as a coal barge. But he had learned to keep his sorrows and regrets to himself, and, gray-haired hero that he was, lived and toiled for the "little girl," who was the one anchor to hold him from drifting on the lee shore of a broken and useless old age. David Downes had grown very close to the ship-master's heart. His young strength and his hope and pride in his calling were like a fresh sea-breeze. Nor did anything have quite as much power to kindle Captain Bracewell's emotions as David's confidence that somehow and some day the message would come that a master was needed on the quarter-deck of some fine deep-water sailing ship. Even the bos'n of the _Roanoke_, to whom David had told his dreams, took a lively interest in the matter and went so far as to declare: "The very first Christmas what I makes my fortunes I vill put a four-masted Yankee ship in your stockings, boy, mit stores and crew ready for sea, and this granddaddy of yours walkin' up and down the poop, so?" When the _Roanoke_ was ordered into dry-dock at Southampton, at the end of David's first year in her, she missed a voyage and the cadet had to be content with letters from his friends in New York. In the first packet of mail was a surprising lot of news from Margaret, which read as follows: DEAR BROTHER DAVY: It is awful lonesome without you for seven whole weeks. Grandfather misses you more than he thinks he lets me see, and he is almost as fidgety as when we landed from the dear old _Pilgrim_. Mr. Becket is in port and is the cheerfulest of us all though he ought to be the saddest. After being chief officer in that coastwise steamer for three years, he was silly enough to play a joke on his skipper in Charleston last week. And, of course, the old man found it out. Mr. Becket is a perfect dear, but he hasn't much sense when he gets one of his fits of the do-funnies. The captain was in a barber shop ashore, getting his whiskers cut off for the summer season. And Mr. Becket paid two hackmen to walk in as if they just happened there, and begin to talk to each other about the fire on the wharves. Of course, the captain pricked up his ears, and then one of the men said: "They tell me it blazed up just like an explosion and is right smack alongside the _Chesapeake_." That was Mr. Becket's steamer, you know. One side of the captain's whiskers was off and the other wasn't, and he made a jump from the chair, took one of the hackmen by the neck, shoved him through the door, and threw him up on the box of his carriage. Then the captain hopped inside and told the man to drive to the wharf like fury. Of course, the hackman had not expected to be caught this way, but he had to go or else the captain would have broken his neck for him, at least that is what he said he would do. And when they got to the wharf the captain flew out of the cab and down to his ship. The deck was full of passengers and they laughed till they cried, for the captain must have been a _sight_ with only half his whiskers on. Mr. Becket says they were a fathom long, but he is a terrible exaggerator, as you know. Then the captain ran back after the hackman and caught him and scared him so that he told on Mr. Becket. Wasn't it a shame? Anyhow, he was a horrid captain to his officers and Mr. Becket says he is going to wait for the ship you expect to build for grandfather and me. Write soon and come home as quick as you can to Your Most Affectionate Little Sister, MARGARET. David tore open an envelope that bore the marks of Mr. Becket's ponderous fist, hoping for more light on this family tragedy. The luckless mate had no more to say, however, than this: DEAR DAVY: Do you need a strong and willing seaman in your gilt-edged packet? The coasting trade don't agree with my delicate health. I have left the _Chesapeake_ owing to one of them cruel misunderstandings that makes a sailor's life as uncertain as the lilies of the field which are skylarkin' to-day and are cut down and perisheth to-morrow. It is too painful to bother your tender young feelings with. Hold on, I don't think I want to ship with you. Your skipper wears a fine crop of tan whiskers. They would be sure to fill me with sad and tormentin' memories. All's well, and they can't keep a good man down. Your shipmate, ABEL Y. BECKET. David read the letter to the bos'n, expecting sympathy, but that hard-hearted mariner laughed boisterously, and said: "He got vat was comin' to him, the red-headed old sundowner. I know that Becket man. I wish he shipped as a seaman mit me. I make him yump mit a rope's end. He, ho, ho!--the old man mit his whiskers carried away on the port side. I give a month's wages to see him." David grew a little hot at such callous treatment of a friend in distress, but could not help smiling as the bos'n trudged off about his work, wagging his head and muttering: "Mit his whiskers under jury-rig. The red-headed old sundowner! He _is_ a rascal, is that Becket man!" "I am going to find out whether this line needs any more junior officers," sighed David to himself. "It seems as if all my family is hoodooed about keeping their berths afloat. I wish I was big enough to spank Mr. Abel Y. Becket." A few days after this the _Roanoke_ was ready for sea and all hands resumed their routine duties. The liner slid out into Southampton Water, and swung up Channel toward the North Sea and Antwerp to pick up her passengers and cargo for the homeward voyage. Clean and tuned up after her overhauling, the crack ship of the Black Star Line was fit for a record run across the Atlantic. Nor had Captain Thrasher ever felt more pride and confidence in the power, speed, and seaworthiness of the _Roanoke_ than when he dropped the Dutch pilot off Flushing a few days later and signalled "full speed ahead," with Sandy Hook a week away and waiting wives and sweethearts "hauling on the towline." Nor were any of the passengers who flocked along the rail in cheerful groups more eager to get home to their own than the stalwart cadet who tramped the boat deck and watched the Channel shipping sweep past like a panorama. An older cadet, with whom David had formed a fast sea friendship, listened with kindly interest to his hopes and anxiety that all was well with Captain John and Margaret. In David's thoughts the "little girl" was still the helpless child of the _Pilgrim_, who needed the constant and protecting care of a big brother. Margaret was fourteen now, on the threshold of her fair girlhood, but in her devotion to David there was no sentiment, save that of a sister's trusting and adoring affection. Captain Thrasher had come to know these friends of David's through their occasional visits on board, when the ship was in port, and his manner toward them was always most cordial. Now and then he unbent a trifle at sea and asked David if Captain Bracewell had found another ship. David was not frightened, therefore, when the master of the liner beckoned him, while passing down from the bridge to supper. The cadet followed the bulky, resolute figure in blue into the sacred precincts of the captain's quarters, and stood silent, cap in hand. In his eyes, Captain Stephen Thrasher was the most enviable man alive, far outshining presidents and kings. Perhaps because he had been longer away from his home than usual and was thinking of his own lads in school, the masterful captain of the liner addressed David almost as if he were a friend: "Are you getting on all right, my boy? Do you peg away at your books off watch?" "Yes, sir. The chief officer thinks I have a turn for navigation. That is, sir, he said that whatever once got inside my thick head was pretty sure to stick there." Captain Thrasher chuckled, and looked the boy over from head to foot before he resumed: "How is that stranded friend of yours, Captain Bracewell and his pretty granddaughter?" "They are well, sir, but Mr. Becket has lost his--his--" David bit his tongue. He had almost said too much. The captain did not know Mr. Becket from a marline-spike, and his affairs must not be dragged in unless asked for. But Captain Thrasher showed no interest in whatever it was that Mr. Becket had lost, and abruptly ended the interview with: "You will be put on the ship's papers as an able seaman next voyage. But you will berth with the cadets, understand? Don't thank me. You have earned promotion. That's all. You are a nuisance. Get out." David saluted, and his radiant face expressed his thanks which the captain had forbidden him to put in words. Once on deck, the new-fledged able seaman danced a shuffle and cracked his heels together. His wages would be doubled, and he had left one round of the long ladder behind him. For the next three days he went about his duties in a kind of blissful trance, but he was none the less determined to earn another step in promotion hour by hour, one task at a time, done as well and faithfully as he knew how. The voyage which had begun so brightly was fated to test the mettle, not only of David Downes, but of every man of the ship's company. The fog, which shut down on the third day like a gray curtain, made navigation a perilous game of hide and seek. Captain Thrasher took his post on the bridge, to stay there until the fog should clear. Far down in the clanging engine rooms the chief engineer and his army of toilers were alert to respond to signals on the instant. The safety of thousands of lives and millions of property was in their keeping also. They were like bold and resourceful pygmies among the mighty monsters of clanging steel which they were ready to tame and check at the call from above. Through a long night the _Roanoke_ groped her way over a shrouded sea on which the fog hung so thick that the ghostly figures on the bridge could not see the bow of their own ship. It was no better when daylight wiped the blackness from the fog. The steamer was wrapped in a blind world in which there was no sound except the bellowing of the automatic whistle. David had seen Captain Thrasher pick his sure way through days and nights of such weather as this, but now the master appeared to be more cautious and absorbed in his great responsibility than ever before. Some unusual strain and uneasiness were picking at his nerves, and his officers were aware of it, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Nor would David have guessed the truth so soon had not Captain Thrasher tossed away a wireless message slip instead of tearing it up. David caught it as it fluttered past the wheel-house and began to read without thinking it to be more than a greeting from some passing vessel. Beneath the figures of latitude and longitude was written: S.S. _Hanoverian_. Dense fog clearing. Many large icebergs in sight just to the northward of us. Most unusual southerly ice drift directly in west-bound track. If you are in fog advise great caution. Please repeat warning to any other vessels behind you. GREENFELT, _Master_. David let the bit of paper blow overside and slipped into the chart room to calculate the position of the _Hanoverian_. The chart showed him that she was a hundred and fifty miles west and considerably to the southward of the _Roanoke_ when the message was sent. When David returned to the deck an officer was already making reports of the temperature of the water, and Captain Thrasher was standing with head cocked and a hand at his ear, listening, on the chance that the clamor of the fog-whistle might fling back a telltale echo from some hidden mountain of ice that lay in ambush. Before long David was ordered to stand by the wireless operator's room and fetch to the bridge any messages that might leap from his rattling, sparking instruments. But the _Roanoke_ was left to work out her fate alone. Even the _Hanoverian_, having picked up her speed with clearing weather, had hurried beyond calling distance of the slow-creeping Black Star liner. The second night of the fog stole softly around the ship. As the chill and dripping air changed from pearly gray to starless gloom, the hoarse and frequent whistle seemed to be appealing for guidance on this sightless sea. Bridge, deck, and engine room were unceasingly vigilant. Their first warning of deadly peril came when a blast from the whistle was hurled back in a volley of echoes from somewhere dead ahead. Captain Thrasher leaped to the engine-room indicator and signalled full speed astern, with both screws. The _Roanoke_ shook herself as if her rivets were pulling out, as the engines strove to hold her back, but the momentum of the vast bulk could not be checked on the instant. Then there came a far more violent shock, a grinding roar, and the sound of rending steel and timber. Every man on deck was pitched off his feet. The stricken steamer listed heavily to port and then slowly righted, as the masses of ice dislodged from the berg by the collision slid off her fore deck. What Captain Thrasher most dreaded had come to pass. In spite of his utmost care his ship had crashed into the ice that lay hidden in the fog and night. But every man of his crew knew that if his ship should go down, he was ready to go down with her. He stood on his bridge without sign of alarm or excitement, shouting swift, clean-cut orders. Before the steamer had ceased to grind against the pale and ghastly ice that towered above her, the water-tight doors in the scores of bulkheads were being closed by men who knew their stations in such a time as this. Stewards were hastening among the cabin passengers to quiet their panic. Down in the steerage quarters hundreds of hysterical immigrants were running to and fro with prayers and screams, but a squad of hard-fisted seamen soon herded them like sheep and threatened death to any who should try to force a way to the boat deck. The chief officer and the carpenters were forward with lanterns, and other men were in the holds seeking to find how much damage had been done. The order came from the bridge for the boat crews to stand by, ready to abandon ship if need be. David took his station as he had been taught to do in the boat drill of voyage after voyage. It was very hard to wait in the darkness, but, far more than the cadet knew, his year of training under the relentless rule of the captain's discipline had been fitting him for the test. The decks had begun to slope downward toward the bow. The forward compartments were filling, and the fate of the _Roanoke_ hung on the strength of the collision bulkhead just aft of the wound the ice had made. David heard the chief officer sing out to the bridge: "She's flooded to the first bulkhead, sir, but I think she will stay afloat. Will you come and see for yourself? The whole bow of her is stove in below the water line." The _Roanoke_ was slowly moving astern to try to go clear of the iceberg against which the long swells could be heard breaking as on a rock-bound beach. It seemed an eternity to David before Captain Thrasher returned to the bridge and shouted to an officer: "Tell the people below we are in no danger before daylight. Better put it stronger than that. Tell them we will make port." Up in the darkness they listened to the frantic cheers that rose from cabins and steerage, but the passengers had not heard the captain's grim comment to himself: "If it comes on to blow, there may be another story to tell." When daylight came the liner made an astonishing sea picture. The fog had lifted a little and the sombre sea was visible for a few lengths away. The steamer's bow was gone. In its place was a jagged cavern of twisted, crumpled steel, into which the waves washed and broke with the sound of distant thunder. The captain dared risk no more pressure against his straining bulkhead which kept the vessel afloat, and the _Roanoke_ lay motionless, while all hands that could be mustered for the work were bracing the inside of the bulkhead with timbers and piles of heavy cargo. There could be no driving the ship ahead against the tremendous weight of the sea until this task was done. The barometer had risen overnight and the liner's chances were slightly more hopeful. Her wireless instrument was chattering to the world beyond the sky line that she was in sore straits, but if any steamers passed within unseen hailing distance they were not equipped to talk through the air. The _Roanoke_ was left to make the best of her plight. David Downes had little thought for the fears of the passengers. His confidence in Captain Thrasher was supreme, and he knew that if it should come to the worst, the boats would be got away with orderly promptness. As for the crew, David hoped there might be room for him, and there was a lump in his throat and his breath seemed choked when he thought of being left to struggle and drown, but he felt himself to be a full-fledged American seaman, and he was proud of it. Whatever fate might befall Captain Thrasher was good enough for him. David was musing in this fashion as he hastened with urgent orders between the fore-hold and the bridge. On one of these trips he found the captain and the senior second officer poring over one of the yellow sheets on which the wireless messages were written. "Some vessel is within helping distance," thought David, with a thrill of joy, and lingered, hoping to hear the good news. Presently the captain went to his room, and the officer, taking pity on the youngster's open curiosity, confided: "Here _is_ a pretty kettle of fish. Those people are asking us to come to _their_ assistance. That's the way it goes. Disasters always run in twos and threes. We can't make head or tail of the message except '_Help_' and '_No hope of gaining control._' It sounds like fire, to me." CHAPTER VI THE MISSING BOAT There was nothing to be done except to wait for another wireless call for help from the unseen vessel in distress. The first message included some figures which seemed like a frantic attempt to give the latitude and longitude of the stranger, but they were as puzzling as the rest of it. "That wireless operator must be rattled, whoever he is," said one of the liner's officers. "Maybe his coat-tails are on fire." Beckoning David to follow him to the chart room he added, with a gesture of dismay: "Here _we_ are, and I'm blessed if _his_ figures don't put him somewhere in the middle of Canada, high and dry on a mountain range. As if we didn't have troubles enough!" Captain Thrasher was irritable for the first time in this ill-fated voyage of the _Roanoke_, as he exclaimed from the bridge: "I can't go in search of the confounded lunatic even if he is afire. What right has he to ask help of me when my bows are caved in like an old hat, with no chance at all of getting under way before night, and my ship half full of water? I'm trying to find help myself." It was perhaps a half hour later when another message came winging its way through space. Captain Thrasher read it aloud, with frowning earnestness: _Fire spreading aft. Must abandon ship before long. Lives in danger. Help! Help!_ The figures of latitude and longitude were repeated at the end of the message, and the previous mistakes corrected. The chart showed that the burning vessel lay about forty miles to the south-east of the helpless _Roanoke_. "Why doesn't he say who and what he is?" growled Captain Thrasher. "If he is a big passenger steamer he _is_ in a bad fix and no mistake. Tell the operator to ask him more about it, quick. And tell him we are in no shape to go after him. My own people have to come first." Captain Thrasher was more anxious than surprised. He had long since learned that nothing was too improbable to happen at sea, and he took it almost as a matter of course that collision and fire should occur fifty miles apart in the same twenty-four hours. It went sorely against his training to leave these other victims of disaster to shift for themselves, and he walked the bridge with restless tread until a third message was brought to him. It read: _Yacht "Restless." New York for Cherbourg. Owner on board. This may be last message. No hope of saving vessel. For God's sake pick us up._ "I have seen that steamer somewhere in port," said Captain Thrasher. "She must carry a crew of forty or fifty men. Well, I can't pick 'em up if the gilt-edged owner sends me a million dollars by wireless. Give them our position again and tell them we will keep a sharp lookout for their boats till nightfall and maybe longer." As if in answer to the captain's words a final call came from the _Restless_: _Owner give you million dollars to come at once. Good-by. I'm off._ "He's a cheerful sport, that wireless gentleman," observed Captain Thrasher. "But I wonder if he got our position. I'm afraid not. I pray the good Lord their boats got away in time." While the liner was by no means out of danger, the situation of the _Restless_ people fairly tore at the captain's heartstrings. He was not a man to confess himself beaten in any crisis without trying to find a way out. He pored over the charts, studied the weather signs, tugged at his beard, and muttered savagely to himself. But he did not decide to act until the fog had vanished before a pleasant breeze in the early afternoon. The sun came out and the sea danced blue to the far horizon. Then the captain delivered his orders with stern directness. Calling the third officer, he said: "Mr. Briggs, you will take the number three boat and stand about fifteen miles to the sou'-east. If the _Restless_ boats are heading for us, you should be able to pick them up before nightfall and show them the way. Otherwise they may miss us. I shall expect you aboard by nine o'clock, at the latest. Watch for our rockets." Mr. Briggs saluted, and mustered his crew. David Downes belonged in the number three boat, and Mr. Briggs grinned as the lad hurried up. He had not forgotten the trip to the wreck of the _Pilgrim_. As the boat was lowered, Captain Thrasher gazed grimly overside, realizing that he might need all his men and boats before night. But he had staked his judgment on being able to keep the liner afloat, and he was ready to face results without flinching. The breeze dimpled the lazy swells and sail was hoisted in the boat. The men lounged on the thwarts while the stout craft bore away to the southward, and David fell to thinking of that other rescue during his first voyage. This was like a summer pleasure cruise with no danger in sight. Mr. Briggs at the tiller took a different view, which was colored by his arduous years at sea. "There's nothing as bad as fire," said he, as if talking to himself. "A crew thinks it can master it until it is too late to get away in any kind of shape. I was in a bark that burned and my boat was adrift a week, without food or water to speak of. We never thought of quitting ship till the decks blew up and we had to go overboard, head first." "This wireless is like talkin' to the bloomin' ghosts of dead men," muttered an English seaman. "You cawn't make me believe there's any burnin' vessel out 'ere till I sees it. We might as well go chasin' a bad dream, that's wot it is." The crew became silent, while the boat hissed through the long seas, and the black hull of the _Roanoke_ dropped lower and lower behind them. Wireless telegraphy was too recent an aid to sea-faring to seem real to these simple sailors; this was the first time its workings had touched their lives, and they were not ready to take the burning yacht on faith unseen. After three hours had slid past Mr. Briggs began to sweep the sea with his glasses, standing in the stern-sheets, with the tiller between his knees. He had run down his fifteen miles of southing, but the blue horizon line was without a speck to mar it. He decided to risk stretching his orders a bit by keeping on his course for another hour or so. The breeze still held and he could stand back for the _Roanoke_ with free sheets and oars out. He knew that if the boats of the _Restless_ should drift beyond the steamer lanes or trans-Atlantic routes, days and even weeks might pass without their being sighted or picked up. The perplexed officer was on the point of giving up the search when his keen eye caught sight of a faint smudge between sea and sky. It looked like a tiny fragment of cloud, but it might be smoke. He ordered his men to their oars, and the boat increased her speed. "If it is a steamer's smoke she may have rescued them," said he; "if not, it may be the yacht, still afloat." The ashen-colored smudge of smoke grew in size as they steered toward it until it became a trailing banner. "No funnels could make all that mess," shouted Mr. Briggs, as he flourished his glasses. "That is the bonfire, and it must be pretty near the end of it. I'm surprised that she's stayed afloat this long." He was a good prophet, for while he stared, the smoke suddenly spread skyward like a huge fan, hung for a moment, and then vanished, except for tattered fringes of vapor that drifted slowly to leeward. "That's the end of her," cried Mr. Briggs. "She blew up and sank with one big puff. Her boats ought to be sighted before long." There was no more thought of returning to the _Roanoke_ empty-handed. The men rowed like mad, as if they were matched in a race for life, not realizing that the smoke had been sighted a good ten miles away. It was near sunset when Mr. Briggs had a glimpse of a white dot far ahead which he took to be a boat. As they pulled nearer, he saw that it was a life-raft covered with men who were paddling with oars and bits of plank. It was easy work to get alongside and pass them a line in such calm weather as this. [Illustration: It was easy work to get alongside and pass them a line.] The grimy, blistered men who cheered as the boat prepared to take them aboard had no belongings to hamper the transfer. Some of them were half naked and it was plain to read that they had left their vessel in the most desperate haste, after fighting fire to the last moment. First over the gunwale was a very stout derelict in dripping blue trousers, who puffed like a porpoise as he sputtered: "Can't swim a stroke, but floated like a cork. How's that? Me the owner? Not on your life. I'm the wireless juggler that sent you the holler for help. No more life on the ocean wave for Willie. I've been eating smoke and spitting cinders since yesterday." While this undismayed survivor babbled on as if his tongue were hung in the middle, David was trying to drag from the raft a ragged man who lay limp and face downward. The task was too heavy for his strength, and with great difficulty two pairs of arms heaved and lifted until they rolled their burden inboard. Without pausing to look him over, David lent a hand elsewhere until the _Restless_ party, twenty strong, was stowed aboard and the life-raft cast adrift. Most of them were able to sit up and talk. The man who seemed to be worst off was the first one who had been helped aboard by David. The late chief officer of the yacht made his way toward this huddled and senseless figure and called to Mr. Briggs: "Here's the owner, all in a heap. Looks like his heart has gone back on him, for he wasn't in the water more than five minutes." As he lay propped against a thwart the owner's back was toward David at his oar. The cadet had no idea that he had ever clapped eyes on him before, and he listened with eager interest to the answers which the other men gave to Mr. Briggs's questions. "The rest of us are in two boats, somewhere to the eastward, sir," they explained. "No, there was nobody left on board. The way it was, the captain and them others was fightin' the fire aft, and they got cut off from us who was driven clear up into the bows of her before we got through. She was just a solid blaze amidships, understand, and there was no getting back to each other. The other crowd stood it as long as they could, and then when it was take to the water or be frizzled where they stood, they pitched the boats over and got away. The fog hadn't begun to lift then. They were going to lay by and wait for us, but the blazin' heat below set her engines goin' in a kind of dying flurry and she ran a while before she stopped for good. We couldn't get below to stop her, and we couldn't go overboard for fear of bein' chewed up by the screw, and so there we stuck up forward till we could get the raft over. The two boats lost us in the fog, and you know the rest of it." "The owner's boy was with the captain's crowd aft. Mr. Cochran put him in the skipper's charge when things looked desperate," explained the mate of the _Restless_. "When Mr. Cochran got separated from the lad and couldn't get aft to him, and saw him drift out of sight in the fog, he just threw up his hands and went clean off his head." "Mr. Cochran! The owner's boy!" gasped David Downes. He leaned over and raised the pallid face of the owner of the _Restless_. Yes, although sadly changed, it was the once pompous and lordly man of millions who had rescued, befriended, and then forsaken him in New York. And Arthur, the slim, delicate lad with the shy, confiding smile who had been so fond of the cadet--poor lad, he was adrift in an open boat beyond help from the _Roanoke's_ boat. David forgot all the resentment he had cherished against the father, as he tried to heave him into a more comfortable position and anxiously searched his face for signs of life. "He was a fine boy. Heart as big as a cork fender," said a _Restless_ seaman. "God bring him safe to port, say I. Will we be after goin' in search of the boats, do you know?" Mr. Briggs shook his head reluctantly. He must return to the _Roanoke_ with all haste. "We have done all we can," he answered slowly. "Our own ship needs us, and we are lucky to have done this much. It is awful tough on Mr. Cochran, I know, to leave his boy adrift, but we wouldn't have one chance in a million of finding them to-night." These words seemed to awaken the dulled understanding of the father. He roused from his stupor and hoarsely quavered: "Where is Arthur? Leave the boy adrift? What did I hear? What do you mean? There's some mistake. Look for him till you find him, I tell you. Oh, my boy, my boy, I never meant to forsake you." David patted him on the shoulder and wiped the clammy face with the sleeve of his jersey. The great man was no more than a sodden lump of sorrowing humanity, crushed and useless, and David wished that he might somehow comfort him. Mr. Cochran had fallen back speechless and exhausted, and he did not come to himself again until the boat was well on her way toward the _Roanoke_. His wits were clearing, and with a trace of his old domineering manner he addressed Mr. Briggs: "Keep up the search until you find him, my man. Ten thousand dollars for you and your men if you give me back my boy." "We have been headed the other way for an hour," replied the third officer, with pity in his voice. "I am obeying my orders. That is all I can do." "What? You have abandoned the yacht's boats?" Mr. Cochran almost screamed. "Turn about with you, instantly. Don't you understand? I'll make every man of you rich for life." He tried to struggle to his feet, but muscular hands gripped his heaving shoulders and he fell back lamenting: "The hardship will kill him. What shall I say to his mother? Oh, what shall I tell her?" It was the first time that David had heard Arthur's mother mentioned. He felt a deeper pang at the thought of her. But, alas, Mr. Stanley P. Cochran had to learn in this cruel hour that his millions could not buy a way through all difficulties. He fell to abusing the chief engineer of the _Restless_, who crouched in front of him. "You let the yacht run away from them," he stormed. "Why didn't you stop your engines, you worthless, cowardly scoundrel?" The engineer raised a pair of hands which were raw with burns, and felt of his blistered face. With unexpected patience he responded: "I was the last man to come on deck. I cooked the hide off me to leave things right below. Heaven only knows what started her up again. There was no getting down there again, you know that." The owner once more fell to mourning. "How can I show my face anywhere? I am saved and Arthur is lost. Why couldn't it have been the other way?" "He was takin' the lad abroad for a vacation trip," explained a harsh voice in David's ear. "The sea voyage was for the lad's health, and the old man was coaxed into pryin' himself loose from his business for once. _We're_ sorry it _wasn't_ the swelled-up money-grubbin' swine that went adrift instead of his boy." Other men of the _Restless_ grunted approval of their comrade's verdict. But David had glimpsed a new side of Mr. Cochran's nature. He would indeed have sacrificed himself to save his son. The truth of it was in his trembling voice, in the very pose of his drooping shoulders. It was hard to believe that this was the father who had fairly dragged his son away from David in the room of the hospital in New York. As Mr. Cochran began to pull himself out of his collapse, he managed to twist around so that he was looking up into David's face, which was in the light thrown by a boat-lantern. For several minutes the father stared at the tanned young seaman, as if bewildered and groping in his memory. Then he burst out with a kind of surprised snarl: "It's the boy that had no manners or decency, the young cub that made me sick of him. What are you doing here, alive and well, with my son lost and dying out yonder, lost at sea? How can such things be?" "I helped pick you up at any rate," faltered David, taken all aback. "And I'd gladly stay out here a week to help you find Arthur." "_You_ safe and well!" repeated Mr. Cochran, "and my Arthur abandoned. It's all a nightmare. It must be that." His anger veered against Mr. Briggs, and he bombarded him with threats, bribes, and pleadings, until the rockets from the _Roanoke_ soared into the clear night and the yacht's people shouted at the welcome sight. Then Mr. Cochran clutched at a new hope. He declared that he would buy the ship if only he might persuade the captain to search for the lost boat until he found it. The liner was almost ready to limp on her way when the boat rejoined her. Repairs had been made with better success than Captain Thrasher hoped for. His anxious scrutiny convinced him that, with fair weather, his shattered bow could withstand the sea, and he had determined to proceed very slowly on his course toward New York. He had been in wireless communication with two steamers, one of which stood by until dusk, when the liner sent word that she would not transfer her people. The captain had also told them to look out for the boats from the burning yacht. This news was carried to Mr. Cochran, who feebly tottered forward in breathless haste to find the commander. David saw the bedraggled magnate swaying against the door of the captain's room as he begged: "But I'll reimburse the company. I don't care what it costs. What if it does cost you your position? I'll pay you double the salary to do nothing for the rest of your life. It's my only boy, Captain. Your ship won't run any risk." The voice of Captain Thrasher rose in response: "I have said my last word. Do you think I'll stake the lives of two thousand people against one or twenty? Go below and get some rest. I can't talk to you to-night." When David went aft in the late evening with the fourth officer to set the log over the stern, the liner was vibrating to the steady thrust of her engines, and her broad wake foamed white in the starlit darkness. Against the rail beside them leaned a portly man, his face hidden in the shadows. He was gazing toward the southward over the ocean which rolled away in mystery, vast and obscure. David answered, "Ay, ay, sir," in reply to an order, and the man at the rail turned at sound of the lad's voice. As the mate raised his lantern to read the log-dial, Mr. Cochran exclaimed: "It's you again, is it? I am sorry I spoke to you as I did to-day. I am grateful for your part in saving me and my men, and I was out of my head, I guess." This strangely softened mood was new to David, but his sympathetic heart was quick to meet it, and to let bygones be bygones. "I wish I could help you, sir," he returned. "But I am just chockfull of hope that we will hear from Arthur. He may be picked up before we are landed. We'll have him back again. You can bet your life on that." The father gazed again across the darkened sea. He was leaving his only son behind him, and all the pride of wealth and self and power had been stripped from him. All he could think of to say as he shook hands with David was: "Arthur was very fond of you, and I am sorry that I came between you two." CHAPTER VII THE BONDS OF SYMPATHY The Black Star Line wharf in North River was crowded with cheering men, women, and children. Their fluttering handkerchiefs looked like a sudden flurry of snow. The roar of steam whistles from a hundred harbor craft rose above the din on the wharf. Past the Battery was creeping a sea-stained liner, her great steel prow so crushed and battered that the thousands who watched her wondered how she could have been kept afloat. The news of her coming had been sent by wireless, and a fleet of the company's tugs had hurried to sea to meet her. The kinfolk and friends of those on board had been kept in a state of panicky alarm, day after day, by the flaring newspaper head-lines which sent the _Roanoke_ to the bottom and raised her again, in hourly "extras." The band on the promenade deck was lustily playing "home again, home again, from a foreign shore," as the tugs poked their noses against the black side of the ocean cripple and began to nudge her into her berth. David Downes was looking for friends on the wharf, but he scanned the masses of upturned faces in vain, until the bos'n prodded him in the ribs, and said: "Cast your eye on the end of the pier, boy. I see a red spot. It vas Becket or else there is a fire just broke out. Nobody has as red-headed a head as that crazy feller." Sure enough, there was Mr. Becket, waving his arms like a wild man; beside him was the tall figure of Captain Bracewell; and between them a slip of a girl was dancing up and down in her efforts to get a clear view of the ship. David's eyes filled as he swung his cap above his head. There were his "dearest folks," as he called them, and he was as rich in welcomes as any of the passengers who were making so much joyful noise along the decks below. Bless them, what news had they? Was Mr. Becket still stranded, and was there any hope of a ship for Captain John? The long voyage of disaster and adventure seemed like a dream. David Downes, able seaman, was come back to his own. The gangways were lowered, and the passengers streamed ashore, telling their stories at the top of their voices, as they flew into the arms of their friends. David went below to find Mr. Cochran, who had found no joy in this homecoming and deliverance from the sea. He was hanging back to let the crowd pass ashore, and he looked very forlorn and lonely. Gentlemen high in the world of finance, and managers of his great interests had flocked aboard to greet him and to offer their aid and sympathy. But he had begged to be left alone, and, oddly enough, his heavy face lighted for the first time when David found him. They had seen little of each other since the _Roanoke_ resumed her voyage. David had been doing a double trick of duty, and the millionaire was so racked in body and mind that he was seldom on deck. But in their few meetings Mr. Cochran had been almost pathetically friendly of manner, as if he were trying to make amends because of his boy's fondness for the sailor lad. Now when the parting hour came Mr. Cochran seemed genuinely affected. His wonted abruptness of speech had been assumed again, and he carried himself with an air of frowning dignity, but he took one of David's hard hands between both his own as he said: "He talked a great deal about you, and you must come and see me and talk to me about him. You won't refuse this time, will you? His--his mother will be delighted to see you." David made haste to reply: "Of course I will and thank you, sir. And you will send me any news of Arthur as quick as you can, please promise me that." Mr. Cochran nodded, and David hesitated, as if he had something else on his mind. He was thinking that it might do Mr. Cochran good to know his "dearest folks" in such a time as this, but he dared stay away no longer from the crowded gangway, so he said good-by to the man whose path had so strangely crossed his own again. Soon there appeared on the landing stage the brilliant beacon of hair which topped the robust Mr. Becket as he skilfully piloted Margaret through the confusion. It was hard work for David to keep from rushing to meet them half-way, but he remembered the discipline expected of an able seaman. Mr. Becket was first to reach him, and he proceeded to thump David's chest and pound his back with the exhortation: "All sound and fit for duty? The collision didn't stave you in anywheres?" Margaret was able to greet her "big brother" only by shoving Mr. Becket out of the way with all her might. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, abusing David as if you weren't a bit glad to see him," she cried. "Oh, but we are glad to see you, and are you all right, and are you coming home to supper with us? I don't believe I've slept a wink this week, have I, grandfather?" Captain John was meekly waiting for a chance to make his presence known. He clapped his hands on David's shoulders and his honest eyes glowed with pride and affection as he exclaimed: "We feel quite set up that you belong to us, Davy. Here you go picking up more mariners in distress. We've heard all about it." "We can talk it all over to-night," said David, shaking hands all round again. "I am on watch now and I mustn't neglect my duty even for you." His boyish manner was so very serious that Mr. Becket went off into a series of explosive chuckles, from which he was diverted by the appearance of the bos'n who declared in the most threatening voice: "The red-headed loafer again? I vill protect my whiskers mit my life. Get ashore mit you, you terrible Becket man, or I vill vash you down mit the fire-hose." Mr. Becket was not in the least alarmed, and after a harmless exchange of blood-thirsty threats, he followed Captain John and Margaret down the gangway. Later in the day the chief officer told David that as soon as her cargo was discharged, the _Roanoke_ would go to Philadelphia for temporary repairs, which might take a month or more. The captain had left word that David could have a week's shore leave and then rejoin the ship at Philadelphia. The news sounded too good to be true, and as soon as he was relieved from duty, David fairly ran ashore with a canvas bag of clothes under his arm. He made all speed to the tiny flat in which Margaret was keeping house for Captain John. Mr. Becket had been invited for supper, and he was boiling with eagerness to ask David a question which had been disturbing him all day long. "Did you say anything to Mr. Stanley P. Cochran about vessels? You know what I mean. I didn't say a word to Captain John, for I don't want to get him stirred up with false alarms." They had met in the outer hall, and Mr. Becket softly closed the door behind him, for his stage-whispers carried far. "Of course I didn't," responded David, "with his boy adrift and his heart broken clean in two. It was a silly notion of yours to begin with." "Well, you needn't bite my head off," growled Mr. Becket, as they shouldered their way into the tiny living room. Margaret called blithely from the birdcage of a kitchen. "Do keep Mr. Becket away from here, Davy. Every time he turns around or takes a long breath, he breaks a dish or upsets something. He ought to live out-doors." Captain John was beaming a welcome as he hauled David by the collar to a seat on the sofa beside him, and declared: "You'd be a mate next year if you had chosen sail instead of steam, you strapping big lump of a lad. You are the kind of Yankee sailor they used to breed in my early days at sea. How many years more do you serve in your old machine shop before you get your papers?" "Three or four," cheerfully replied David. "And even then I won't be fit to be left in charge of the ship for a minute. A fourth officer is mighty small potatoes in my trade." "I was master of a deep-water ship when I was twenty-one," said Captain John. "Ah, those days are gone. Tell us all about this boy that was lost with the yacht." "He isn't lost," stoutly returned David. "With good weather they will be picked up. I'm sure of it." "The sea is very cruel, Davy," murmured the skipper, and his face clouded with sad memories of his boy lost with Margaret's mother. The "little girl" peered anxiously from the kitchen door and tried to shift the topic to happier themes: "Just think what Davy's been through all in one year, and he lives to tell it, so let's enjoy him while we can. We mustn't even mention the whiskers of Mr. Becket's skipper and his awful tale of woe." "There's a master wanted in a Jamaica fruiter," observed Mr. Becket. "But my old skipper is trying to do me with the owners. However, they can't keep a good man down, and you will stand by your friends, blow high, blow low, won't you, Davy?" Supper was on the table and Margaret waited on her hungry crew with pretty anxiety to play well her part in this festal reunion. She consented to sit down with them when it came to serving the apple pie which she herself had made. Mr. Becket demanded Captain John's old-fashioned quadrant with which to measure off the exact number of degrees of pie each was entitled to, and nearly upset the table before this mathematical problem was adjusted. In the midst of the excitement the door-bell buzzed. Mr. Becket sprang to the speaking-tube as if he were in a wheel-house and shouted: "Below there. What's wanted?" While he cocked his head to listen, his face began to express the most intense amazement, and his reply was absurdly meek, as he cried: "Yes, sir. Very good, sir. The dickens it is. Two flights up, and don't break your precious neck on the dark landings, sir." Turning to the puzzled listeners, Mr. Becket explained in a flurried tone: "It is Mr. Stanley P. Cochran, no less, and none other. Now what _do_ you think of that?" Margaret whisked off her apron and began to clear away the dishes, pie and all, but Captain John stopped her with: "Stay as you are, girlie. Nobody's ashamed of sitting down to a square meal. Mr. Cochran is just a poor, grieving daddy, that's all." "Oh, maybe he has good news for Davy," cried Margaret. "You run out and meet him, David." Mr. Cochran entered the door a moment later, with the air of an intruder. He hesitated in the doorway of the crowded little room and fumbled with his hat. "Plenty of room at the table," said Captain John, rising and holding out his hand. "Becket, you hang yourself out on the fire-escape and make room for Mr. Cochran. Margaret, a plate and another cup of coffee." "These are my best friends, Mr. Cochran," put in David, presenting them by name. "We have sort of adopted each other all round." Mr. Cochran sank into a chair, while Margaret timidly asked him: "Will you have a piece of my apple pie, sir? These sailor men seem to like it." "It is simply grand," rumbled Mr. Becket from the window. The visitor looked about him. Something in the homely cheer and affection of this atmosphere seemed to touch his emotions. His eyes were moist and his voice was not quite steady as he thanked Margaret and then said to David: "You are lucky to have such friends, and they have made no mistake in you. I went down to the ship to find you and the bos'n sent me here. I--I was asked to come, and----" He hesitated, bit his lip, and waited, as if trying to keep his voice under better control. "Is there any news?" asked David. "Not yet. But his mother wants you to come up and see her this evening. She asked me to find you. Of course I came. It seems that our boy took it more to heart than I had any idea of--when I disappointed him about your coming to visit him last year. He told his mother--but he didn't say very much to me. And he has had so few boy friends." It was pitiful to hear this pleading, remorseful speech from such a man as Stanley P. Cochran had always been. Captain John's kindly face was twitching, while he murmured, as if talking to himself: "I once had an only son." "Of course I'll go with you," said David, as he rose from the table. "You will excuse me, won't you, folks?" There was so much hearty sympathy in their response that Mr. Cochran smiled a little wistfully, as if he wished to stay longer in this simple, genuine circle of friends. They were not awed by his name, they did not cringe before his wealth, and they seemed to have found the secret of contentment, in what, to him, seemed like dire poverty. He could pour out his heart about his boy to people like these, and they would understand. "I hate to take you away," he said at length. "But his mother will be waiting for us." "Don't you stay here a minute longer, Davy," urged Margaret. "And be just as cheerful as you can. We are all praying for your son, Mr. Cochran, and we know that he will come back to you." The millionaire wavered and picked up the cup of coffee with a sheepish air. "I haven't eaten a bite to-day," said he. "But the smell of things here makes me hungry, I really believe." "A bit of that chicken salad, and a chop, and a section of our peerless apple pie will make a new man of you," spoke up the half-hidden Mr. Becket, who was feeling more at ease. The guest seemed grateful for this sound advice, and appeared to relish his hasty meal. Before he finished he said, not at all as if he were doing a favor, but as one friend to another: "Captain Bracewell, I wish you and your charming granddaughter and Mr. Becket and David Downes would do me the pleasure of dining at my house some night this week. Arthur's mother and I find it very lonesome, and it will help to keep her from brooding." Captain John was too used to being a master among men to be at all agitated by this unexpected invitation, but Margaret fluttered between dining-room and kitchen in much excitement. Mr. Becket was stricken dumb and could only make signals of distress. "I will answer for us all," returned Captain John. "If it will cheer up you and your wife to see us plain seafaring folks, we will accept, with hearty thanks." Mr. Cochran expressed his gratitude, as if they were doing him a kindness, and departed, with David in his wake. As these two rolled up town in the millionaire's automobile, Mr. Cochran observed, after a long silence: "I like those friends of yours. I wish I could have known them before. Arthur would enjoy them." It was on the tip of David's tongue to tell him that these were the people whom he had preferred to see on that day a year ago when Mr. Cochran had flown into a rage and cast him off. But this was no time to recall old misunderstandings. All David could do was to wait in patience, and hope that Mr. Cochran might discover what a splendid man Captain John was, and take an interest in him on his own account. The automobile halted in front of a huge stone mansion in upper Fifth Avenue. It looked more like a castle than a home. The immense tapestry-hung parlors, past which David was led, were silent and cheerless. Captain John's flat was far more cheery and livable than these gloomy apartments, thought David, as he followed his host up the echoing marble staircase to the second story. Presently they came to a smaller room which looked as if people really lived in it. A slender woman in black rose from a divan to greet them. In her smile there was the timid, tremulous sweetness which had made her boy so attractive to David on first acquaintance. There could have been little in common between her and the hard, domineering father until a great grief bridged the gulf that had grown between them. Even now, she looked at Mr. Cochran with an appealing glance, as if waiting for him to speak. David wanted to pick her up in his strong young arms and comfort her. "So this is the boy that Arthur said he wished he could be like," were her first words, as she looked up at David's brown face and well-set shoulders. "Why, you are not a boy. You are a man." "I've grown a lot in the last year, and sea life agrees with me," laughed David, with a blush at her frank admiration. "That is what the doctors told Mr. Cochran when he planned the trip abroad for Arthur, in the yacht," sighed the mother. "He did not ask me to go, because I am such a wretched sailor, I suppose. I expected to join them later in the south of France." "It is a good deal better for a man's health when he has to work his way," explained David. "Sitting under a yacht's awning all day isn't a bit like having your regular watches to stand in all weathers. When Arthur comes home you will find him fit as a fiddle. Being adrift for a few days will do him good." "How awful!" exclaimed Mrs. Cochran, nervously clasping her hands. "Why I have done almost nothing except carry out the doctors' orders for his health since he was a baby." "That may be partly the trouble, mother," remarked Mr. Cochran. "I'd give half I own to see him looking like this big lad here. I met some of his friends to-night. They are coming up to see you soon. You can't help liking them. They are the kind we used to know down East, ages and ages ago, 'when we were so happy and so poor.'" "If they are anything like David Downes, I know I shall be fond of them," smiled the mother. Then she fell to telling David all about Arthur's boyhood, and her fond interest in every detail of her son's affairs found such a ready and warm-hearted listener that Mr. Cochran stole away, and left them sitting side by side on the divan. Little by little David's confidence in Arthur's safety began to reassure the tormented mother. The sailor talked to her of the sea with a knowledge born of his experience and of the bright hopefulness of youth. Quite naturally he drifted into telling her about the wreck of the _Pilgrim_, to show how there was chance of escape in the most desperate disaster. Her mother's heart was drawn to the picture of Margaret, as David painted it, in words of loving loyalty and admiration. "You are like a fresh breeze blowing from a big, fine, wholesome world that we seem to have been shut off from," she cried, as she looked at him with affectionate eyes. "I do believe that Arthur will be brought home to us." They heard a telephone bell ring in another room. The mother's face became white and tense, and she grasped David's hand and held it fast. There might be some tidings. After minutes that seemed like hours Mr. Cochran entered the room with dragging step and bowed shoulders. He spoke very slowly, as if reluctant to repeat the message which had come to him. "It was a telegram, mother," said he. "One of the _Restless_ boats was picked up at sea--empty. A Cunarder reported it by wireless." Mrs. Cochran swayed against David, who pulled himself together, and his voice rang out with vibrant conviction: "It doesn't mean what you think it does. Ten to one some vessel picked them up and cast the boat adrift. And the chances are still even that Arthur was in the other boat. Now is the time to sit tight and hold your nerve." CHAPTER VIII YANKEE TOPSAILS A weary week passed, without tidings of the castaways of the _Restless_. Arthur Cochran's mother lost heart, and refused to be comforted. She seemed to be letting go her hold on life, and her husband, as if seeking to atone for the years in which he had allowed his worldly interests to absorb his time and thought, was seldom away from her. His devotion was tender and whole-hearted. The visit of the Bracewell household had been postponed. Mrs. Cochran was too ill to leave her room, and even David had to be denied the pleasure of seeing her again, much as she longed to talk to him about her beloved son. The week of shore leave ended and David said good-by to his "dearest folks" in the tiny flat and posted off to Philadelphia to report on board the _Roanoke_. He was glad, too, beyond measure, to learn that Captain Thrasher had been cleared of all blame for the collision, and would stay in his command. "It was vat you call a tight squeak," explained David's faithful shipmate, the bos'n. "They tells me the Board asks the old man why don't he get out and push the iceberg to one side, or some such foolishness. But he proves he was usin' all proper care, and they can't give him the sack, eh? Mr. Cochran, the moneybags vat we picked up, he vas very mad mit our old man at first, but he cool down by and by and see vat a idiot he vas. And he gets some gratitude under his belt, and puts in a word for the old man, I t'ink. Stanley P. Cochran is very strong mit the company. He owns much stock." So Mr. Cochran had gone out of his way to befriend the captain of the _Roanoke_, reflected David. It showed that the great man had a sense of fair play and square dealing if his eyes were once opened. If there was only some way to enlist this powerful interest in Captain John's behalf, without making it seem like asking charity. If Arthur should be saved from the sea, the way might be found. The master of the _Pilgrim_ was growing old before his time, while he ate out his heart in vain hopes. He was proud and independent to a fault, and David knew he would starve sooner than crowd another man out of his berth. While in New York David had taken pains to learn that none of the sailing ships in Mr. Cochran's sugar-carrying trade were without masters, and for the present he could see no help in that quarter. One week followed another, and David found no chance to go to New York again. One of his letters from Margaret told him: "Mrs. Cochran sent for me to go and see her yesterday. Grandfather took me up and was going to sit on the front steps and wait, but the servants took him in tow and he was invited up-stairs with me. Mr. Cochran must have said some nice things about poor little me. She was very sweet and lovely, but so sad looking. And she wanted to know if I would show her how to make an apple pie. There are at least twenty servants in their crew, Davy, and imagine me making apple pies in that house. What makes such very rich people seem so dreadfully lonesome? She explained that Arthur's boy friends were all out of town, and that he didn't have many anyhow. "They have sense enough to know that you are a wonderful Big Brother, which is why I like them. Grandfather told her all sorts of cheerful yarns about people who were not heard of at sea for weeks and weeks, and then came into port all safe and smiling. She seemed to have faith in that simple, quiet way of his, when he leans forward and looks you straight in the eyes as he talks. She asked him had he given up going to sea, and he told her yes. And I spoke right up as bold as anything: "'It isn't because he wants to, but because sailing ships are so scarce. He never would have anything to do with steam.' "She did not quite understand, but he shut me up before I could tell her that he was one of the finest ship-masters that ever cracked on sail in a gale of wind. Won't we see you again before we sail, Davy? I am sending a box of apple pies by express. I made them with my own fair hands, and one of them is specially for the bos'n, with his initials on the crust. Mr. Becket says I ought to have put on, 'FOR A DUTCH HUMBUG.'" Davy duly delivered the pie and Mr. Becket's message, and was thanked for the one and cuffed over the head for the other. The _Roanoke_ was almost ready for sea a few days later, when a telegram came aboard for David. He opened the envelope with stumbling fingers, fearing something might have happened to his "dearest folks." The message was from Mr. Cochran, however, and said no more than: "_There may be good news for us. Cannot tell yet. Try to come at once._" David showed the message to the chief officer, who advised him to take it to Captain Thrasher. That august personage said at once: "Jump right along with you. Give Mr. Cochran my best regards, and tell him to send you back as soon as he can." On the train bound for New York David tried to fathom the meaning of the uncertain tidings. Either Arthur had been saved or he had not, but apparently the father was waiting for more information. When David jumped from the car in the Jersey City station, he was surprised to see Mr. Cochran waiting for him, with every sign of impatient haste. "Come along, youngster," he called at the top of his voice. "I have a tug with steam up right here by the ferry dock." He grasped David's arm and they charged pell-mell through the crowd. Mr. Cochran had no breath to spare until they had scrambled from the string-piece of the pier to the deck of a sea-going tug, whose escape valve was roaring in a cloud of steam. Orders were shouted, a bell clanged, another jingled, and the tug was racing down the North River toward the Bay. "Mrs. Cochran was not strong enough to come," panted her husband as he mopped his face. "And we may be disappointed after all. I can't stand much more of a strain myself. But we shall know in three or four hours, I hope." "What--why--how do you know?" stammered David, whose head felt dazed. "Only that a tramp steamer arriving this morning reported being signalled by a sailing ship, the _Sea Witch_, that she had on board part of the crew of a yacht. It was blowing hard when the vessels sighted each other, and the captain of the tramp could not read the flags distinctly." "But where was the _Sea Witch_ when sighted, and whither bound?" "Liverpool to New York--a hundred and fifty miles out, twenty-four hours ago. The wind has shifted to fair for her since midnight, and she will be in sight of Sandy Hook before dark." "Of course Arthur is aboard," cried David, with buoyant faith. The father said nothing. Perhaps he was thinking of the sufferings which had killed so many strong men adrift in open boats. And this boy of his was a weakling, used to the constant care and luxury which wealth had lavished on him. David tried to rouse him from his reflections by saying: "The _Sea Witch_ is the finest and smartest ship of her class afloat, sir. She is the largest four-masted sailing ship that flies the American flag. I'd give a lot to see her." "I believe I control some kind of a fleet of barks and ships in my sugar business," replied Mr. Cochran, "but I haven't paid much attention to them. Don't believe I ever laid eyes on one of them. But I don't recall hearing of the _Sea Witch_." "Almost four thousand tons, and sailing mostly to the Orient with case oil," added David. "I know a man that was in her." The tug churned her way through the Narrows and lifted her bow to the swell of the Bay. Mr. Cochran had become lost in his own thoughts as he stared from a wheel-house window, while David swapped briny yarns with the mate. "The _Sea Witch_ was spoken three hundred miles out, a week ago," said the mate. "Then she was blown to sea, and now she's piling in again with the wind where she wants it." The green sea opened ahead, and the tug plunged her guard rail under as her skipper crowded a good thirteen knots out of her. The Navesink Highlands became vague and misty over her stern, and still her course was held toward the east-south-east. "The _Sea Witch_ ought to be showing us her royals before long," said the skipper. He had no more than spoken when the mate shouted: "There she is, right to the minute. A point off the port bow." Swiftly the white patch crept above the horizon; sail by sail the gleaming canvas of the _Sea Witch_ lifted fair and graceful, until her black hull was visible as a mere dot beneath the immense sweep of her snowy wings. Every stitch of cloth she could spread was pulling her homeward. David had been at sea for more than a year without glimpsing such a noble picture as this. When they had run close enough to make out the stars and stripes whipping from the mizzen of the _Sea Witch_ like a tongue of flame, he drew a long breath and felt little chills run up and down his back. Now he began to understand what the sea and its ships meant to Captain John Bracewell, ship-master of the old school. Mr. Cochran had no eyes for the rare beauty of the _Sea Witch_ under full sail. He was leaning far out of his window, imploring the captain of the tug to make more speed. When the two vessels were a half mile apart, a string of signal bunting soared to the tug's mast-head, announcing: "Wish to speak to you, most important." After a little interval, the _Sea Witch_ signalled back: "Can't stop. What is your business?" "Oh, quit that foolishness," groaned Mr. Cochran, wringing his hands. "Run alongside and speak her as soon as you can." The tug swept round in a foaming arc, and came up on the lee side of the four-master, which was surging home like a race-horse. A long line of heads bobbed above the bulwark in the waist of the _Sea Witch_, and presently a slim young figure danced up the poop ladder and climbed on top of the cabin. "That looks like him," cried Mr. Cochran, "but he was never as frisky as that in all his life." The excited David thumped the magnate between the shoulders, and yelled: "Of course it's Arthur. I can make him out as plain as daylight." The tug sheered closer and closer at top speed, but she was rapidly dropping astern of the flying ship. The agile figure on the cabin roof caught up a speaking-trumpet and piped shrilly: "Daddy, ahoy! It's me! How's mother?" The father scrambled on deck and bawled with arms outstretched: "All well, you little rascal! Are all hands with you?" "There they are in the waist. All the men in our boat. Count 'em for yourself. All present and accounted for, down to the cook's pet monkey. Anybody lost of your company? And has the other boat been picked up?" "We were all saved, thank God. No, the second boat has not been heard from yet. Here's a youngster who can tell you all about our end of it." Arthur failed to recognize at long range the _Roanoke_ cadet whom he had last seen in bed with a bandaged head. David shouted a welcome, but it was lost in the stentorian roar of the captain of the _Sea Witch_: "I'll lay my main-yard aback and put your lad aboard, Mr. Cochran. I wouldn't do it for anybody else but his daddy." The tug dropped farther astern, and the towering square rigger began to slacken her rushing speed as her mighty yards were swung round. Then as she lay at rest, a rope ladder was dropped overside, and young Arthur Cochran swarmed down it as if he had been the pet monkey saved from the yacht. A boat from the tug was waiting, and Mr. Cochran, rising in the stern-sheets, fairly grabbed the boy in his arms and hugged him like a bear. Arthur struggled to get his breath and sputtered: "Tell the _Restless_ men you're glad to see them, father. They were mighty good to me." "I _am_ an unfeeling brute, but I couldn't think of anything else than getting my hands on you. _Sea Witch_, ahoy! A glad welcome home to the _Restless_ captain and his men. Report at my office on landing, and you won't be sorry that you sailed with me! I feel sure that the rest of the crew have been saved and will be reported soon." As soon as they were aboard the tug, Mr. Cochran began to take stock of his son and heir. Instead of the wasted invalid he had dreaded to find, this survivor was tanned, clear-eyed, and vigorous. "What kind of a miracle has happened to you?" he asked. "Your mother won't know you." "Plain grub and hard work, I guess," grinned Arthur. "We were adrift four days, and I got a razor edge on my appetite. Three weeks aboard the _Sea Witch_ did the rest. The captain said I'd been coddled to death as soon as he found out who I was, and you bet he kept me busy. Why, I helped reef the fore-topgallant sail last night." Mr. Cochran glanced up at the dizzy yards of the _Sea Witch_ and shuddered. Then Arthur found time to stare hard at David, who was tactfully keeping in the background. "Well, I'll be jiggered! It's you, is it?" shouted Arthur. "This is better luck than I counted on. So you two have made it up? Fine! Father was horrid mean to you. I suppose you picked him up at sea. Rescuing folks seems to be one of your steady habits." "You have guessed right," laughed David. "There was more than one sunny side to the loss of the _Restless_. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good." While the tug sped toward Sandy Hook, Mr. Cochran and his boy sat in the skipper's little room abaft the wheel-house and talked to their heart's content. David was wise enough to leave them alone, and with peace in his heart he gazed at the _Sea Witch_, which, scorning a tow-boat, was driving astern of them. The signal station at Sandy Hook was told to telegraph the good news ahead, and long before they landed newsboys were crying "Evening Extras," with the return of Stanley P. Cochran's son emblazoned in head-lines of blue and red. David said good-by at the wharf, but Arthur stoutly refused to let him go. "I haven't had a chance to see you more than a minute," exclaimed the jubilant castaway. "Hang your old ship! Let her wait. Father will wire the captain for you. Now is the glad time to work Mr. Stanley P. Cochran for most any old thing." "You don't know Captain Stephen Thrasher," said his father. "I tried to buy him and his ship once. He has asked me to send David back to the _Roanoke_ as soon as possible, and he meant exactly what he said. I have learned to let seafaring people have their own way. They are a terribly obstinate lot," and he winked comically at David. No longer afraid of Mr. Cochran's wrath, David told him: "I must catch the next train to Philadelphia. Give my love to Mrs. Cochran, please, and the Bracewells, if you happen to see them." "Why, bless me," declared Mr. Cochran, "have you come to New York without a chance to see your folks? That's absurd. It was very selfish of me to kidnap you, I'm sure, but there was no one else I wanted to take out to meet the _Sea Witch_." "Never mind. I can write them before I sail," and with this David set off for the ferry at a smart trot. When he reported aboard the _Roanoke_ in the evening, Captain Thrasher was just going ashore. "What news?" he halted to ask. "Young Cochran safe in port? Well, well, I am very thankful to hear it. What ship found them? The _Sea Witch_? Why I know her master well. Dried-up little man with a white goatee?" This described the man who had shouted orders from the quarter-deck of the _Sea Witch_, and David meekly answered, "Yes, sir." "Seventy, if he is a day, and tough as a pine knot," concluded Captain Thrasher. "He was master of a ship when I went to sea as a boy." Before David turned in he wrote to Margaret, and wound up with: "You never saw such a beautiful ship in your life as the _Sea Witch_. Be sure to take Captain John down to see her when she docks. If there were only really and truly fairies, or if I had a magic wand, I would wave it around Mr. Cochran's head and ask him to buy the _Sea Witch_ and put Captain John in her, instead of the frosted old pippin that is master of her. She almost makes me wish I had not gone into steam. Oh, if you could have seen her under full sail--but what is the use of my raving about the _Sea Witch_? Good-night, and God bless you all." The _Roanoke_ was almost ready to proceed straight to Southampton for a thorough overhauling after the patch-work repairs made to enable her to cross the Atlantic in safety. There was no excitement about this kind of a departure, and on the morning of sailing her empty decks made David feel a little homesick. He was sent ashore with a bundle of the captain's farewell letters, and on his way back dodged a cab which was rattling down to the wharf in runaway fashion. A volley of "Whoas" and "Hullos" came from inside, and wheeling about, David saw the head of Arthur Cochran poked out of the window. "Ahoy, there," he shouted, pushing open the door, and alighting fairly on top of David before the driver could pull up his sweating steed. "Father came over on business, and I coaxed him into letting me come along, on the chance of seeing you." "Come aboard," said David, joyfully. "We're ready to cast off, but there will be a few minutes to spare, I guess. You don't look a shipwrecked sailor, not a little bit." "I have met those pals of yours," confided Arthur as they hurried up the gangway. "And they are just bully, aren't they? They are the real thing. Mother dotes on the dear little sister, and she _is_ a dear, and Captain Bracewell is a copper-fastened A1 old-time Yankee sailor, that you read about in books. Say, but he is a brick, a whole ton of 'em. And, oh, you will be tickled to death to hear that the other _Restless_ boat was found by a steamer which carried the men to Liverpool." "Good enough," cried David. "That is the bulliest kind of news." Elated as he was to learn that all the yacht's crew had been accounted for, the praise of Margaret made David wince a trifle in spite of himself. Jealousy had never invaded his feelings toward the "little sister." He wanted Arthur to like his "dearest folks," but it was not easy to think of sharing their affection. Beating down this ungenerous emotion with a very manly spirit, David cordially agreed: "They are the salt of the earth, Arthur, and I am mighty glad you like them. They worried themselves almost sick about you. What about Mr. Becket? Have you met him?" "He looked me up yesterday, and was so full of mystery that I couldn't make head or tail of him. He got almost to the point of telling me something, and then he sheered off on another tack, rubbed his red head, sighed, looked out of the window, and muttered something about guessing he'd have to see you first." "Was it anything about Captain Bracewell?" "He never got that far. He seemed to be in the last stages of buck-fever or acute rattles. But he doesn't look like a timid man." David was called forward, and while Arthur kicked his heels on a bench by the gangway, Captain Thrasher happened along, on his way to the bridge. "My father, Mr. Cochran, sends you his warmest regards," said Arthur, "and wishes you a luckier voyage than the last." "So you are the young nine-days' wonder, are you? You look as if sea life agreed with you." "That's what everybody says, Captain, and I am trying to persuade mother to let me go for a long voyage. My, but I should like to go out in the _Sea Witch_ to Japan." "No finer sailing vessel afloat," said Captain Thrasher. "How is that old barnacle that commands her? Bad-tempered as ever?" "He is pretty violent," smiled Arthur. "But he is done with the sea. This was his last voyage. He told me he was going home to Maine as quick as the Lord would let him, and raise potatoes and cabbages, 'gosh whang it.' He has been at sea fifty-seven years." "Who will take her out?" "The mate expects to get her, sir. But he is a pie-faced, wooden-headed Norwegian, with a thirst for rum. I didn't take to him at all." "Too bad to see a Norwegian in command of the finest Yankee ship afloat," was Captain Thrasher's comment as he went on his way. Fifteen minutes passed and David had not returned. It was like hunting a needle in a hay-stack to look for him, and Arthur fidgeted where he was until the deck officer warned him that it was time to go ashore. Then David came running aft, just as the _Roanoke_ blew a long blast to let all hands know she was ready to cast off. "I had to tally a lot of stores that just came aboard for the paint room," panted David. "It is a shame that I can't hear all about what happened to you at sea. But I'll be back in a few weeks." Arthur shouted his farewells, as he ran to the wharf, while David said to himself, with sorrowful countenance: "And I never got in a word for Captain John." He would have been more regretful could he have overheard the news about the command of the _Sea Witch_ as Arthur had told it to Captain Thrasher. CHAPTER IX CAPTAIN BRACEWELL'S SHIP David had been gone a week, when Arthur Cochran announced to his father: "There is no sense in waiting till David, the bold sailor boy, comes home from sea. I want to ask the Bracewells and Mr. Becket up to dinner. You postponed it once, before I turned up, and anyhow you owe them a dinner to square yourself for the apple pie you got away with." Since their disaster at sea the domineering manner of Mr. Cochran toward his son had changed to a relation of good comradeship, in which Arthur no longer feared and trembled. His timid smile had become frank and boyish, and he carried himself in a way that made his father proud of him. "By all means," heartily replied Mr. Cochran. "It won't hurt you to know folks who don't care a rap for your money, and who are not looking for a chance to pull your leg. They preach a healthy gospel by just living along in their own way." Arthur's mother mildly suggested that the dinner await David's return, but she was routed by the argument: "That will be an excuse for another dinner. The more, the merrier." Thereupon she offered her services as a partner in his plans, and between them they devised all manner of novel decorations and surprises. The thing which pleased them most was a lake of real water that extended the length of the dining table, and upon which floated two toy vessels. One of them was the model of a full-rigged sailing ship, the other of an ocean steamer, with a black star between her funnels. They were christened the _Sea Witch_ and the _Roanoke_. For the bridge of the liner Arthur found a most dashing miniature captain in blue, who was tagged, in honor of the absent friend, "Captain David Downes." The guests arrived fairly calm, but somewhat awed by their surroundings. Captain John, in his Sunday black, loomed like a benevolent Viking. His massive, clean-shaven face had lost its sea tan, but he was as fine a specimen of the American ship-master as could have been found in his almost vanished generation. Margaret, dressed in white, with a rose in her fair hair, was winsomely girlish, enjoying every moment of this red-letter night. Mr. Becket's rolling gait put the costly bric-a-brac in some danger, and he would insist on making side remarks to the servants, but Margaret was a skilful pilot, and steered him in safety to the haven of the dining-room. "I don't quite figure out how it all happened," said Captain Bracewell, from his chair at Mrs. Cochran's right hand, "but we are all glad to be here, ma'am. Most of us have been saved by the Lord's grace from the perils of the deep. But the boy who fetched us all together is absent from us, and I move we drink his health standing." While the company toasted the young able seaman of the _Roanoke_, Arthur cried: "And here's to all ships and sailors, their sisters, sweethearts, and wives." He glanced at Margaret with so mischievous a twinkle in his dancing eyes that she felt her cheek grow hot, for no reason at all, of course. Mr. Becket made a diversion, however, by pensively observing: "There was a black-eyed senorita in Valparaiso. But she hasn't written me in eleven years, and I couldn't read it if she did. But I hereby drink to her most hearty." Captain Bracewell's bold and resolute manner, which became him so well, was returning in the enjoyment of this festal occasion. The weary year of disappointment and failure was forgotten for the time. He seemed to grow younger as the dinner wore on. Mr. Cochran, who knew men and how to draw them out, was shrewdly studying this fine figure of a mariner. There was more behind that square-hewn face than simple honesty and loyalty. The man of wealth and power had lost some of his former contempt for those who could not "make money." Perhaps more than he realized, he had learned new values of men from David Downes. But why should Captain Bracewell have quit his calling, reflected Mr. Cochran, while he was still fit for years of command? "He is not a day over sixty," the host was saying to himself, "and he looks as sturdy as an oak tree." Mr. Cochran did not know that there had been a kind of blind conspiracy to hide the truth from him. David had let slip his chance to confide in Arthur; Captain John would not have dreamed of presuming on Mr. Cochran's friendship; while Mr. Becket had lost his daring at a critical moment. Their well-meaning secrecy, their fond hopes and wishes, were revealed without warning, and without any prompting of their own. They were talking about the two little ships which swam so proudly on the lake between them. Mock congratulations were showered upon the absurd figure of a doll, which stood so stiffly on the tiny liner's bridge. Margaret called out playfully: "Why don't you toot your whistle and salute us, Captain Downes? Too haughty and stuck-up, I suppose, like all you steamer captains." "S-s-s-sh. He is on duty," chided Arthur. "No talking on the bridge." "He can have his old steamer," flung back Margaret. "I'll take the _Sea Witch_ yonder, every time. Oh, isn't she just beautiful, even as a toy?" The blood of a long line of sailor ancestors thrilled in Margaret's veins, as she clasped her hands and leaned forward to waft her breath against the white sails of the clipper ship. The _Sea Witch_ dipped to this fair gale, gathered headway, and furrowed the pond with a wake of tiny ripples. Her bowsprit pointed straight at Captain Bracewell, and fanned by the breath of the guests as she passed them, the _Sea Witch_ glided without swerving from her course to the mossy bank in front of the captain's plate. "But she hasn't any skipper," cried Arthur. "That doll on her quarter-deck must be the mutton-headed Norwegian mate. Chuck him overboard, mother. He's no good." With a gay laugh, Mrs. Cochran tossed the luckless manikin into the water, where he sank to the bottom without a struggle, and reposed against a rock with arms calmly folded across his chest. The heartless onlookers applauded this tragedy, all save Captain John, who was looking down at the ship. Perhaps he had a trace of the superstition which can be found in the hardest-headed seafarer. The _Sea Witch_, without a captain, had laid her course for him, and was waiting on the shore. This make-believe voyage might be a good omen. Arthur had an inspiration, while the attention of the others was drawn to Captain John and the fairy ship. Springing to his feet, he flourished his napkin in the air, and shouted: "What's the matter with Captain John Bracewell as master of the _Sea Witch_? Wouldn't as fine a ship as this persuade you to go to sea again?" Margaret was thrown into confusion, and Mr. Becket was taken all aback, but Captain John smiled and threw back his shoulders, as he gently answered: "I should like nothing better, but her owners don't see it that way." "Who owns the _Sea Witch_?" spoke up Mr. Cochran. "Burgess, Jones & Company. She is the last of their four-masted ships that were built for the Far Eastern trade," said Captain John. "Why, it is plain as the nose on your face," declared the headlong Arthur, who was taking full command of the situation. "Don't let her be turned into a coal barge, father. That is what they talk of doing with her after one more voyage. She can be made to pay her way with your brains back of her. Buy her to-morrow. I'll get you all the facts and figures. And one long voyage in her is what I need to make me as husky as David Downes." Matters were moving too fast for the guests. Mr. Becket's face was fairly purple with suppressed emotions, and he could only pound the table in a dazed kind of way and mutter: "Exactly what I tried to tell him. Exactly it. But I got hung on a dead centre." Captain Bracewell raised his hand to command silence. He was anxious to pull Mr. Cochran out of an awkward situation, and did his best to make light of the discussion by saying: "It is just a boy's fancy, sir. Don't mind him. He means well. We will just call it a bit of fun, and forget it. Besides, I'm asking no favors from anybody." Captain John had risen to his feet, and was bending toward his host. Mr. Cochran looked up with frank admiration at the imposing figure which faced him, and returned: "Arthur goes off at half-cock a good deal. But there is a grain or two of sense in him. Suppose we talk this matter over to-morrow, Captain. I am a business man, and you are pretty solidly ballasted yourself. I don't want to fling a lot of money into the sea, nor do you wish any position that comes to you as a whim." But Arthur was not ready to dismiss his great idea, until he noticed that his mother's face was full of suffering and her dear eyes were moist with tears. He went around to her and kissed her cheek, as he asked what the trouble might be. "I hope you can make Captain Bracewell happy," she whispered. "But I can't let you go to sea again so soon. You must not leave me now, when I feel as if you had been given back to me from the grave. You won't go, will you, if you can feel strong and well at home with us?" The boy responded with impulsive tenderness: "Not if you feel that way about it, mother. And I am going to stay strong and fit, anyway. But you will help me to get the _Sea Witch_ for the captain, won't you?" The father was thinking as he watched them that it was worth a great deal to have his only son learn lessons of unselfishness; to see him more absorbed in the welfare of others than in his own interests. Mr. Becket said to Margaret, in what was meant for a whisper: "The lad couldn't know our David very long without getting some of that help-the-other-fellow spirit. Our boy has always been studying what he could do for you and Captain John. He even has me on his mind these days." Mr. Becket's whisper was heard the length of the table, and Arthur's father commented with a smile: "I guess you are right, Mr. Becket, but why on earth didn't David let me know that the captain wanted a ship?" "Because you blackguarded and scolded him out of his boots when he stuck to these friends of his, last year," bravely returned the aroused Mr. Becket. "And our boy don't crawl on his knees to no millionaires, potentates, or boojums. That's one reason." With tactful desire to restore peace, Mrs. Cochran signalled to a servant, and a phonograph hidden in the palms began to play "Nancy Lee." The _Sea Witch_ was not mentioned again until the guests were ready to take their leave, when Margaret slipped up to Mrs. Cochran and confided with fluttering voice: "Please don't think we ever hinted the least thing to Mr. Arthur about our looking for a vessel. It is lovely to know that you think so much of grandfather. And Mr. Becket and I will try to make him understand that it was all a joke to-night. I can't bear to think of his taking it the least bit in earnest. We just can't have him down in the dumps again." "Don't worry, Margaret," Arthur's mother responded, caressing the girl's shining hair. "Things will work out for the best somehow, for such a dear, brave child and such a splendid grandfather." Captain Bracewell passed a sleepless night, his mind restless with new-born hopes. It could not be true, it was not even sane to expect that he might walk the quarter-deck of the _Sea Witch_, a bigger, finer ship than he had ever been master of in his prime. And to talk of buying her as if she were the toy which had floated on the dinner table! It was all stark nonsense, yet his kindled imagination could not help painting bright pictures. Margaret heard him muttering to himself in the night watches, and stole to his bedside. The captain put his arms around the slim figure in white, and drew her to him. "I haven't slept a wink, either," she whispered. "You will take me with you in the _Sea Witch_, won't you? But we will be so far away from David." Captain John chuckled: "Why, you are the girlie who was telling me all the way home that I must take it as a bit of fun. What has come over you?" "I just can't help believing it is going to come true," she answered. "I guess we are two silly children. But will you try to coax David to ship with you?" "So that is what is keeping you awake," he responded, very tenderly. "Nothing would be too good for the lad if he were in my vessel, you know that. But our chickens aren't hatched, and you'd better turn in, and thank God for all the blessings we have." Next morning Captain Bracewell trudged off to his gang of longshoremen on a North River pier. As he turned along the crowded water front, a four-masted sailing ship was being towed into a berth among the low-roofed warehouses. He stared with surprise at the rare sight, and thrilled to note the immense height of her masts and the majestic spread of her yards. Beside the uncouth ocean steamers, she appeared queenly beyond words. Without going nearer, Captain Bracewell knew that this must be the _Sea Witch_. He fought with his longing to go aboard and inspect this vessel of his dreams. But deciding that he ought to make himself no more unhappy than possible, he moved on his way, now and then turning for another sight of the "grandest Yankee skysail-yarder afloat." A few hours later Arthur Cochran rode down town with his father, explaining, by the way: "The weeks at sea did me lots of good, I'll admit that. But another reason why I feel so much better is that I have quit worrying about myself. If you will give me enough to think about, I won't have time to bother with my weak chest and spindle legs. But it is a heap more important that I get Captain John ready for sea before David comes home. Wouldn't it be a glorious surprise for him?" "Give me time to think it over, Arthur. Maybe Burgess, Jones & Company will be glad to do me a favor without making it necessary to buy a ship. Why, I own a fleet of them, come to think of it." "But they are not in the same class with the _Sea Witch_, father, and I want to own her myself. It is a good way to break me in to business before I am ready to go to college. Outbound freights have jumped in the last week and now is the time to buy or charter." "I begin to think you are a chip of the old block, my son," said Mr. Cochran, not at all displeased. "Maybe I can see you through on this shipping deal. Come to my office at noon, after I have had time to send a man out to investigate." Arthur was not letting the grass grow under his feet. He posted down to the wharf to find Captain Bracewell, and implored that busy stevedore: "I want all the figures to show the cost of running a four-masted ship, wages, stores, repairs, and so on. Dig it up in a hurry, please, for I may be a ship-owner by afternoon. Let your roustabouts have a ten minutes' rest." There was no such thing as heading Arthur off. He volleyed questions like a rapid-fire gun. No sooner had his flying pencil scrawled the last row of figures than he fled from the wharf. Noon found him waiting in the ante-room of his father's private offices, chewing his pencil stub and scanning many rumpled pages of calculations. Presently a clerk beckoned him, and the door of the inner office was closed behind the budding shipping merchant. An hour later he bobbed out with an excited air and announced to the confidential secretary: "Mr. Cochran says to have room number eighteen fitted up as an office, if you please. I shall use it hereafter. I want the door lettered, 'ARTHUR L. COCHRAN, SHIP-OWNER.'" A messenger found Captain Bracewell eating his dinner at home. Margaret was trembling as she noticed that the note was written on the office stationery of Stanley P. Cochran. Her grandfather was outwardly calm, as he read aloud: CAPTAIN JOHN BRACEWELL: _Dear Sir_: This is to offer you the command of the ship _Sea Witch_, which is now lying at Pier 38, North River, in this port. If you will accept the position, please call at my office at your earliest convenience to arrange terms, etc. Sincerely yours, ARTHUR L. COCHRAN, _Agent and Owner_. "Listen to that, his daddy all over again," roared the ship-master. "I shall have to toe the mark now. Well, it's come true. It's come true, girlie. And our lad David did it all." He knelt by the table, as if this were the first thing to be done, and Margaret was kneeling beside him as he gave thanks to the God in whom he had put his trust, afloat and ashore. "We must send a cablegram to David," quavered Margaret, sobbing for sheer joy. "And tell him he _must_ sail with us." Three thousand miles away a lad in sailor blue was mending awnings on a liner's deck. He did not look happy as he plied the sail-needle with vicious jabs, while he thought, half aloud: "What is the use of having friends if you can't be of any use to them? What good have I been to Captain John and Margaret? Always wanting to help, never doing a thing! I might have got him a ship if I hadn't hung fire so long. Now it's too late. I wish I had never set eyes on those Cochrans. I just amused them, because I was a kind of curiosity, I suppose." It was a very different David Downes who whooped like a red Indian soon after he went off watch. After dancing along the deck with a cabled message in his fist, he sat down on the edge of his bunk to think things over. Slowly the fact of Captain John's great good fortune slipped into the background, and bigger and bigger loomed the certainty which he could not bear to face. "A whole year without seeing Margaret," he said to himself, "for she is sure to go in the _Sea Witch_. I never realized what it would mean to have them go to sea again. They must take me, too; I can't bear to be left behind. A whole year without Margaret!" Then it came over him that he belonged where he had begun, in steam, in the Atlantic service. He was of a different age and breed of seaman from Captain John. Their ways must part. But was not any sacrifice worth while that would give him a chance to sail with Margaret? David was suddenly brought face to face with a new problem which had come into his life without his being aware of it. He must fight it out for himself. CHAPTER X THE CALL OF DUTY Captain John Bracewell's deep voice was shouting orders to the tug which was making fast to haul the deep-laden _Sea Witch_ out from her wharf. She was ready to begin her long voyage around Cape Horn, and the trade winds of the Pacific were calling her. In their first hours aboard, her crew had found that they were in a "smart ship," with a master who knew his trade. No longer a stranded derelict, but a leader of men, gravely rejoicing in the strength and beauty of the _Sea Witch_, Captain Bracewell looked every inch a proper seaman to command this queen of the old-time Yankee merchant marine. In the spacious after-cabin, bright with the summer sun which flooded through the open skylights, Margaret was saying almost the last of her good-bys. Clusters and bouquets of flowers, sent by Mr. Cochran, senior, made every shelf and corner gay. Mrs. Cochran and he had made their farewell call and were gone ashore, but Arthur still lingered in the cabin. Beside him stood able seaman David Downes. The young owner of the departing ship was saying to the fair-haired girl: "I can't stay more than a minute longer. My boat is alongside, and I must get back to my office. I'd like awfully well to go down the Bay with you, but--" He hesitated, glanced at David and went on with an affectionate smile, which embraced both his friends: "You may not see your big brother for a year, Miss Margaret. He deserves to have you all to himself to-day." "Better change your mind and come back in the tug," said David. "This is your ship, you know. And Margaret will love to have you." She smiled, with lips which slightly trembled, and there was unspoken sadness in her brave eyes, as she told them: "Indeed I want you both until we have to say good-by. And David has not quite decided to desert us. I am hoping to persuade him yet that he belongs in the _Sea Witch_. We just can't give him up without trying, to the very last minute. But it is going to make no difference, even if the seas do roll between us three. We can't forget you for a moment, either of you. You two have brought us this great gift and blessing--my two big brothers." Arthur's gaze was wistful, but he answered brightly: "And your owner is prouder of his master and of you than he is of his fine ship." "Not to overlook the mate," exclaimed a hearty voice behind them, and Mr. Becket's head blazed grandly in a patch of sunshine, at the foot of the companion-way. "Beg your pardon, Mr. Cochran, but we are in the stream and your boatman wants to cast off. Any orders, sir?" "I am coming, Mr. Becket. Well, it is good-by, and God bless you, Miss Margaret, and fair winds to you, and clear skies," said Arthur, as he clasped her hand for a moment. Then he followed Mr. Becket on deck. David ran after them, and as he helped his friend overside, Arthur asked: "Is it go or stay, with you? The longer you hang in the wind without making up your mind, the worse it will be." "It's the hardest thing I ever had to decide," replied David. "I sort of went ahead blind, and didn't know how much this was going to mean to me." "Father and mother and I have begun to find out that you haven't been thinking of yourself at all, from start to finish," cried Arthur. "Maybe that is why all your friends like you." This unexpected compliment took David aback, and all he could think of to say in parting was: "You'll hear from me by to-morrow. It's all a game of figuring out what is right to do." David watched the boat move shoreward, until it dodged behind a string of barges, and then he returned to Margaret in the cabin. She made a gallant effort to face the issue which they had argued over and over again. "It all happened just right that Mr. Becket was willing to come as mate," she began, "but oh, the whole beautiful plan seems so empty without you, Davy. Why can't you sail with us? Grandfather says he will make you third mate at the end of this voyage. And you will be just drudging along in the _Roanoke_ for years and years, before you can get that far." "It is different with Mr. Becket," replied David, with a sigh. "He is almost fifty years old, and he needs a position. Besides, he stands a fine chance to be master of the _Sea Witch_ when Captain John retires. But I am just beginning, and I belong in steam." Margaret was unconvinced, as she looked up at him with affectionate pride. "I suppose you know what is best, Davy, and I want you to succeed more than anything else in the world. Duty is a queer thing anyhow. The Cochrans think I ought to stay ashore and go to school. But I know better. There never was a wiser teacher than grandfather, and he needs me, and school must wait. And you and I could study together, Davy. Think of the months and months at sea." "But it all comes down to this, Margaret. Answer me yes or no. Which course do you want me to take? The one I _ought_ to steer, or the one I _want_ to follow? There's the whole thing in a nutshell." She thought it cruel of him to pin her down to this kind of an answer, but she met his questions as squarely as Captain John would have done. "The course you ought to steer, if you have to take one or the other," was her verdict. "Then I go back to the _Roanoke_," declared David. "I've been veering this way and that in my mind, but the things I've learned about duty in the last year kind of help me to make a good finish of it. I must stick it out as I started. We sail in the morning, Margaret, and we may pass you going out. I can read any signals you set, and I'll know they are meant for me." "'Don't forget your dearest folks,' will be what I'm saying to you, David," she answered, very softly. David moved toward the companion-way. He saw how hard it was for Margaret to keep back her tears, now that the parting was so near. "Don't forget me, little sister," he said, and his voice faltered. "I'll be waiting for you, forever and ever, amen." He meant more than was in his words, for the "little sister" was dearer to him in this moment than she had ever been before. But he could not tell her what was in his heart. They went on deck as Captain Bracewell called out cheerily: "I smell a shift of wind. We shall be under sail to-morrow. Why, the breeze has painted roses in your cheeks already, Margaret. There's nothing like getting to sea again. How about it, Davy Downes? Shall I put your name on the ship's papers?" "No, sir. I am an able seaman aboard the _Roanoke_. And I'm sorry that I put you to the trouble of holding a berth open for me." Captain Bracewell looked at the lad with approval, as he rejoined: "It isn't always easy to get your true bearings, my boy, and maybe I did wrong in trying to persuade you to sail with an old fogy like me. We want you bad, but we're not going to stand in your way, hey, Margaret?" The "little sister" had nothing more to say. Her bright world was clouded, and she could not look beyond this hour. It was Mr. Becket who cheered them with his never-failing good humor. Coming aft for orders, he stood surveying the silent group as if wondering what misfortune had happened in his absence. "Cheer up, my children," was his exhortation. "You've got what you wanted, and what more do you want? Why, I didn't look as dismal as all this when my last skipper chased me ashore, with his one whisker whistlin' in the wind." "David is going to leave us," said Margaret, solemnly. "And what would we do with the useless little paint scrubber aboard a real ship?" exclaimed Mr. Becket. "He's never been aloft in his life." "Get forward with you, Mr. Becket," thundered the captain, and the mate ducked down the ladder, as if he had been shot at. The time was all too short before the _Sea Witch_ reached an anchorage in the lower bay. David was ready to leap aboard as the tug came alongside. He was through with saying good-bys, and he lingered only long enough to shake hands all round. Margaret and he had tried to console themselves with the thought that this was not really their last sight of each other. The liner would be going out in the morning, and then it would be farewell in earnest. But David was a lonesome and melancholy sailor as he went aboard the _Roanoke_ that night. The bos'n found him on duty at the gangway, and took pity on his low spirits. "It vas hard to lose friends, but it vas worse to have no friends to lose, and all hands on deck, from the old man to his sawed-off leetle cabin-boy knows that you haf been true to your friends and stuck by your colors, boy. It vill do you no harm. I vas getting old, and there is gray in my hair, and I vill never be a ship's officer. But if you does _your_ duty and sticks by your friends you will wear the blue coat mit the brass stripes on the sleeve, and you will be glad you stayed by steam." "But I always wanted to be the kind of a seaman my father was," confided David, grateful for the cheer of this grizzled shipmate. "And I've just left that kind of a ship-master and a vessel that made me sort of choke all up to look at her." Next morning came fair and sparkling, with a fresh wind out of the north-west that set the harbor to dancing. The liner's decks were crowded with passengers in holiday mood. From her huge funnels poured clouds of black smoke, to tell the water front that she was eager to be free and hurrying over seas. Promptly on the stroke of ten, as if she were moved by clockwork, the decks trembled to the thresh of her giant screws, hawsers came writhing in to the rattle of donkey-engines fore and aft, and the black hull of the liner slid slowly past her pier. Up in the bow, able seaman David Downes waved his cap to Arthur Cochran who had come down to see him off. Their friendship had been knit closer by the sailing of the _Sea Witch_, and David glowed at the thought of the message which Mr. Cochran, senior, had sent to the steamer by his boy: "Tell the able seaman that I wasn't as crazy as I seemed when I bought the _Sea Witch_ overnight. If he had wanted her for himself it would have been another matter. But I did it to please him as much as to please the old skipper and my boy. Tell him he has helped me to know what friendship means, in a world where I thought that kind of thing had gone out of style." As the _Roanoke_ neared Sandy Hook, David saw far ahead a row of tall spars astern of a tug. He forgot his work and rushed to the rail. It was the _Sea Witch_, and the liner would pass close to her. Soon little patches of white began to break out among the yards of the ship ahead. The bos'n stood beside David and growled in his ear: "You must not loaf on deck, boy, but maybe a minute won't hurt nothings. It vas a good sight, that. I know it all. Now I hear the captain say to the mate, 'Set your jibs.' And next it is, 'Set your staysails.' And then it is, 'Loose your lower topsails.' Then the mate vill sing out to the men, 'Haul away the lee sail,' or 'Overhaul the main-top-gallant bunt-lines.' But I am an old fool and you are a young loafer. Get along mit you." As if by magic, the white canvas was spreading higher and higher above the low hull of the _Sea Witch_, until her royals seemed like bits of the clouds that drifted in the blue sky. As David answered a summons from the bridge, he overheard Captain Thrasher say: "Very smartly done. The old man must have shipped a good crew. Wonder where he got 'em? That's the way Yankee ships used to make sail when I was a boy." David felt a thrill of pride as if he had a personal share in this welcome praise. The liner was overhauling the _Sea Witch_ hand over hand. David was straining his eyes to make out the flutter of a skirt on the quarter-deck. The ship was still too far away, however, and his attention was caught for a moment by the surprised voice of the bos'n: "Holy schmokes, your granddaddy is gettin' up his sky-sails. He vill give us a race, eh?" Sure enough, the sailors of the _Sea Witch_ could be seen working in mid-air, and presently the tiny squares of canvas gleamed above her royals. "It is to show this old tea-kettle what a Yankee ship can do," quoth the bos'n. No more stately and beautiful sea picture could be imagined than the _Sea Witch_, when Captain Bracewell had put her under this staggering press of sail. The wind was humming through the stays of the _Roanoke's_ apologies for masts, and it smote the _Sea Witch_ with a driving power, which heeled her until the copper of her hull gleamed like a belt of gold against the white-capped Atlantic. David could see Margaret leaning against the weather rail of the poop, her hair blowing in the jolly wind, as she shaded her eyes and gazed at the liner's decks. Nor could this daughter of the deep sea have asked for a more fitting accompaniment for her farewell to David than the roaring chorus which floated from amidships of the _Sea Witch_. Captain Bracewell had bullied and bribed the shipping masters of New York to find him Yankee seamen. It was a hard task that he set them, but by hook and crook he had gathered a dozen deep-water "shell-backs" of the old breed among his thirty foremast hands, and they knew the old-time sailors' chanties. Now, as they swayed and hauled on sheets and braces, their lusty chorus came faint and clear to the liner: "Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea, With a yeo, ho, blow the man down, And pray pay attention and listen to me, Oh, give me some time to blow the man down." Soon the chorus changed as the topsail yards were swayed: "We're outward bound this very day, Good-by, fare you well, Good-by, fare you well. We're outward bound this very day, Hurrah, my boys, we're outward bound." The passengers of the liner were cheering. Here were sights and sounds which they had read about in romances of the sea. But David was no longer thinking of the ship yonder. He was blowing kisses to the "little girl" who had crossed the deck and was standing with one arm about the captain of the _Sea Witch_. Over their heads was set a row of signal flags to speak their parting message: "All's well. Love and greetings." Captain Thrasher turned his whistle valve, and the _Roanoke_ bellowed a courteous "Good-day to you." Stronger and more musical than before came the sailors' chorus: "Hurrah, my boys, we're outward bound." Captain Thrasher chanced to catch a glimpse of the lad with the radiant face, who was leaning over the rail of the deck below him. With a kindly impulse, he sent a boy to call David to the bridge. "You can see them a little better here," said the captain. "I take it that you're pretty sorry to leave those shipmates of yours. Did you want to go with them?" The young able seaman stood very straight, and his square jaw was firm-set, as he replied: "Yes, sir. But I decided to stay with you." The captain of the liner understood the boy's struggle. He made no comment, but said to one of his officers: "Tell the quartermaster to sheer a little closer to that ship. I may want to speak her." David looked his gratitude, and was on edge with excitement, as he gazed down at the white deck of the _Sea Witch_, and wondered if his voice could carry that far. Perhaps he might hear Margaret call to him. She had seen him go to the bridge. Her face was upturned, and she had picked up a speaking-trumpet. [Illustration: David gazed down at the white deck of the _Sea Witch_.] Just then the fourth officer of the _Roanoke_ brushed past David. He was bare-headed, his coat was torn, and there was blood on his face. He addressed the captain, as if short of breath: "If you please, sir, two of those insane steerage passengers we are deporting have broken out, and are running amuck below. The rest of the people are scared clean off their heads, and I want more help to handle 'em." The discipline which had become an instinct with Captain Thrasher caused him to grasp at whatever assistance was nearest to save every second of time he could. He saw David at his elbow, and snapped at him: "Down you go! Jump! I'll send more help in a minute or two." David cast one glance at the deck of the _Sea Witch_. Margaret had never looked so dear to him as now, when she was almost within speaking distance. The pleading disappointment in David's face was not unobserved by Captain Thrasher, but his grim features were unmoved as he repeated, more sharply: "Don't stand like a dummy! Below with you!" A sweet, shrill hail came from the quarter-deck of the _Sea Witch_, "Oh, David, ahoy!" David heard it, but he did not turn to look over the side. The doctrine of duty had never been so hard to swallow, but with his jaw set hard and his fists shut tight he ran after the fourth officer. A bedlam of noises came from the steerage quarters, groans and shrieks and prayers. Re-enforced by two more seamen, the officer and David charged into the uproar. Three stewards and a quartermaster had pinned the insane foreigners in a corner, and were trying to put strait-jackets on them. It was a difficult task, even with more help, and the panic of the other Hungarians, Russians, and Poles had grown to the size of a riot. David pitched in with the momentum of a centre-rush, and after several sharp tussles looked around him to find that his doughty comrades had done their duty well. His impulse was to rush on deck for a sight of the _Sea Witch_, but his duty was to await orders. "Stand guard over these poor lunatics till you are relieved," grunted the fourth officer. David's face turned very red, he winked hard and tried to hold back the words that rushed to his lips: "But I must go on deck, sir. I--I--" he broke off and steadied himself with a great effort. Before the amazed officer could reply to this mutinous outburst David had come to himself. Discipline and duty took command again, and he added in a tone of appeal: "Please forget what I just said, sir. I didn't mean to talk back. Of course I'll stay." The officer cast a sour look at the lad, as if in half a mind to punish him. Then with a gruff "Keep your tongue in your head next time," he went away. David looked around at the speck of blue ocean which glinted through an open porthole. Margaret's ship was out there, but he could not see her. Every moment the liner and the _Sea Witch_ were drawing farther and farther apart. And Margaret--was she looking for him, trying to send across the water her message: "Don't forget your dearest folks"? The disconsolate David, sulking in the steerage, was not wise enough to know that in this trying hour he was doing that which would have made his "dearest folks" happy in this big boy of theirs. When at length he climbed on deck, the stately _Sea Witch_ was hull-down against the blue of the south-western sky. Lower and lower dropped the pyramid of sail, until a fleck of white hung for an instant on the horizon line. David rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The _Sea Witch_ had vanished. He turned away and looked up at the bridge of the _Roanoke_. Captain Thrasher was pacing his airy pathway, quiet, ready, masterful, while the strength of fifteen thousand horses drove the Black Star liner toward her goal. David Dowries was sure in his heart that he had chosen the right way, although it was the hardest way. As the sun went down, he gazed across the heaving sea where he had last glimpsed the _Sea Witch_, and said to himself: "What I ought to do, not what I want to do: that is the course Captain John and Margaret told me to steer. And here is where I belong." 
5602	----	THE BOY SCOUTS PATROL BY RALPH VICTOR ILLUSTRATED BY RUDOLF MENCL CHAPTER I. A MONKEY TRICK II. FINDING MONEY III. TWO AND TWO IV. UP THE RIVER V. OUT OF THE RIVER VI. THE ENEMY MAKES A RAID VII. THE COLONEL VIII. TALKING IT OVER IX. THE PURSUIT X. LOOKING FOR A CLUE XI. FORMING THE PATROL XII. ORGANIZED XIII. A CHALLENGE XIV. A DEFIANCE XV. PEPPER TAKES A MESSAGE XVI. WHERE WAS PEPPER? XVII. THE MESSAGE XVIII. IN THE JUDGE'S OFFICE XIX. A NARROW ESCAPE XX. A NIGHT ALARM XXI. A SURPRISE XXII. THE RACE XXIII. CONCLUSION THE BOY SCOUTS PATROL CHAPTER I A MONKEY TRICK "I think--" began a tall, slenderly-built lad of sixteen, speaking in a somewhat indolent way; then suddenly he paused to look down through the trees to where the river gleamed below. "What's on your mind now, Rand?" his companion queried, a boy of about the same age, nearly as tall, but more stoutly built, and as light in complexion as the other was dark. The two were standing at the top of the road that wound down the side of the mountain from the town of Creston, which was perched, like the nest of some great bird, in a hollow of the Palisades. "I think--" repeated the first speaker, pausing again. "That's right, Randolph," approved his companion briskly, "always think twice before you speak once." "I always do, Donald Graeme," retorted Rand; "but what I was really going to say when you interrupted me with your irrelevant remark, was--" "Hurrah!" broke in Donald, waving his cap in answer to the hail of another boy who was just then seen hurrying down the road toward them. "Here comes Pepper in a rush, as usual." It was just after dawn of a June morning that the boys were assembling. It was still dark and gloomy, for it had rained during the night and the storm had not yet passed, but the boys having planned a fishing trip for this morning were not to be deterred by the fear of a wet jacket. "Hello, fellows!" panted the newcomer, who was smaller and slighter than either of the others, but who made up in activity and energy what he lacked in size. His hair was a glowing red and with it went a temper so quick that the nickname, Pepper, that some chum had given him, was most appropriate. It is doubtful if any of his comrades really knew his Christian name. Certainly he was always "Pepper" to every one, even at home, although he was christened Philip. "I say, I was afraid you'd be gone when I got here." "Well, we would have been," drawled Randolph, "only we knew you'd be late, and we took our time." "Now that isn't fair, Rand," laughed the other, "you know I'm not always late." "Well, maybe not ALWAYS," conceded Rand; "but almost always. What was the matter this morning--breakfast late?" "Now, you know I didn't wait for breakfast," protested Pepper, adding rather reluctantly, "though I did stop for a bite. But even if I am late I'm not last. Jack isn't here yet, and he left home first." "Oh, he's out on the trail somewhere, I suppose," surmised Donald. "He's always chasing for news. He'll be coming along presently with a whole budget. I believe he thinks the paper couldn't go on if it weren't for him." "'That reminds me,' as Dick Wilson says," interrupted Rand, taking a pamphlet from his pocket and holding it out to his companions, "speaking of trails, what do you think of that?" "What is it?" asked Pepper, eying it suspiciously. "Looks as if the cat had been walking on it." goodness, I hope not. I thought you were always hungry, but if you are only beginning I foresee a famine ahead of us. And to think of all the good food that is wasted on you, Pepper," went on Donald reflectively. "Why, to look at you any one might think that you never had had enough to eat." "That shows how deceiving looks are," replied Pepper. "Though I never did have enough," he added plaintively. "Of course not," returned Donald, "there isn't as much as that anywhere." "As much what?" asked Rand. "Food, grub, provisions, victuals," replied Donald, setting off along the road at a pace that put a stop to any more talk. They had gone perhaps about halfway down the hill toward the boathouse when a big bay horse, drawing a light wagon in which were three boys, came quickly around a turn in the road. It bore down on them so suddenly that only by a rapid scramble up the bank by the side of the road did Rand and Donald save themselves from being bowled over. The newcomers would have driven on with a jeering laugh only that Pepper, angry at what obedience, neatness and order are Scout virtues. Endurance, self-reliance, self-control and an effort to help some one else are Scout objectives." "Ah, cut it out!" protested Pepper. "As Alphonse says 'that makes me the ennui.' It sounds like a boarding school prospectus. Tell as what it's about." "Well, then," replied Rand, "in words adapted to your comprehension, it is about hunting, scouting, camping, tracking; and Colonel Snow is interested in the organization. He says that it is fine." "Speaking of tracking," interjected Donald, "in my opinion it were no bad plan to be making tracks toward the boathouse if we are going to get anywhere the day. It is getting bright in the east and it looks like a clear day, after all. And I may also take occasion to remark that I haven't had my breakfast yet, and this Boy Scout business doesn't sound inviting on an empty stomach. We can discuss it with more comfort when we have had a bite." "That's the talk!" approved Pepper. "That suits me down to the ground. I'm beginning to get hungry myself." "Beginning!" exclaimed Donald. "My "That isn't a bad guess," laughed Rand. "It is supposed to represent the track of a bear." "What are you going to do, Rand?" questioned Donald, "hunt bears?" "Not at present," answered Rand, "though I should like to well enough. This is a booklet about the Boy Scouts." "The Boy Scouts!" demanded Pepper; "what's them?" "Shades of Lindley Murray!" exclaimed Rand, "do I hear aright? What's them! And you a graduate of number one. Really, Pepper Blake, I don't believe we can let you in on this. What do you think about it, Don?" "I have my doubts about it," replied Donald gravely. "But what is it?" persisted Pepper. "It sounds good to me." "That is better," drawled Rand. "It not only sounds good, but it is good, as you elegantly express it. IT, according to the pamphlet that I have here, is an organization for boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen to train them in self-reliance, manhood and good citizenship. The movement is not essentially military," went on Rand, "but the military virtues of discipline, looked like a deliberate attempt to run over them, sprang to the horse's head as it was passing, catching the bridle, and with a loud "whoa" he brought the outfit to a stop. "What are you t-t-trying to do, Jim Rae!" he shouted to the youthful driver, "run over us?" "Aw, g-g-go on, kiddie!" retorted Jim, a stout lad of about Rand's age, with a freckled face and a shock of aggressive red hair, mimicking Pepper, who, when excited, sometimes stuttered. "Aw, g-g-go on. Little boys shouldn't play in the road." "If you can't d-drive without getting all over the road," went on Pepper, "why d-don't you let somebody d-drive that knows how--" "Aw, g-g-go chase yourself," cried Jim. "You ought to bring youse mamma along to take care of youse. Get up, Bill!" with a flourish of the whip and a jerk on the lines. The horse made a jump, but Pepper held firmly to the bridle and brought it to a stop. "Let go that horse!" shouted Jim. "Hit him with the whip, Jim," urged one of the boys in the wagon. "D-d-don't you dare hit me with that whip," warned Pepper as Jim snapped the whip close to him, "or you will wish you hadn't." "Aw, what would you do?" retorted Jim, tauntingly flourishing the lash dangerously close to Pepper's face. "You ain't big enough to scare me baby brother." "You had better not try it, Jim Rae," asserted Pepper, "or I'll pull you out of there so quick that you will think a cyclone struck you." "You mean a wind bag, don't you?" sneered Jim, aiming a blow at Pepper, who now loosened his hold upon the horse's bridle to jump toward the wagon, whereupon Jim changed his purpose and struck the horse with the whip. With a loud "giddap" they started with a bound, missing Pepper by a hair's breadth, and driving on down the road at a rattling pace. "That's a regular m-monkey trick, Jim Rae, all right!" shouted Pepper. "but I'll get even with you yet!" The only answer of the boys in the wagon was a taunting laugh as they drove away. Randolph and Donald had taken no part in the controversy, not exactly approving of Pepper's disputing with the enemy, but they had stood at hand ready for any emergency should one arise. CHAPTER II FINDING MONEY The three boys stood for a moment looking after the rapidly disappearing wagon, then, stooping down, Rand picked up something from the road. "It isn't worth trying, Rand," advised Donald. "You couldn't hit him if you wanted to, and you wouldn't want to if you could. You can get even with him some better way." "Right as usual, Donald," laughed Rand, "but I wasn't looking for anything to throw at him. I just happened to see this lying on the ground and picked it up." Holding out a coin he had found, he added: "What do you make of it?" "W-w-what is it?" stammered Pepper, all excitement. "It l-looks like an old-fashioned cent." "You have got me," replied Donald. "I never saw any money like that." "Let's have a close look at it," put in Pepper. The boys studied over the coin, which was of the size of the early copper cent, for some time without being much the wiser. "See, there is a representation of a ship under full sail," remarked Rand, "with the name Constitution on it. I wonder what it means?" "And it has the words 'Webster Credit Current' around it," added Pepper. "And on the other side is shown the ship wrecked on some rocks. Something about wrecking the Constitution, I suppose," added Rand. "This side says, 'Van Buren Metallic Current,' with the date '1837'," put in Donald. "I have it!" suddenly ejaculated Rand. "Of course you have," admitted Donald, "but do you know what it is?" "I see I must speak by the book, as Hamlet says," laughed Rand. "I mean I know what it is." "What is it, then?" demanded Donald. "It is some kind of a token, I think," replied Rand, "but I will ask Uncle Floyd about it. He will sure know." "I w-w-wonder if there are any more of them," stammered Pepper, looking along the road. "Yes, here is another one." "Is it like this?" asked Rand. "It looks very similar," replied Pepper, still hunting about. "Find any more?" called Donald. "Not yet." Nor were there any more found, although they looked long and carefully up and down the road for some time. "What is the difference between them?" questioned Pepper, when they had finally given up the hunt and sat down by the side of the road to compare the two coins. "Why, instead of a ship this one shows, on the one side, a man in a chest with a sword in one hand and a bag of money in the other, and around the edge are the words, 'I take the responsibility.' The other side has the wreck like the first one," concluded Rand after he had examined them. "It's a very curious thing," he continued, handing the one coin back to Pepper. "I don't see anything very curious about them," demurred Donald. "I mean it is very curious how they got here," explained Rand. "I don't see anything very curious about that, either," went on Donald. "Why shouldn't they be here as well as anywhere?" "I don't know, I am sure," laughed Rand, "only I don't see why they should be here, or anywhere, for that matter." "Oh, I don't know," replied Donald. "Somebody probably dropped them as they were going along." "Undoubtedly," agreed Rand. "I don't believe that they grew here. But who dropped them and how did they happen along here?" "Ask Jack," suggested Donald, "he'll make a whole story out of it." "They certainly are not common," went on Rand, "and people don't usually carry them in their pockets. I'd like to know the history of these and how they came here, but I don't suppose I ever shall. But, speaking of curious things, what do you suppose Monkey Rae was doing with that horse and wagon?" "Driving them," drawled Pepper. "What do you think he was doing with them, using them for an aeroplane?" "No," returned Rand, "I thought maybe he was using them to dredge for clams. But, speaking of clams, which would you sooner do or go a-fishing?" "Go a-fishing!" cried Donald and Pepper, starting off on a run down the hill to the boat-house. "Well," began Pepper as soon as they were fairly inside the house, "didn't I hear somebody say breakfast?" at the same time starting to get out of the locker the various utensils that the boys kept at the house to cook with on their fishing trips. "Hold on there, Pepper," remonstrated Donald, as Pepper continued to pull out one pan after another. "We don't need ail that stuff. What do you think you are going to do, get up a banquet? If you are going to use ail those pots and pans, son, you will have to wash them by your lonesome." "Huh!" replied Pepper, "there wouldn't be any novelty about that. The dish-washing seems to gravitate my way anyhow." "That's because you use so many more of them than the rest of us," explained Donald. "Why, I don't use any more of them than you do," expostulated Pepper. "Well, maybe you don't use any more," admitted Don with a judicial air, "but you use them more." Pepper was about to retort in kind when there was a quick step outside the door and an alert-looking, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, with his cap perched upon the back of his head, dashed into the room. "Hello, fellows!" he cried, "I thought I wasn't going to get here in time, but I see I struck it at the psychological moment. I am as hungry as a bull pup." "Hello, Jack!" responded Rand, "we began to think you weren't coming. What's the latest in Creston?" "Oh, there is something worth while to-day," replied Jack, drawing a box up to the plank that served as a table. "Pass me some of those biscuits, Pepper, if you don't mind sparing a few, so I can eat while I talk." "Better not try it, Jack," cautioned Rand, "for if you eat as fast as you talk or talk as fast as you eat you will either starve yourself or choke." "All right," laughed Jack, "if that is the case I'll eat first and talk afterwards," and this he would do, notwithstanding the pleadings of the others, anxious to share in any exciting news. CHAPTER III TWO AND TWO While the boys are finishing their breakfast it may be well to introduce them to the reader. The four, who were known among their acquaintances as the "inseparables," had been classmates for several terms at School No. I, of Creston, from which they had graduated the previous year and were now students of the Hilltop Academy, where they were preparing for college. Rand--Randolph in full, surname Peyton--who was slightly the eldest of the four, was the nephew of Mr. Scott, president of the Creston National Bank. He was a native of Virginia, having come to Creston after the death of his father some two years before this time, with his mother and sister. He was bright, but inclined to be indolent, except when aroused, when his energy knew no limit. He was slow in speech, having the soft Southern drawl with a tendency to slur his r's, and was a natural leader among his companions, both in their sports and their studies. Donald Graeme, sometimes nicknamed Old Solomon, was the son of the chief engineer of the Creston Paper Mills, and one of a considerable family of boys and girls. He was of Scotch descent and inherited many of the characteristics of his ancestry as well as many of their superstitions. Something of the burr clung to his tongue, and he was given to the occasional use of a Scotch word or phrase. He had also the Scotch canniness and never committed himself by a positive opinion. Although not as quick as Rand, he was more persistent and usually carried out, to the end, anything that he entered upon. Jack Blake was the oldest son of Mr. Blake, editor and publisher of the Crest, the newspaper of the town. Brought up in the newspaper atmosphere, Jack had early developed a nose for news and was the best reporter, although unofficial, on the paper. He was always on the lookout for items and always putting two and two together, sometimes with most surprising results. Lastly, Pepper Blake, Jack's younger brother, who was of a quicker, more nervous, disposition than the others and given to stammering when excited. Impetuous and quick-tempered, he was always getting into difficulties, but always finding a way out. Romantic and imaginative, but with a streak of hard horse-sense beneath. "Well," observed Rand, when Jack at last rose from his box with a sigh of satisfaction, "what is the exciting thing you have got to tell us this morning? Whose barn is being painted now?" "Judge Taylor's office was robbed last night," replied Jack laconically. "What's that!" cried Rand. "Judge Taylor's office was robbed last night," repeated Jack, enjoying the sensation his news had made. "W-w-what!" stammered Pepper. "Who did it?" "That's what we all want to know," answered Jack. "What did they get?" asked Donald. "How did they get in?" went on Pepper. "One at a time, boys," put in Rand. "Come, Jack, tell us the whole story." "Well, all I know is, Officer Dugan found a window open this morning and the place all upside down. The judge hadn't come down yet, so they don't know what's missing. From the tracks around it looks as if some boys were mixed up in it." "That's queer," commented Rand. "I wonder who it could have been, and what they were after?" "Money, of course," said Pepper. "I don't think so," returned Jack. "If it was money I think they would have picked out a more likely place. I guess it must have been papers, or something like that." "Pooh!" criticized Donald, "what would anybody in their senses want to steal papers for?" "There are more unlikely things than that," replied Jack. "I have read of such things." "Pshaw!" retorted Donald, "that's nothing. I've read of robbers' caves and all that sort of thing, but I've never seen any." "Which proves there never were any," retorted Jack sarcastically. "Have you got any dues, Sherlock?" asked Rand laughingly. "Not yet," replied Jack seriously, "but I am looking for them. They sometimes turn up in the most unexpected places." "Huh!" sniffed Donald, "your turnips run mostly to tops." While talking thus, the boys had been putting their supplies and tackle into the boat which they had run out into the river. "Which way do you want to go?" asked Rand when they were ready to start. "Up," said Pepper. "Down," said Jack. "What do you say, Don?" continued Rand. "Either way," replied Donald. "Let them toss up for it." Taking the coin he had picked up in the road from his pocket Rand tossed it into the air. "What do you say, Jack?" he asked. "Heads!" responded Jack. "Tails it is," announced Rand as he picked it up. "Pepper wins. Up, we go." "What have you got there, Rand?" asked Jack, who had been eying the coin Rand had tossed; "something new?" "It's something that I found in the road this morning," replied Rand, handing the coin over to Jack. "Pepper found one, too." "Found it in the road!" cried Jack, instantly on the alert. "That's serious. Tell me about it." "There isn't much to tell," replied Rand. "Monkey Rae tried to run us down this morning and we had a near-fight and after he had gone we found them." "Well?" questioned Jack. "That's all," replied Rand. "Now I wonder," mused Jack, when the story of the encounter with Monkey Rae and his companions had been gone over in detail for his benefit, "what Monkey Rae has to do with these things," jingling the coins in his hand. "Not as much as you or I have," announced Donald. "I can no see any connection between the two." "Of course you can't, old wisdom," returned Jack. "You lack imagination, but I think it is there just the same. Whose horse and wagon was it?" "That's another strange part of it," replied Rand. "I never saw them before. I was wondering whose they were, and where he got them." "That's so," agreed Pepper. "I never thought of that; the truth is, I was so busy with Monkey that I didn't look at them." "Well," broke in Don, "if you ask my opinion I think it would be more to the purpose if we went on our own business instead of wasting time in speculating on what is no concern of ours." "All right, Solomon-Donald," said Rand; "it sounds wise." "Even if it is mostly sound," growled Jack. CHAPTER IV UP THE RIVER "Are you all ready?" called Rand, who was stroke. "Pull!" The boys bent to their work in earnest, and but few words were spoken while they sent the boat along, mile after mile, until they had gone some half dozen miles up the river. "Phew!" exclaimed Pepper at length, "what is the matter with stopping here?" "Tired?" asked Donald. "Well, I feel as if I had been doing something," replied Pepper, resting on his oar. "I suppose there isn't much choice in the matter," remarked Rand; "one place is probably as good as another." "Only some of them are better," put in Jack. "And this is one of them," asserted Pepper, "and there is a nice green place over there on the shore where we can put in and cook some fish for dinner." "If we have any to cook," suggested Donald. "You know you have first to catch your fish before you can cook them." "We'll do that, too, old Solomon the Second," returned Jack, who was in the bow. "That's what we came out for. Shall I let go the anchor, Rand?" "All right, let it go," ordered Rand. "Easy now, if you don't want to scare all the fish away. What are you trying to do?" as Jack gave the anchor a swing and, failing to let go of the painter, promptly went overboard with it. "I just went down to see if the anchor got to the bottom," explained Jack a moment later, as he scrambled over the side. "We thought you were going to dive for the fish," said Pepper, "like the hawks do." "Maybe I will try that later," replied Jack, shaking himself like a dog to get rid of some of the water. "Now, then, who is going to get the first bite." For the next few moments the boys were busy getting their tackle in order and into the water, after which they settled down to await results. "I had almost forgotten," broke in Jack after a pause, as the fish did not seem eager to be caught. "I met Colonel Snow this morning--" "Indeed," said Rand sarcastically, "that's news." "Now you needn't go off at half-cock," retorted Jack, "wait until I get through." "Well, what about it?" asked Donald. "Why, he said--Hurrah, I've got a bite!" cried Jack, pulling in his line. "He did!" exclaimed Rand. "That was a queer thing for him to say." "No, the colonel didn't say that," explained Jack, as he landed a good-sized perch in the bottom of the boat, "there's one for luck. That was a comment of my own. Wait until I put a fresh bait on and I will tell you what he did say. He said--" "Hurrah, I've got one!" interjected Pepper, pulling in his line and landing another fish. "Why, that's the same thing he didn't say before," commented Donald, referring to the colonel. "He said--" began Jack again, but the fish were now biting freely and the boys were so busy pulling them in that, for a time, they quite forgot the colonel and what it was that he said. "If you haven't forgotten," began Donald, a little later, when there came a lull in the biting, "I would like to know just what it was that the colonel did say." "Why, he said," resumed Jack, "that he wanted us to form a patrol." "A patrol!" repeated Donald. "For what? Ain't there enough police?" "This isn't a police patrol," laughed Jack, "this is a patrol in the Boy Scouts. It's a company of from six to eight boys. Two or more patrols form a troop under a scoutmaster who teaches them a lot of things." "What kind of things?" asked Pepper. "All kinds of things about woodcraft and how to hunt and fish and follow trails and camp out and--and--all the rest of it." "That's a pretty comprehensive programme," said Rand. "We were talking about that very thing this morning." "Gee!" cried Pepper. "T-t-that would be fine. Let's do it--" "There's quite a lot of things we have to do first," went on Jack. "Maybe Rand can tell you more about that part than I can." "For the first thing," said Rand, "we have to get at least six boys to start with." "That's two more than us," interjected Pepper; "that's easy." "And form a tenderfoot patrol," went on Rand. "Why tenderfoot?" put in Donald. "Because we are all tenderfeet until we learn to be scouts," continued Rand. "Then if we pass the examinations we become second-class scouts." "Second class!" objected Pepper. "Why can't we be first class?" "We can," replied Rand, "if we keep on and pass the examinations." "Examinations!" cried Pepper, "why that sounds like school." "What do we have to be examined in?" asked Donald. "On joining," went on Rand, reading from a pamphlet he had in his hand, "a boy must pass a test on the following points: Know the scout law and signs and salute." "The scout law!" said Pepper, "what's that?" "The scout law," read Rand, "is: "1. A Scout's honor is to be trusted. "2. A Scout is loyal to his country, his officers, his parents and his employers." "Wait a minute," interposed Jack, "until I land this fellow," and another fish was added to their mess. "All right, drive ahead." "3. A Scout's duty is to be useful and help others. "4. A Scout is a friend to ail, and a brother to every other Scout, no matter to what social class the other belongs. "5. A Scout is courteous." "Now it is my turn," interpolated Rand, pulling in another fish. "6," he went on, "A Scout is a friend to animals. "7. A Scout obeys orders by his parents, patrol leader, or Scoutmaster, without question. "8. A Scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances. "9. A Scout is thrifty." "Crickets!" cried Pepper when Rand finished, "there's a whole lot to learn, ain't there? We shall have to get busy. Is there any more to it?" "Know the composition of the National flag and how to fly it," read Rand. "I guess I can get ten on that, all right," remarked Pepper. "And tie four of the following knots: Reef, sheet-bend, clove-hitch, bow line, middleman's, fisherman's, sheepshank," finished Rand. "We can pass on that all right," commented Pepper. "Say, what time is it? I begin to feel as if I would like a bite--one of the other kind. Don't you think we have fish enough?" "Do you think so?" asked Don gravely. "Better look them over and be sure. The rest of us may want some, you know." "Oh, I guess there is enough to go around," replied Pepper, with a laugh. "I am not so bad as that." "Well, if you are sure there are enough," said Rand, "we might go on shore and do some cooking. I say, pull up the anchor, Jack, and you needn't go after it, you know." "Oh, just as you say," replied Jack, hauling up the kedge. CHAPTER V OUT OF THE RIVER "Here comes the Dart," announced Jack, as a hoarse whistle sounded down the river. The anchor had, by this time, been lifted into the boat and they had started to row toward the shore. "She has a whistle like an ocean liner." "You want to look out for the swell," warned Pepper, "she kicks up a bigger swell than any other boat on the river." "As big as the Hudson or Fulton?" asked Donald. "Why, they are half a dozen times as big as she is." "She isn't one-eighth their size," replied Jack, "but she has got more power, for her size, than any of them. She has three smokestacks like the Fulton. Just see her come!" The Dart, a long, low, white yacht, was coming up the river at full speed, the water curling away from her bow in a miniature cascade, the powerful engines driving her through the water with the speed of an express train. "Gee!" cried Pepper, "look at her come. Say, she'd make Fulton with the Clermont think he was traveling backward if he was here. She is sure some boat." "Who owns her?" asked Donald. "She belongs to Mr. Whilden," replied Jack. "He is president of the Dart Motor-cycle Company, you know." "Gee!" cried Pepper, "I wish he was my uncle, or something." "What for, Pepper?" queried Rand. "Want him to invite you to go yachting?" "That wouldn't be bad," affirmed Pepper, "and maybe if he liked my looks he might take a fancy to me and give me a cycle. Say, fellows, wouldn't it be great if we all had motor-cycles!" "In my opinion," interjected Donald, "'tis just a waste of time wishing for what ye'll no get." "Oh, there is no harm in wishing," returned Pepper. "You might just as well wish for a big thing as a little one." "Just look at the wave following her," interrupted Jack. "It must be more than five feet higher than the level of the river. We will have to keep head on if we don't want to be swamped." "See that canoe over there," broke in Pepper, and pointing to another boat. "They will be in trouble pretty soon if they don't watch out." "Where away?" asked Rand. "Over there by the other shore," replied Pepper. "They will turn turtle sure, if that wave catches them sideways." The boys were resting on their oars, watching the rapidly-approaching boat. "Maybe we had better row over that way," suggested Donald. "There are a couple of girls in the canoe and they may need some help." "That chap is all right," concluded Rand, after he had watched the canoe for a little while. "He knows how to handle it. He is doing fine. See, he is just touching the water with his paddle, so as to keep it head-on. Maybe he thinks we will need some help." Nevertheless, the boys kept on a course that would bring them near enough to the canoe to aid its occupants if they should need it. "Now look at that!" cried Donald suddenly, when the boys were a hundred yards from the canoe. "Did you ever see such a fool trick as that? Just when he was coming out all right, too. Pull for ail you are worth, boys!" Even as he spoke the boys had gripped their oars and sent their boat at racing speed for the canoe. What had called forth Donald's exclamation was, that just as the Dart was passing the canoe one of the girls, who was seated in the stern, had suddenly risen to her feet to wave her handkerchief at some one on the yacht. As she stood up the swell from the yacht caught the light craft, rolling it from side to side, and the girl losing her balance pitched headlong over the side of the boat, capsizing it. In a moment they were all struggling in the river. As the canoe went over the man caught the girl nearest to him and helped her to the boat and then turned to aid the other girl, but she had disappeared. "Nellie!" he called, striking out in the direction he had last seen her. "Nellie, Nellie! where are you?" By this time the boys had reached the scene of the upset. "Keep up your courage," shouted Rand, "we'll pick you up!" [Illustration: "They were all struggling in the water."] "Never mind me!" called the young man as they came near. "See if you can't save my sister. She doesn't know how to swim." "All right," called Rand, "we'll find her." "Where has she gone?" asked Donald. "I don't see anything of her," said Rand, who was standing in the bow of the boat intently watching for any sign of the girl. "Yes, there she is." A pale face had appeared for a moment on the surface. "Straight ahead, boys!" As the boat came to the spot where he had seen her Rand made a long dive overboard, coming up a moment later with the inanimate body of the girl. He was joined almost immediately by Donald, who had followed him overboard, and so aided him in supporting her until Pepper and Jack had reached them with the boat. It required no little effort on the part of the boys to get the helpless girl into the boat, but it was finally done, and they rowed back to the assistance of the others. The other girl was helped from the overturned canoe, to which she was clinging, into their boat which was now loaded to its full capacity. "Never mind me," called the man, who was about twenty-two or three years old, "I can hold on behind until we get ashore!" "Is she alive?" asked the other girl, as she was helped into the boat, looking fearfully at the girl lying in the stern. "Very much so," answered Pepper, who had been feeling her pulse. "The first thing to do is to get some of the water out of her lungs, if there is any there. Hold her with her head down. That's all right! Now, then, let's get ashore as fast as we can." As the canoe had overturned the captain of the Dart, who was in the pilot house, seeing the accident, had rung for slow speed and, putting the yacht about, hurried back to the place. But, except for the fortunate presence of the boys, it is doubtful if he would have arrived in time to be of any assistance. "Can we help you in any way?" called Mr. Whilden, the owner of the yacht, who was standing at the gangway as it ran down close to the boat. "I was afraid we wouldn't get here in time." "There is an unconscious girl here that would be better on your boat," replied Rand. "All right," responded Mr. Whilden, "we'll take her on board. Can you come alongside?" This end was shortly accomplished, then, lifting the girl up in their arms, Donald and Rand passed her to Mr. Whilden and the captain. "Have you a doctor on board?" called Pepper. "She needs attention right away." "Yes," responded a gentleman who was standing by. "I am a physician, I will take care of her." At this moment there was a scream from a lady on the yacht as she caught sight of the girl. "Why it is Nellie! She is dead!" she cried, and would have fallen to the deck if she had not been caught by Mr. Whilden. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "How in the world could Nellie get here?" adding a moment later as he looked more closely: "Surely it is she. Is there any hope for her, Doctor?" "Of course there is," replied the physician. "She is coming around all right, thanks to these young men, who rescued her." "And where are they?" asked Mr. Whilden. "I had almost forgotten them in the excitement," turning to the boys, who had come on board to learn as to the fate of the girl. Shaking hands with them again and again, he explained: "She is my daughter. I hadn't any idea she was anywhere near, and I don't see how it happened yet. Why, hello, Frank!" addressing the young man who had been in the canoe, and who was now wringing the water from his clothes. "What in the world were you doing here?" "Why, Nellie and I," explained Frank, agitatedly--he had not yet recovered from the shock of his experience--"came down to visit Mabel, and we went out for a cruise on the river." "But how did it happen?" interrupted Mr. Whilden, "I thought you knew how to handle a canoe." "I thought I did, too," replied Frank, "but Nellie saw you on the deck and, forgetting where she was, attempted to stand up to wave her handkerchief to you, and, the next thing we knew we were all in the water." "I can't thank you enough," began Mr. Whilden, again turning to the boys. "Not at all," protested Rand, "we are very glad we were in time. Come on, boys, it is time we were getting along." "Now," went on Mr. Whilden, "isn't there something I can do for you?" "Nothing, thank you," replied Donald. "Now that Miss Nellie is all right--I see that she is herself again--we will say good-by and go on." "Good-by, then, and good luck," said Mr. Whilden, "and if I can ever do anything for you, be sure and let me know." "I want to thank you and to know you, too," added Frank. "All right," replied the boys as they pulled away from the yacht, "we shall be glad to see you anytime." Giving three blasts of her whistle as a farewell salute the Dart resumed her course up the river, "Who were the boys?" asked Mrs. Whilden a little later. "I want to reward them." "Why I don't know," replied Mr. Whilden. "I clear forgot to get their names, after all." "Well, I mean to find out for my own account," said Frank. "They are worth knowing." CHAPTER VI THE ENEMY MAKES A RAID "You think we had better stop and see if we can catch any more fish before we go ashore?" asked Rand, when the Dart had gone. "Why," asked Jack, "there's enough, ain't there?" "There was," allowed Rand, "but it is a good deal later now." "I think we had better go on," said Jack laughingly. "There is a good place I can see. That strip of beach over there is a natural landing place." "And a green spot back of it that would make a dandy place for a camp," added Pepper. "I wish we could come up here and camp," said Jack. "Wouldn't it be fine?" "I s-s-say!" cried Pepper. "Well, s-say it," said Donald. "Let's organize a patrol and come up here and camp out." "You hit the bullseye that time, Pepper," cried Jack enthusiastically. "'Twould no be a bad idea," admitted Don. "Ah done reckon dat am a fac', for shuah," drawled Rand in the negro dialect, of which he was master. "We will get Colonel Snow to start us," added Jack. "Agreed!" cried the others. "And we will see him just as soon as we go back." "And start the thing right away." Talking enthusiastically over their plans, the boys pulled the boat in to the shore. "See that curious-looking house up there," broke in Don. "I didn't know there was anybody living up here." "House! Where?" asked Rand. "There, among the trees. It is covered with bark so you would hardly notice it." "Oh, yes, looks like a big tree," said Jack. "Must be a hermit." "But I thought hermits always lived in caves," demurred Pepper. "Well, here is one that doesn't," replied Jack. "Let's go and see him," suggested Rand. "I don't think we had better," doubted Pepper. "If he's a hermit he doesn't want visitors, and maybe he is an outlaw." "An outlaw," laughed Jack. "What have you been reading lately?" "Why, there ain't 'no sich things,' at least around here," added Rand. "Well," persisted Pepper, "there's no use rushing into things you don't know anything about, and besides we want something to eat first." "Pepper wants to make sure of his dinner, whatever happens," said Rand. "Somebody else thinks the same way, too, from the smoke up there." "Smoke, where?" asked Donald. "Up there on the top of the mountain," replied Rand. "See that haze floating away." "I thought that was a cloud," said Jack. "I wonder what it means?" "That some hunters are making a fire to cook with," volunteered Donald. "Of course that is it," agreed Rand. "You can always depend upon old Solomon to knock the romance out of anything." "Well, I don't know," continued Jack. "It looks queer to me." "Oh, everything looks queer to you," argued Donald. "You are always seeing mysteries." "Yes," retorted Jack, "and you can't see them until they come up to you and hit you over the head. I've got more than half a notion to go there and see what it is. Any of you want to go?" "Not I," replied Rand. "It's a good two miles up there, if it is one, and my curiosity isn't strong enough to carry me that far." "Nor I," added Donald. "I can find all the trouble I want without going to the top of the mountain hunting for more." "Trouble," said Jack. "Now, who said anything about trouble?" By this time they had reached the shore and, jumping out of the boat, dragged it up on the beach. "Now," called Rand, when they had landed, "who wants to be cook? Don't all speak at once." "I'll do it," volunteered Jack, "but--" "Say no more," interjected Rand, "we couldn't do worse and Don is almost as bad. I reckon, Pepper, it must be you or I." "If we don't want to starve," agreed the boy. "If you and Jack will clean the fish and Don will bring the water and wash the dishes I'll do the cooking," went on Rand. "Is that fair?" "That's fair, all right," agreed the others. "All right, then," ordered Rand, "get busy." While Jack and Pepper were getting the fish ready, Rand brought the stove from the boat, set it up and had it burning, and the pan hot by the time Pepper came with the first installment of fish. "Gee! that smells good," called Jack a little later when the frying fish, under Rand's skillful manipulation, began to send forth savory odors. "You can sure cook, Rand." "Ah done reckon dat am a fac', foh shuah," said Rand. "Hurry up, Rand," broke in Pepper. "I can't wait much longer." "All ready, sah," called Rand. "Dem fishes am prognosticated to ah turn." Something passing on the river attracted attention, and the boys all walked a few paces toward the water. At this instant, as their backs were turned, a boy ran swiftly from a nearby clump of bushes, snatched the pan from the stove, overturning the latter as he did so, and silently dashed back into the woods. It was done so quickly and adroitly that Pepper, who was the first to catch sight of him, had scarcely time to shout: "There goes Monkey Rae, and he has got our fish." "What is it?" asked Rand in bewilderment. "Monkey Rae," cried Pepper; "he's stolen our fish! Come on, boys. After him!" "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Rand, "that takes the cake." "I t-t-think it takes t-t-the fish," amended Pepper, as he dashed away. The boys set out at once in pursuit of the thief, but he had too long a start, and perhaps, some knowledge of the locality, and after a vain hunt they straggled back to the boat without having found any trace of him. "Well, that's the meanest thing yet," grumbled Pepper, looking at the overturned stove. "The oil has all run out and we can't cook any more," he went on, with so gloomy an expression that, in spite of their anger against Monkey Rae, the others could not help laughing. CHAPTER VII THE COLONEL "What's the matter, boys?" said a cheery voice behind them, and they turned quickly to meet the smiling glance of a man who was sitting on a rock at the edge of the glade. He was tall, erect, and of military bearing. Quick and alert, in spite of his snow-white hair and mustache. "Why, Colonel Snow!" cried Jack in astonishment; "where did you come from?" "Oh, I saw you some time ago as you were coming ashore," replied the colonel, "and I walked down to meet you. What's the trouble, the enemy been making an attack?" "Looks that way," answered Rand. "Monkey Rae made a raid on the commissary and carried off the fish we had cooked." "That's nothing to be concerned over," continued the colonel. "Why don't you cook some more?" "Can't," replied Pepper, "he upset the stove and spilled all the oil we had." "Stove!" ejaculated the colonel in scorn. "What do you want with a stove?" "Why, you can't cook without a stove," replied Pepper, "and, besides, he stole our pan." "Pan!" exclaimed the colonel, "and plates, too. When you are out on a tramp all you need is a knife, a tincup and a match. Anybody got a match?" "Yes, sir," replied Jack, "lots of them." "We only need one," answered the colonel. "A good scout doesn't use more than one match to light a fire. Why, when I was out in Arizona we would make one match do for a whole company." "Crickets!" exclaimed Pepper, "that was going some." "Suppose you let me show you how to cook without a stove. Jack, see if you can't find some dry leaves and small twigs. Rand, you can get some bigger pieces, plenty of them. That's the kind. And, Pepper, you and Don bring up a lot of that clay from down there by the water. That's the stuff. Now wrap your fish up in a coat of clay. Never mind the scales. Coat them all over and pile them up here as fast as you get them ready. If we only had some flour we'd have a dinner in the real scout style." "I don't see how you are going to cook them in that clay," put in Jack. "We are going to bake them," replied the colonel. "Build a good, hot fire on top of them." "Like they do with a clam bake?" inquired Rand. "That's the idea," said the colonel, who, while talking, had been packing the fish in two layers on a flat rock. "Now put your leaves on--not too many--lay on your pieces, Rand, pile them up so as to leave a draught. That's it; now, Jack, touch it off." Jack struck a match which flickered for a minute and went out. "Tut! Tut!" cried the colonel, "that won't do!" "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Jack, "I've plenty more." "No," corrected the colonel, "you should rely on only one. Now, suppose we are out on the plains and this is your last match. Let me show you how to do it." Stooping down, the colonel waited a moment until there was a lull in the wind, when he struck the match, shielding it with his hand until it blazed up, and then touched it to the leaves, which, catching the fire, were soon blazing fiercely. "Now, then," went on the colonel, "we don't want the enemy swooping down on us again. Don't you think it would be a good plan to throw out a picket to keep guard?" "I think it would," replied Rand, "although I don't think that he will come back." "You mustn't depend upon that," cautioned the colonel. "Always think he will do the most unlikely thing. A good scout is always on the alert, especially in the enemy's country." "We didn't know we were in the enemy's country," said Rand, "but I guess it is the enemy's country, wherever Monkey is. I'll take the first turn," going off and circling about the place. "I guess he's gone," he said to himself, but no harm looking!" "Now," said the colonel, after a time, "I think our fish must be pretty nearly cooked. Rake one of them out, Don, and try it, but don't disturb the others until you find out. How is it?" "Fine!" cried Pepper, who had assisted in the operation. "Couldn't be better. Hadn't we better put on some more?" "You will have to build another fire," replied the colonel. "Now, see how well you can do it. Do it just as I did and light it from this fire. We had only one match, you know." "But what do you do when that is gone?" asked Pepper. "Oh, that's a different story," laughed the colonel. "We'll come to that later." "Now," began the colonel, when they had finished their meal, unanimously voting it the best dinner they had ever eaten, "I know you all have been wondering how I happened to be here when you came along." "Yes, sir," admitted Jack, "we were talking about you just before we came ashore." "Speaking of angels, I see," said the colonel. "The fact is, boys, I've got a little shack down here in the woods and whenever I get tired of town I come out here and get a breath of the woods, and I was out here to-day." "That was lucky for us," interjected Donald. "Is that your house above here?" asked Rand, "the one covered with bark. We saw it as we came along. Pepper was sure an outlaw lived there." "And you weren't so far out of the way at that, were you, Pepper?" answered the colonel. "How would you like to take a look at it?" "'Twould be most interesting," said Donald. "Come along then. I see the enemy were out in force," he added when they had gone part of the way. "How was that?" asked Rand. "Monkey Rae," replied the colonel. "There were a number of them." "Of Monkey Raes?" cried Rand. "Gee! I hope not." "I mean," laughed the colonel, "there were more with him." "Yes," said Rand, "he and Sam Hopkins and Red Burns are always together." "Who was the man with them?" went on the colonel. "Was there a man with them?" asked Jack. "I wonder who he could have been?" "A man who walked with a limp," continued the colonel. "Man with a limp," mused Jack. "What was he like, did you see him?" "No," replied the colonel. "I only see his track. They came along this way." "Where do you see that?" asked Rand. "Here is the trail," replied the colonel, pointing it out as he spoke. "Here is the print of a foot on the dirt and here is another. Here is a bigger and a heavier one; a man made those. You can see one of them is deeper than the other, showing more weight on that side." "But, how can you see all that?" questioned Pepper. "You have hardly looked at them, and I couldn't see them at all until you pointed them out." "Practice and observation," answered the colonel. "That trail is as plain as day. There wasn't any attempt to hide it. Why, out on the plains a scout would follow it at a gallop. See how far you can track it." "'Twill no be far, in my opinion," confessed Donald. "'Tis no over plain." But with much care and patience the boys were able to follow the track for a considerable distance, losing it every now and then and picking it up again, Rand being the quickest and Donald the most persistent; ail of them getting a little more expert as they went on. "Where does it go now?" asked Jack after a while, when they had lost it and were unable to pick it up again. "That's doing very well for a beginning," commended the colonel. "They went off here, I think to avoid the house, and we are almost there." A short walk brought them to the shack, which was set in a little clearing in the woods. It was one-story high and about sixteen feet square, with a small kitchen in the back. It was provided with two doors, numerous windows, and had a small porch in front. It was ceiled inside and scantily furnished with a few chairs, a couple of tables and a couch, but the walls were ornamented with the heads of deer and elk, as well as the skins of smaller animals, and the floor was covered with bear and panther skins. Over the big fireplace hung a shotgun with a couple of rifles, and several Indian bows stood in one corner. CHAPTER VIII TALKING IT OVER "I thought you didn't use a stove," remarked Jack, opening his eyes in astonishment at the sight of the colonel's well-appointed kitchen. "Why not?" asked the colonel, smiling at Jack's surprise. "I don't sleep on the ground from choice, when I have a comfortable bed." "But, you said--" continued Jack. "This is a permanent headquarters," the colonel went on. "When I go on a march I don't carry all these things with me. What we don't have we get along without, as part of the day's task." "That's a grand pair of horns on that elk's head," admired Rand, who was looking at the trophies of the chase that hung on the walls. "Isn't there a story that goes with that?" "Not much of a story," replied the colonel. "It was killed on a trip I made up in the Canadian Northwest, and it was a narrow escape for me, too. It was killed by an arrow from one of those bows there." "An arrow!" exclaimed Rand. "I didn't know that an elk could be killed with an arrow." "An arrow is as deadly as a bullet at short range," replied the colonel. "You have read of the English archers and their famous long-bows, haven't you?" "And Robin Hood," put in Pepper. "Robin Hood, of course," continued the colonel. "The Indians were dangerous foes, too, even when they had nothing but their bows and arrows." "I wonder if I could learn to shoot with one of them," mused Rand, drawing back one of the bows, a feat that required all of his strength. "Say, boys, I've got an idea." "Hold fast to it," counseled Donald. "You may no get another." "Let's organize an Indian patrol, and we can carry bows and arrows." "It might be worth thinking about," admitted Donald. "That's what we wanted to talk to you about, colonel," said Jack, "but I am afraid it's too late to take the matter up to-day." "Why too late?" "Because it is time we were starting for home," answered Jack. "No trouble about that," replied the colonel. "I will walk back with you, and we can talk it over as we go along. Let's see, there are four of you here?" "Yes, there are four of us," replied Pepper. "Then you need two more to start with." "Don't you lock your door when you go out?" was Jack's irrelevant query when they were ready to start. "Not usually," replied the colonel. "There is no one to bother us up here in the woods. Do you think there is any need of it?" he asked quizzically. "I should think there was," declared Pepper, "if Monkey Rae is about." "I hadn't thought of that," admitted the colonel. "Giving me some of my own advice, aren't you? Always be prepared. I don't know but what I had better follow it." Going back into the house he returned with a padlock with which he fastened the door. "There's Gerald Moore, he would join us," began Jack, taking up the subject of the patrol again. "Gerald Moore!" exclaimed Rand in a doubtful tone. "What is the matter with him?" asked the colonel. "He is the son of the janitor at the bank," replied Rand, "and--" "Anything wrong about him?" continued the colonel. "No," replied Rand, "but--" "Oh!" said the colonel dryly, "I see. I suppose you all know the scout law." "Not yet," replied Jack. "Rand read it to us, but we haven't learned it yet." "Let me see," continued the colonel musingly, "how does number four go?" "It says," read Rand, "a scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout, no matter to what social class the other belongs. A scout accepts the other man as he finds him, and makes the best of him." The colonel made no comment, and the boys walked on in silence. "I was wrong," acknowledged Rand after a little hesitation. "I have no objection to Gerald." "When we are going into battle, my boy," said the colonel, stopping on the way for a moment, "we don't stop to consider to what class the man who is fighting alongside of us belongs, and this is a battle you are going into, one to make the most you can out of your lives, and if you can help some one else at the same time so much the greater is your reward." "I see," replied Rand, "and I won't forget it." "He was in our class, at school," went on Jack. "He quotes poetry," added Pepper. "Who does?" asked the colonel. "Gerald." "That's bad," said the colonel gravely, "but perhaps you could cure him of it." "He says he is descended from Tom Moore," continued Pepper. "Well, we needn't hold that against him," suggested Donald. "It was no altogether his fault." "Then there's Dick Wilson," proposed Jack. "He was in our class, too." "All right," agreed the others, "it's Gerald and Dick." "Very well, then," observed the colonel, "we will consider that settled. When you are ready let me know and I will swear you in. You know what you have to do?" "Yes, sir," the boys answered. By this time they came within sight of the landing where they had left the boat, and Pepper, who had run on ahead, suddenly raised such an outcry that the others rushed forward in alarm. "What is the matter?" shouted Rand. "The b-boat," stammered Pepper. "What is the matter with it?" asked Donald. "It's g-g-gone!" "Gone! where?" demanded Jack. "How should I know?" replied Pepper. "All I know is that it is gone." Sure enough, there was no boat to be seen. CHAPTER IX THE PURSUIT "It must have drifted away," said Rand. "Sure of that?" asked Jack. "I knew it!" suddenly broke in Pepper. "Then why didn't you tell us," demanded Rand. "What did you know?" "Monkey Rae," replied Pepper. "Well, what about him?" cried Jack. "He has taken the boat," answered Pepper. "How do you know?" questioned Donald. "There is his track on the sand." "He is certainly very much in evidence," said the colonel. "I wish I could get hold of him once," cried Rand vindictively. "I'd much prefer to get hold of the boat just now," put in Donald. "There is certainly something queer going on here," observed Jack. "More mysteries, Jack?" asked Rand. "Yes," answered Jack. "That man is mixed up in this, too." "What man?" asked Rand. "The man with the limp," replied Jack. "Where is he?" "He was here, and I believe he went off in the boat," went on Jack. "You can see his tracks around here." "Jack is right," confirmed the colonel, "the man has undoubtedly gone off with the boat." "Hem," said Pepper, "there doesn't seem to be anything safe here. "What are we going to do now?" asked Rand. "Walk home, I guess," said Donald. "I don't know how else we will get there." "There they go now!" cried Jack, suddenly pointing to their boat near the other side of the river. "Oh, if we only had a boat to follow them in." "I have one," said the colonel. "We can take that. Come on, boys!" Starting off at a pace that kept the four youths on a run to keep up with him, the colonel led the way back to the house. Just before coming to it he stopped. "Take that path to the left, it leads down to the landing," he directed. "Get the boat you will find there ready, and I will be with you in a minute." "Are you going with us?" asked Rand. "Do you think I am going to be left out of this?" returned the colonel. "Not for a minute!" Following the colonel's directions, the boys went down to the landing where they found the Scout, a 25-foot cat-boat, moored. Jumping on board they made ready to cast her loose, took the stops off the sail and had it partly hoisted when the colonel came along bringing with him a gun. "Are you going to shoot them?" asked Pepper. "I hope not," replied the colonel, "but it is just as well to be prepared for all emergencies. You are first-rate sailors," he added, stepping on board. "Cast her off and up with the sail." "How is that?" called Rand. "A little more on the peak; that's it, now pull it home and make fast." During this time the boat had drifted away from the landing and now, as the wind filled the sail she glided out into the river, running free. "See anything of them?" asked the colonel. "Not yet," answered Rand, who was in the bow looking up the river. "'Tis my opinion," said Donald, "that we'll be no likely to find them." "There they are!" cried Jack. "Where away?" asked the colonel. "Over there by the other shore," replied Jack. "You can just see them." "They have such a long start," doubted Rand, "that we will never catch them." "You can't most always tell until you try," observed Jack. "And sometimes not then," added Pepper. With the wind on her quarter the Scout sped up the river on a course that would bring her near to the opposite shore, a little in front of the boat they were pursuing, the occupants of which, evidently having no thought of pursuit, were rowing in a leisurely fashion. It was not until the Scout was almost upon them that they gave it any attention, and then only enough to change their course sufficiently to keep out of her way. "Boat, ahoy!" finally shouted the colonel. To this hail those in the small boat made no answer, but apparently realizing that the Scout was pursuing them, changed their course to run directly to the shore. "In with the sheet!" called the colonel, quickly bringing the Scout around; "there, that will do!" as Rand and Donald hauled in the sail until it was trimmed in as close as it would hold the wind, the boat laying over until her gunwale was under water. Holding her up in the wind until the peaks shivered, the colonel kept her on that course until she had run some hundred feet beyond the other boat. "Look out, boys!" called the colonel; "we are going about," at the same time bringing the boat up in the wind, and then, as the sail filled again, heading for the other boat. But the man in the small boat was as wary as the colonel, and as the Scout came about he changed his course at nearly right angles, and then as the sailboat went by, resumed his former course. "He's an old fox and not easily to be caught," decided the colonel, when this maneuver had been repeated two or three times. "He is making for the other shore, and if he gets in among the shallows over there I am afraid we will lose him yet." The Scout was now so close to the smaller boat that the occupants could easily be distinguished. "There is Monkey Rae," declared Pepper. "And Sam and Red," added Jack, "but I don't know who the man is." "Boat, ahoy!" shouted the colonel. "What do you want?" snarled the man. "You!" shouted the colonel. "Lay to until we come alongside!" "Come on," responded the man, "and you will get more than you are looking for!" at the same time displaying a pistol, which he pointed toward the larger boat. "Drop that!" commanded the colonel, going forward and covering the man with the gun, while Rand took the helm. "If you make any attempt to use that pistol I will disable you at once." With a muttered imprecation the man let the pistol fall and, seizing the oars, began rowing for the shore. "Shall we follow him?" asked Rand. "There is a sand-bar there, I think," replied the colonel. "If you pull up the centerboard, perhaps we can slide over it. It's no use," he added a moment later as the boat fell off, "we shall have to go round." By this time the small boat had been pulled in close to the shore, where the man, picking up a package from the bottom of the boat, sprang over the side and, followed by the boys, ran up the shore and disappeared in the woods, leaving the boat to drift. "Shall we follow them?" asked Rand. "I don't want them," said Donald. "Better let them go, I think," added the colonel. "Well, I hope I have seen the last of Monkey Rae for a good while," went on Pepper. "Then as Dogberry says: 'Let us call the watch together and thank God we are rid of a knave,'" quoted Rand. Picking up the drifting boat the Scout was headed down the river and in a few minutes they were off the colonel's landing. Here, the boys would have taken their boat and rowed home, but the colonel insisted on carrying them down to Creston, which was quickly done in the bracing breeze. "Remember, as soon as you are ready," he said as he left them, "I will swear you in as Scouts." CHAPTER X LOOKING FOR A CLUE "Hello, Jack," called Rand, meeting the former on the street the following morning, hurrying along in his usual fashion, "what's the latest?" "About what?" asked Jack in turn. "About everything. Anything new about the robbing of Judge Taylor's office the other night?" "Haven't heard much yet," replied Jack. "I was just going around there to see if they had found out anything more." "Looking for clues?" questioned Rand. "Not so much for clues as news," responded Jack. "Perhaps I can pick up some of both. You never can tell when they'll pop up. Don't you want to go along?" "And see how you do it," laughed Rand. "I don't mind if I do. Written up yesterday's story yet?" "About your heroic rescue of a lovely maiden from the angry waves. Of course; did it last night. Want to see it? I was going to put a head on it: 'Heroic Rescue by a Creston Boy.'" "You don't mean it, Jack Blake!" "Wait until you see it on the first page, double leaded, with a scarehead." "Really and truly?" "Really and truly." "Please don't, Jack." "Why, don't you want it?" asked Jack in mock surprise. "I thought you would be delighted to see your name in print." "You know I don't want to be made ridiculous!" "All right," responded Jack, "I'll kill it if you say so, but it would have made a sensation." "I don't doubt that," laughed Rand, "but I'd rather not be the victim. I wonder," he went on musingly, "if we will ever see them again." "Who?" "The Whildens." "Hardly likely," replied Jack. "If we do they will probably have forgotten us." "Still I'd like to know how she came out." "Oh, she came out all right," replied Jack lightly. "A little cold water won't hurt her. You know, the doctor said she was out of danger. "It's a curious thing how they got in," he went on after a little pause, his thought turning on the robbery, which was uppermost in his mind just then. "I don't see anything curious about it," returned Rand. "You don't!" cried Jack. "Maybe you can explain how they did it then." "I don't know as it needs any explaining," retorted Rand. "They got in a trough of the waves, and--" "Trough of the waves!" cried Jack. "What are you talking about?" "Why, about the Whildens, of course. What are you talking about?" "Oh, pshaw! I was talking about the burglars." "Oh, I see," said Rand. "How did they get in?" "That is what we would all like to know," replied Jack. "There isn't anything to show how they got in or how they went out, unless they went out through the door and locked it after them." "That is possible, isn't it?" asked Rand. "I suppose it is possible," admitted Jack, "but I don't see how they managed it." "Not if they had a key?" "It must have been that way," agreed Jack, "but where did they get this key? That don't lessen the puzzle. It was a Yale lock, and keys to them are not to be had easily, and they must have had one for the front door, too." "Well, if they could get the one they could get the other," said Rand. "I suppose so," agreed Jack. "It probably wouldn't be much harder to get two than one." "Why couldn't they get in through a window?" pursued Rand. "The windows were all locked on the inside as well as the doors." "I see. They must have been professionals." "Then I don't see what they wanted there." "Why not?" "Because they wouldn't get enough swag to make it worth while," answered Jack, "Swag?" questioned Rand. "Oh, that's slang for plunder," explained Jack. "You seem to be pretty well up in their slang," commented Rand. "Oh, that's part of the newspaper business," was Jack's response. By this time they had come to the building in which Judge Taylor had his office, which was on one of the main street corners of the town. A little description of the building is necessary here to make the situation clear. It was an old-fashioned, two-story brick structure, having been erected some years before. At the time of its erection there were no other buildings near it, and there were windows on all four sides. Some time later another building had been put on the adjoining lot, leaving a space of a little more than a foot between the two, thus making the windows on that side practically useless. The wall of the other building upon that side was blank, and it was upon this space that the side windows of the judge's office opened. In the rear was a yard of the width of the building and about twenty feet deep, with a low fence upon the side next to the street. "Let's take a look around before we go upstairs," proposed Jack. "All right," responded Rand. "I'm green at this business, you know." Going in at the front door Jack led the way into the hall, from which a broad flight of stairs ascended to the second story. By the side of the stairs was a narrow passage, through which Jack continued to a small hallway in the rear, in which were two doors, one giving access to the cellar, the other opening on the yard in the rear. "Do you think that they could have come in through the cellar?" asked Rand, when they entered the back hall. "I had thought of that," replied Jack, "but every one says that these doors were bolted, and I don't see how they could bolt the doors after they had gone out." "It does seem just a little difficult," admitted Rand. Going out in the yard, the boys examined the rear of the building. "They couldn't have got to the windows up there without a ladder," decided Rand, after a study of the situation. "And you say the windows were fastened?" "That's what they say," responded Jack, "and I don't believe burglars carry ladders around in their kits. Besides there is an electric light right here, so that a ladder could be seen quite plainly from the street. "I wonder," he mused, looking into the space between the buildings, "if any one could get up through there." "Not unless he could fly," returned Rand. "There isn't room enough for a man to get in there, and he couldn't manage a ladder if he got in." "A boy might," remarked Jack. "But this wasn't a boy's work," objected Rand. "Can't always tell," replied Jack, "almost anything is possible." Going back into the building, Jack led the way up to Judge Taylor's office, where they found an officer in consultation with the judge. "Good morning, judge," said Jack as they entered. "We came in to see if there was anything new about the robbery." "Good morning, boys," replied the judge. "Looking for news, as usual, eh, Jack? Well, I am sorry to say there isn't any. We are just as much in the dark as ever. It is beyond my comprehension how any one could get in and out of this place and not leave any signs to show how they did it." "It beats me," chimed in the officer. "It was a good job, too. Looks as if there were two or three in it, the way they handled the safe," pointing to the large, old-fashioned safe, good enough in its day, but not offering much resistance to modern tools, which was standing in the middle of the room. "They certainly made junk of it," remarked Rand; "how did they do it?" "Steel wedges," replied the officer. "It wasn't very much of a job for yeggmen, such as these must have been. They drove the wedges in alongside of the door and burst it open," "But didn't that make a good deal of noise?" "Not if they used pieces of cloth to deaden the sound of the blows," explained the officer. "Did they get very much?" asked Rand. "Not very much," replied the judge, "some papers and a few coins." "Hello!" interjected Jack, who had picked up a sheet of paper from the floor. "Found something?" asked the judge; "what is it?" "What do you make of that?" asked Jack, handing him the paper. "Not very much," answered the judge, looking it over. "There seems to be a smudge of dirt on it, that is all." "Nor I," chimed in the officer. "Nothing there." "Looks to me like finger marks," said Rand. "That's it, exactly!" cried Jack excitedly. "Look at it this way!" "I see," said the judge, "some one has left the impression of a dusty hand." "It was a small hand, too," went on Jack, "not much bigger than mine." "That seems right, too," assented the judge, "but what do you make of it?" "It was a boy or a small man who made it," continued Jack. "That's logical," agreed the judge, "but--" "That may be," criticized the officer, "but I don't see that it leads anywhere." "One minute," returned Jack, "his hand was dusty because he came in through a dusty way." "Plato, thou reasoneth well," laughed the judge, "but we are still up against the original puzzle. What was that way?" "How long since these windows have been opened?" asked Jack, going to one of the windows that looked on the wall of the next building. "Not in years, I think," answered the judge. "Why?" Without replying Jack opened one of the windows and looked out; then going to a second he did the same. "You don't think that they came in that way, do you?" questioned the officer. "What do you expect to find, Jack?" asked Rand. "There you are!" he cried triumphantly, when he came to the third window; "there is where they got in!" "How do you make that out?" demanded the judge. "See there!" replied Jack, "this window sill is almost free of dust, while the others have half an inch or so on them. It was rubbed off of this one by some one climbing through; see, there is the print of a hand---" "By the shade of Coke, I think you are right!" exclaimed the judge, "but how in the world could any one get up to this window?" "A boy might work his way up between the walls," answered Jack. "Lots of boys could do it." "I guess you have hit it," assented the officer. "Then the boy opened the doors and the others walked in as easily as if they owned the place. A man with one eye could see it now." "And went out the same way," concluded the judge. "But why did they need to make such a mystery of it?" "Wanted to give us something to think about, I guess," hazarded the officer. "Perhaps they wanted to make it look like an inside job. Looks as if there were two or three men and a boy mixed up in it. That's a due, anyway, and I will send word around the country to look out for them." "Do you think that they came from around here?" asked Rand. "Don't think so. I don't think we have any one here smart enough to pull off a job like that. Hello, what now?" as Jack, acting upon a sudden thought, rushed from the room. "What is he after now?" "I don't know, I'm sure," answered Rand. "Just thought of something, I guess. He often does that when he has an idea strike him." "Here he comes back," said the officer a moment later, when Jack was heard bounding up the stairs. "I wonder what he has got now?" "Found something more?" questioned the judge, when Jack came into the room with a rush. "Found these between the buildings," replied Jack, showing a thin steel wedge and a small steel cold chisel. "It just happened to strike me that they might have forgotten something, so I took a look around and I found these." "Some of the tools they used on the safe," said the officer, taking them. "Nice bit of work they are. It wasn't any burglar who made them. Now, if we could find where they were made we might get on the track of these fellows." "Why, I saw one just like that in Wilson's blacksmith shop the other day," observed Rand. "Wasn't just like it, was it?" asked the officer. "Looks like the same one," replied Rand, taking the chisel in his hand. "Guess they wouldn't look so much alike if they were together," demurred the officer, though he noted it down with the thought, "That's clue worth following." "See if you can find anything else," suggested the judge, but a careful search about the office failed to reveal any more clues, and the boys finally went off to see, as Jack expressed it, what they could pick up on the outside. "Come in again, Jack," said the judge when the boys were leaving, "always glad to see you. You have cleared up part of the mystery, anyhow. You are so much better a detective than we are," he added laughingly, "that I don't know but what we shall have to put the case in your hands." "Oh, it wasn't anything, judge," responded Jack, "just putting two and two together." CHAPTER XI FORMING THE PATROL "Don't you think," began Pepper. "Why not, Pepper?" asked Rand. "What objection is there to our thinking?" The four boys were, a couple of days later, on their way back to the town from the river, where they had been for an early morning swim. "None whatever," retorted Pepper, "if you were capable of doing it." "Now listen to that!" cried Rand. "Pepper thinks he's the only one that can think. If you have got any thinks in your think-tank open the valve and let some of them escape." "One at a time, Pepper," added Donald; "make it easy for us." "All through your interruptions?" asked Pepper; "because, if you are, I'll elucidate." "Ah, what's that?" cried Rand, "you'll do what? How do you spell it?" "Elucidate--explain--make dear," replied Pepper. "Do I make myself comprehensible?" "Another one," groaned Rand. "Say, Pepper, skip the hard ones, and tell us what's troubling you." "What I was going to say," went on Pepper, "was, don't you think--now don't interrupt--that it would be a good idea to have Gerald Moore and Dick Wilson meet with us to have a talk about the Scout business?" "Seems as if it might be," admitted Donald. "What made you think of having Gerald join us, Jack?" asked Rand. "I suppose you had some good reason." "Well, I hardly know," responded Jack. "It just came into my head while the colonel was talking the other day. He's an all-around good fellow, you know, even if he does not have much money. Full of fun, and you can depend upon him every time." "That's reason enough," agreed Rand. "I don't know much about him, except that he was in our class at school, and I'm afraid I have had a little grudge against him." "What for?" cried Pepper. "I guess it was because he made me work so hard to keep up with him in the class," responded Rand laughingly. "It was all I could do, too." "Dick's a jolly good fellow, too," put in Pepper. "For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow," sang Jack, whereupon they ail joined in the refrain. "Said anything to them about it?" asked Don, when they had sung it over and over until they were tired. "Well, hardly," replied Jack, "considering it was only the day before yesterday that we thought of it, though I suppose if we are going to do anything it is time we were getting about it." "Ah reckon dat am so," drawled Rand, then changing his tone he went on: "What do you say to having a meeting to-night and talking it over? We can have Gerald and Dick come and make a start if we like." "That's the way, Rand," approved Pepper, "if you are going to do things, do them!" "I see no objection," concluded Donald. "Of course you don't," returned Pepper. "Do you know why?" "Why, Pepper?" asked Donald. "Because there isn't any," retorted Pepper. "Where will we meet?" asked Jack. "I will ask Uncle Floyd if we can have the room in the attic for a club room," went on Rand. "I know he will be interested in what we are doing." "Then we are all fixed," cried Jack. "What shall we call it?" asked Pepper. "Call the room?" "Of course not," returned Pepper; "I mean the patrol." "Better wait until it is started," advised Donald, "it's no sure yet." "All right, Solomon," conceded Pepper, "but if Randolph says so it's as good as done." "Then we will consider that settled," concluded Rand, who, as a matter of course, assumed the leadership, as he usually did in most things the boys undertook. "Wait a minute," he went on as they were about to separate when they came to his house, "I will ask uncle now." Then a few minutes later he called from the house: "It's all right, uncle says that we can have it." "Hurrah!" cried Pepper. "Three cheers for Mr. Scott!" after which the three went off, singing "For he's a jolly good fellow." "What is the first thing to do?" asked Pepper when they met that evening in the room which Mr. Scott had allowed them to use. "Well, if we are all agreed," replied Rand, "I suppose the way to organize is to organize." "Then I move that we form a patrol of the Boy Scouts," proposed Pepper. "Second the motion," added Jack. "In my opinion--" began Donald deliberately, as usual. "Now for a solid chunk of wisdom," volunteered Pepper. "The first thing to do is to select a chairman." "Anything to please," assented Jack. "I move that Randolph Peyton be chosen as chairman of the meeting. All in favor, say aye!" "Aye!" shouted the boys in a chorus that made the room ring again. "Now then, Mr. Chairman," said Jack, "get busy." "I nominate Donald Graeme for secretary," cried Pepper. "All in favor--" began Rand. "Aye!" shouted the boys again. "Then," announced Rand, "I think we are ready for business. Now, Pepper, your motion would be in order." "In my opinion--" interrupted Donald. "Now for another chunk," sighed Pepper. "Order!" called Rand. "It would no be a bad idea," went on Donald, "to read over the requirements again, so we will know what we are about." "Oh," protested Pepper, "this is too much. Say, fellows, wake me up when he gets through." "Now," said Rand, when Donald had finished the reading, "shall we go ahead?" "How is it, Don?" asked Pepper; "any more objections?" "I don't see any," returned Donald. "All right, then, Mr. Chairman," cried Pepper; "let her go!" "I move that we form a patrol of the Boy Scouts," said Jack. "Second it," cried Gerald. "Aye!" shouted the boys before Rand had time to put the motion. "Carried," decided Rand. "Now," he went on, "I wonder how many of you can pass the examination." CHAPTER XII ORGANIZED "Oh," returned Pepper, "that's easy. First class in Scout lore, stand up!" "Is it?" asked Rand, "then tell us the composition of the American flag." "Red, white and blue," said Pepper confidently. "Good--as far as it goes," returned Rand, "but that applies just as well to the French tricolor. What do you say, Jack?" "Stars and stripes," replied Jack. "Good," said Rand, "but not good enough. What do you say, Gerald?" "Forty-six stars representing the forty-six States of the Union, in a blue field in the upper right-hand corner," replied Gerald, "with thirteen alternate stripes of red and white, representing the thirteen original States." "Correct," commended Rand. "Now, how many red and how many white stripes?" "Blessed if I know," admitted Pepper. "I thought you said it was easy," said Rand. "There are seven red and six white, beginning and ending with red." "Gee!" cried Pepper, "there's a lot more to it than I thought, but I guess we have got it now, all right." "Now about the knots," went on Rand, whereupon they fell to tying the different knots until they had mastered them all before it was time to go home. "Well, young gentlemen," began the colonel, a few days later, when the six boys met at his house in the woods to be sworn in as tenderfeet, "I suppose you know the requirements and that you are ail ready?" "All ready!" responded Pepper. "Know the Scout law and are willing to obey it." "Yes, sir." "The composition of the American flag." "I think we do," responded Pepper, repeating what he had learned the other night. "And know how to fly it?" "Union up," replied Jack. "What does it mean with the Union down?" "Signal of distress." "Very good," commended the colonel, "and now about the knots?" producing some pieces of rope. "Can you tie them?" "Like an old salt," replied Pepper. The boys set to work on the knots and in a few minutes had them all tied, to the colonel's satisfaction, whereupon he proceeded to administer the Scout's oath. "Raise your right hands, with the thumb resting on the nail of the little finger, the other three fingers pointing upward. This represents the three promises of the oath. Now, repeat after me: On my honor I promise that I will do my best: "1. To do my duty to God and my country. "2. To help other people at all times. "3. To obey the Scout law. "You all promise this--" "We do," responded the boys. "Then," concluded the colonel, "you are now members of the Boy Scouts, and I know you will be an honor to it." "We will do our best," responded Rand. "And now," continued the colonel, "in celebration of the organization of--By the way, you haven't chosen a name yet, have you? What kind of a name do you want?" "Oh, I s-s-say," stammered Pepper. "Sing it, Pepper," suggested Donald. "L-let's have an Indian name." "Want to indulge your savage instincts and live in a wigwam?" asked Rand. "It's a tepee, not a wigwam," corrected Pepper. "But we can go hunting and have a good time in the woods." "All right, Pepper," agreed Gerald, "an Indian name is good enough for me." "Have you any name in mind?" asked the colonel. "The Oneidas used to roam about here, didn't they?" asked Jack. "No," replied the colonel, "they were farther north." "What Indians were in this section?" asked Rand. "The Haverstraws held all the land about here," replied the colonel. "We want something more original than that," said Jack. "Something aboriginal," put in Gerald. "I guess that's it," laughed Jack. "How about Mohicans?" "I have it!" cried Pepper. "What's the matter with Uncas?" "Who were they?" asked Dick. "It wasn't they," replied Pepper, "it was him. Don't you remember he was the last of the Mohicans." "That's a very good name," commended the colonel. "Then Uncas it is," agreed the boys. "Now that you have agreed upon a name," continued the colonel, "what do you say to having a real Scout dinner in the woods?" "That s-strikes me favorably," exclaimed Pepper. "Then if you will make a fire I will go on a hunting expedition and see what game I can secure," said the colonel. "Better get to work, boys, for I won't be long. You will find some meal and salt in the shack, Rand, to make some bread." "All right," responded the boys, "we will have everything ready when you get back." The boys fell to work at once, Jack and Don gathering the wood for the fire, while Rand and Pepper mixed the dough for the bread, Dick and Gerald agreeing to do the cleaning up afterwards. By the time the colonel came back the fire was blazing and the bread baking on some stones, which were set up in front of the fire. "How did you make out?" asked Pepper of the colonel when he returned. "Pretty well," replied the colonel; "I got a saddle of venison and a couple of prairie chickens." "Really?" asked Pepper, his eyes snapping. "Well, we'll call them that," replied the colonel. Under the colonel's direction the chickens and the saddle of mutton were suspended over the fire and kept slowly turning until they were thoroughly roasted. "Done to a turn," as Gerald expressed it. "Better put out a sentinel, hadn't you?" suggested the colonel when they had all gathered about the fire to watch the cooking of the dinner. "A sentinel!" exclaimed Rand. "What for?" "Well, we don't want our dinner carried off before our eyes," replied the colonel. "Are you sure that your agile enemy isn't watching us from somewhere and just waiting for it to be done to his taste before making a raid on us?" "Monkey Rae!" cried Pepper, starting up. "You haven't seen anything of him, have you?" "No," replied the colonel; "but, still it's well to be on the lookout for him. He's rather a tricky sort of a chap, I believe." "He certainly is," admitted Rand, "but it's mostly fun with him; but Sam Tompkins, he's quite a different sort." "What is the matter with him?" asked the colonel. "I don't know," drawled Rand, "except he was just born that way. I think he is bad just from love of it." "Isn't that rather a sweeping condemnation, Randolph?" asked the colonel. "Oh, he's the worst of the bunch," put in Pepper decidedly. "That's all true," added Jack. "There hasn't been any mischief perpetrated in town for the last four or five years that he hasn't been at the bottom of it." "He puts the other boys up to do all kinds of things and keeps in the dark himself," continued Pepper. "He would have been put away long ago," went on Jack, "if it wasn't for his father's political pull." "Where did you learn all these things, Jack?" asked the colonel. "Oh, we find out a good many things in the newspaper business, you know." "So it seems," admitted the colonel. "What has Master Tompkins been doing lately?" "That's hard to tell," replied Jack laughingly, "he does so many things. I hear he is going to get up an opposition patrol." "Who would he get to join it?" asked Gerald, scornfully. "Oh, he can find plenty to do that," replied Jack. "You know he always has plenty of money to spend." "There's Monkey Rae and Looney Burns," said Pepper, "they would be in it." "And Kid Murphy," added Dick. "I wonder--" began Jack, and stopped, seemingly lost in thought. "What is it now, Jack?" asked Rand, "trying to put two and two together?" "I was," replied Jack, "but it don't seem to come out four." "What is it this time, addition or multiplication?" asked Donald. "Must be division, I think," laughed Jack. "I was wondering if Sam had anything to do with the robbery of Judge Taylor's office." "Of course not," asserted Pepper. "What would he want to do that for?" "I don't know," answered Jack, "or what any one else would, for that matter. But it would be just like him." "I don't think he was guilty of that," remarked the colonel, "that was the work of men." "But there was a boy in it," asserted Jack. "It wouldn't be Sam," declared Pepper. "He might put others up to it, but you wouldn't find him climbing in any windows!" "See anything of Monkey lately?" interjected Rand. "Not since the day he stole the fish," returned Pepper. "Haven't seen him in three or four days," said Dick. "It's queer, too, for he used to come in the shop almost every day. Nor Sam either; they must be camping out somewhere." "Hope it isn't around here!" cried Pepper. "Say, fellows, we had better take a scout through the woods and make sure." "Come along, then," said Rand, "and we will rout him out if he is anywhere about." Starting out under the leadership of Rand the boys explored the woods in every direction for some distance from the camp without seeing any signs of any one being in the neighborhood. "Going back to the flag," said the colonel, when the boys had returned, "while we are waiting for the dinner to be done, can any of you tell the history of the flag? Of its origin and how it came into being?" "The first American flag was made in Philadelphia by Betsy Ross, in 1775, was it not?" "According to tradition," replied the colonel, "but history doesn't bear it out. The earliest flag to be used by the colonies was the Liberty Flag, which was presented to the Council of Safety of Charleston, by Colonel Moultrie, in September, 1775." "What was it like?" asked Rand. "It was adapted from the Boston Liberty Tree, and was a blue flag with crescent in the dexter corner and the word 'Liberty' running lengthwise." "There were other flags, too, weren't there?" asked Jack. "Yes, there was the Rattlesnake Flag." "The Rattlesnake Flag!" cried Pepper. "What was that like?" "The Rattlesnake Flag was of the same date, 1775. It was a yellow flag with the representation of a rattlesnake coiled, ready to strike, in green, and the motto below it: 'Don't tread on me.'" "Gee!" said Pepper, "it must have been a beauty." "Were there any more?" asked Gerald. "There was the Pine Tree Flag, with the motto 'An Appeal to Heaven.' This motto was adopted April, 1776, by the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts as the one to be borne as the Flag of the Cruisers of that colony. The first armed vessel commissioned under Washington sailed under this flag. It is thought that this flag was used at the battle of Bunker Hill." "I didn't know," said Rand, "that the American flag had such a history. Can you tell us when the first Union flag was made?" "The first Union flag was raised by Washington at Cambridge, January 2, 1776. This flag represented the union of the colonies--not then an established nation--and while this flag, by its stripes, represented the thirteen colonies, the canton was the king's colors." "Then, when did the stars and stripes become the national flag?" asked Jack. "On the 14th of June, 1777, Congress adopted the resolution that the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes alternating red and white, and that the Union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation. But I think the dinner must be ready by this time, and I have no doubt you are. You know the Scout motto is, 'Be prepared.'" "We will do our best," responded Pepper. "Well," said the colonel when, a little later, the dinner had been eaten to the last scrap, "how do you like Scout fare?" "It's ail right," conceded Pepper, "as far as it goes," looking longingly about him. "You think there wasn't enough of it," laughed the colonel. "You have a real Scout appetite." "To change the subject, what about uniforms?" inquired Jack. "We will have to have them, I suppose," replied Gerald. "Sure," returned Pepper; "that's all right, they won't cost much." "I have an idea," broke in Rand. "Clutch it, Randolph, ere it flies!" cried Pepper; "what is it?" "I think," went on Rand, "that it would be a good idea if we, each one of us, earned the money ourselves to buy our uniforms." "'Tis no a bad idea," assented Donald. "I think it is a very good one," commended the colonel. "You have caught the spirit of the organization." "How shall we do it?" asked Jack. "Any way you like," replied Rand. "We will have to work it out, each one for himself." "All right," responded Pepper, "I am going to get busy right away." "Right now, Pepper?" asked Dick. "Now, that don't remind you of anything," warned Pepper. "Not just this minute, but as soon as I get back to town." "What's your scheme, Pepper?" asked Donald. "Can't give it away," replied Pepper, "or you would all want to do it." "I think," broke in the colonel, "it is time we were starting back. If you like, we will have a game on the way." "A game?" asked Jack. "Yes; a chase." "Hare and hounds?" asked Pepper. "In a way," replied the colonel. "Gerald, you and Pepper will be the hares and the rest of us the hounds." "Do you mean to scatter papers?" asked Rand. "Hardly," replied the colonel. "Nothing as plain as that. Remember, we are scouts, and we are going to try and follow the trail they leave. Now, then, hares, off with you. Go any way you choose, and in ten minutes we will take up the trail and see if we can follow it." With a whoop Gerald and Pepper were off, racing down the road. "Now, boys," went on the colonel, when the hares had gone, "study their foot-prints so that you will know them again." "They all look alike to me," replied Rand. "Study them a little," suggested the colonel; "isn't there any difference between them?" "I think," began Jack hesitatingly, "that one is broader than the other." "That's one thing; anything else?" "This one shows the whole of the sole," said Donald. "And this one only part," added Rand. "This one is pressed in deeper on one side than the other," put in Jack. "You are getting the idea," said the colonel. "Think you would know them again?" "I think I would," responded Jack. "Then follow them." Starting off, the boys followed the trail, each one alert to notice any little peculiarity in the foot-prints that would enable them to recognize it again. The trail was readily followed along the road until it turned off into the woods, when they lost it. "Keep on," directed the colonel, "perhaps you can pick it up again." Scattering through the woods the boys diligently sought for the foot-prints, but were unable to discover them. "We have lost them," announced Rand, after they had searched for some time. "Can you help us to find it?" "It is a little difficult," the colonel answered, "but there is a trace here and there," pointing out slight indentations on the ground. "It is quite hard here and they didn't leave much impression." "Here it is again!" cried Rand a little later, when they came to a spot of soft earth. "Here is Pepper's track. I think I would know it anywhere now." "Good!" commended the colonel; "you are learning fast. You will be able soon to follow any trail." Going under the colonel's guidance the boys followed the trail through the woods until it came out again on the road, where Gerald and Pepper were waiting for them. "Not at all bad for a first attempt," said the colonel. "We will try it again some day soon." Which happened sooner and in a more unexpected way than any of them anticipated. CHAPTER XIII A CHALLENGE "Well done, Pepper!" cried Rand, as the former, drawing back a stout bow nearly as tall as himself, let fly an arrow that struck in the third circle of the target set up at the opposite end of the green. "'Tis a promising laddie ye are," commented Gerald Moore after a preliminary flourish of his bugle. "Ave ye live to be a hundhred and don't lave aff practice 'tis a foine shot ye'll be, I dunno." "Let's see what you can do," retorted Pepper, with a laugh. "I don't believe you can better it." "Begorrah, Oi don't belave it mesilf," replied Gerald, shooting an arrow that struck just on the outer edge of the target. "Faith, 'twas a narrow escape Oi made, and it's toime Oi was making another," starting off on a run as the others made for him. "That reminds me," broke in Dick Wilson. "It's your turn, Dick," interrupted Rand, as Dick, stepping in front of the target, after much careful aiming, shot his arrow close beside Pepper's. "Shure Oi wouldn't have belaved av Oi hadn't seen it," remarked Gerald, who had cautiously ventured back. This was some days later than the events recorded in the previous chapters, since which time, Rand had been selected as leader and Don as corporal, while Gerald, from his fun-loving proclivities, had been named the "Patrol's jester." The mystery surrounding the robbery had not been cleared up, and was a frequent subject for conversation. Monkey Rae had not been seen about. They had met upon this occasion for archery practice on the lawn in front of Mr. Scott's residence, where Rand was living. Immediately upon the formation of the Patrol Mr. Scott, who was one of the patrons of the Scout organization, had presented each member with a fine English bow and quiver of arrows, in the proper method of using which they were being instructed by Colonel Snow. They were all dressed in the Scout uniform, which they wore when on Scout duty or out on an expedition, and were not a little proud of the fact that each one had bought his uniform with money earned by himself, the first money that some of them had ever earned. This the boys had done in various ways, each according to his own fancy, such as going errands, selling papers, working in stores and shops, etc. They were also provided with small bugle horns, upon which they had learned to sound various signals and calls. "Now, Rand," said Donald, "show us how to do it." "If I can," answered Rand, taking position in front of the target. "As good Hubert said: 'A man can but do his best.'" Drawing back his bow to the full length of the arrow, with a quick glance at the target, he let fly the arrow, which whistled through the air and struck fair on the outer edge of the bull's-eye. "A rare good shot, Master Locksley," said a laughing voice, and Rand turned to meet a frank-faced lad of his own age in the Scout uniform, who wore a first class scout's badge, and who gave the Scout salute as he stepped forward. "Cans't thou mend it, brave yeoman," replied Rand in the language of Robin Hood's day, in which the other had spoken, returning the salute. "I doubt it much," returned the newcomer, taking the bow which Rand had offered and stretching it the length of his arm. "A good bow and worthy of your skill. With your permission I will essay a shot." "Rather we crave the favor," answered Rand, extending his quiver to the stranger, who carefully selecting an arrow, fitted it to the bow. Then drawing the bow back the full length of the arrow he measured the distance with his eye, and, loosing the string, the arrow sped straight to the center of the bull's-eye. With one accord the boys put their bugles to their lips and sounded the Scout salute. "By my faith," cried Rand, in generous admiration of the other's skill, "'twas a noble shot and well placed. You might be the bold Robin himself returned." "It was but a chance shot that I might not be able to repeat," returned the other modestly. "But I was a member of an archery club in our place and that brings me to my errand here. You are Randolph Peyton, leader of the Uncas Patrol, if I am not mistaken. I was told in the town that I would find you here." "That is my name," replied Rand. "My name is Wat Watson," announced the other with a smile. "It is an alterative sort of a name, but all I have. I have here," presenting a paper to Rand, "a challenge from the Highpoint Patrol." "A challenge!" exclaimed Rand. "Not for an archery contest, I hope, or we are beaten before we begin. Master Watson, permit me to present Don Graeme, Jack Blake and his brother, Pepper, Dick Wilson, and last, but not least in his own estimation, Gerald Moore." "I am heartily glad to meet you all," said Wat, shaking hands all around, "and hope I may often have the pleasure." "The same to you," responded the boys. "And may you live to be a hundred," added Gerald, "and may Oi be wid ye." The paper which Nat had brought and which Rand had opened, ran: "To the Uncas Patrol, Greeting: "The Highpoint Patrol, of the Boy Scouts, hereby challenges the Uncas Patrol to a contest for the Scout championship of the Hudson, to be rowed by crews selected from said patrols, at such time and place as may be hereafter agreed upon. "HIGHPOINT PATROL. JACK DUDLEY, Leader. TOM BROWN, Corporal." "Well, boys, what do you say?" asked Rand, when he had finished reading the challenge. "After the prowess exhibited by their messenger, do you think we dare accept?" Whereupon there arose a babble of voices in which all sorts of opinions were expressed. "Shure they can't bate us more than three miles," concluded Gerald. "Then I suppose we may accept," said Rand. "Shall I so report?" asked Wat. "You can report that the challenge has been received and that we will send our answer by messenger." "Thank you," replied Wat, "and now I must be off. Be sure and come and see us; we will try and treat you right." "There can't be any doubt of that," replied Rand. "But, just a moment," as Mrs. Peyton appeared on the green with a tray of cakes. She was followed by a maid with a pail of lemonade. "Isn't it time for a feast and a war dance or something?" she asked. "We have just been having a pow-wow," replied Rand, "and our throats are dry with much talking. We have just concluded a treaty with the tribe of Highpoint and are ready for the feast of amity." Wat would have declined to join in the festivities, but the boys were importunate, and the next half-hour was spent in an interchange of talk, in which the words: Scouts, patrol, tests, boats, were of frequent occurrence, and during which the cake and lemonade vanished as quickly as snowflakes in July, after which the Uncas escorted the messenger for a distance on his way, finally bidding him good-by with three cheers and a flourish on their bugles. CHAPTER XIV A DEFIANCE "Well," began Rand on the evening of the day on which the challenge had been received from the Highpoint Patrol, "what shall we do with this challenge?" "Accept it, av coorse," cried Gerald. "Shure, they can't bate us more thin foor miles." "But we only row three," put in Jack. "Thin it's a safe bet," went on Gerald, "Aven Don might bet on that." "What's that?" asked Donald. "That they won't bate us more than foor miles," replied Gerald. "In my opinion," began Donald, "'tis no good accepting, for we have no boat, and if we did we have no time for practice, and---" "Can't you think of a few more while you are at it," laughed Rand. "As for a boat we can get the use of the old shell of the Creston Club." "And we no have any crew to speak of," continued Donald. "That's easily got over," went on Rand. "There is Jack, Dick and you and I for the crew, with Gerald for coxswain." "And where do I come in?" questioned Pepper. "You don't come in," answered Gerald. "You stand on the bank and root for us." "Root!" cried Pepper; "what do you think I am--a pig?" "That reminds me--" broke in Dick. "No it don't," objected Donald; "we have no time to listen to your anecdotes." "Do you think we have any chance against them?" asked Jack. "I would no say we had no chance," replied Donald; "but, in my opinion, 'tis no much to brag about." "That reminds me--" began Dick once more. "What, against?" said Donald. "Oh, let him get it off his mind," advised Jack. "What does it remind you of?" "It reminds me of the hunter that came over here from New York last fall and met old Uncle Zac Williams back in the country and asked him if there was any hunting around here. "'Plenty of it," said Uncle Zac. "'Where is the best place to go?' asked the hunter. "'Oh, mos' anywhere,' said Uncle Zac; 'yo' can't miss hit.' "So the hunter went on, and that night as he was going home he met Uncle Zac again. "'Hello!' he said, 'ain't you the man that told me there was plenty of hunting around here?' "'I reckon I be,' replied Uncle Zac. "'Well, I've hunted all around here and I haven't seen the first thing to shoot.' "'Waal, ther wasn't nothin' ther matter with ther huntin' was ther?' said Uncle Zac." "All right," said Donald, when Dick had finished, "we'll forgive you this time, but don't let it happen again." The boys were in their club room in the attic of Mr. Scott's house, which had been given over to Rand's use. By one of the windows was the instruments of a wireless station with which Rand and his chums had experimented, and scattered about the room were golf clubs, baseball bats and other implements and apparatus of boyish sports. "It isn't a question of winning or losing," went on Rand. "There would not be any sport in it if we only went in when we thought we would win. We will do our best and if we lose we will cheer our loudest for the winners." "That's the talk!" cried Jack. "We may not win success, but we'll deserve it." "Then," continued Rand, "we agree to accept the challenge of the Highpoints. How's this for a reply?" "TO THE HIGHPOINT PATROL, GREETING: "The Uncas Patrol accepts with pieasure your courteous challenge to a contest on the Hudson. Time and place to be agreed upon." "In my opinion," said Donald, "you should say 'rowing match' as being more specific." "All right," replied Rand. "Are there any further additions or amendments? If not, I will declare it approved as read." "Now, who will volunteer to carry it to Highpoint?" "I will!" cried Dick. "I will make the attempt," announced Donald. "Lave it to me," said Gerald. "I'll take it," responded Jack. "I ought to be the one," pleaded Pepper. "You know I am not in the race." "You can't all go," decided Rand; "how shall we settle it?" "Take a vote on it," suggested Jack. "We will each one write a name on a slip of paper and put it in the box," proposed Pepper. For a moment each boy was busy with paper and pencil and then the ballots were thrown upon the table to be counted by Rand. "Each one of you has received one vote; you each voted for yourself," announced Rand, when he had gone over them. "You will have to draw lots." "Let's toss up for it," said Donald. "Toss up your lucky penny, Rand." "How can you manage that?" asked Jack, "there are five of us and only one penny." "That's easily fixed," replied Donald, "Jack and I will toss first and the winner takes the next one." "Very well," agreed Rand, "what do you say, Jack?" giving the coin a toss in the air. "Head!" said Jack. "Tail it is," returned Rand, as he picked it up. "Now, Gerald, it is your choice." "Head," replied Gerald. "Tail again," said Rand. "Faith, thot's the toime tail came out a head," commented Gerald. "Now, Dick." "Head," replied Dick. "Tail again," announced Rand. "Luck is with you, Donald. There is only Pepper left now." "Only Pepper!" exclaimed that individual indignantly. "What is the matter with me?" "Notin' at ail, me darlint," broke in Gerald; "shure, your the biggest banana in the bunch, av people only knew it." "Well, Pepper?" said Rand. "Heads." "Head it is," announced Rand. "You're it, Pepper." "Begorrah, 'tis a long tail that has no head," commented Gerald. "Master Pepper Blake," began Rand, "has been chosen to carry our message of defiance to the tribe of the Highpoints." "When do I go?" "At the rise of the sun to-morrow," replied Rand, "you must be prepared to take the trail." "Before breakfast?" "We will not require that sacrifice of you," said Rand. "Here is the message. Fail not on your honor to deliver it. You are going through a hostile country beset with enemies--" "Monkey Rae's," murmured Gerald. "And the message must be delivered under all circumstances. It contains information of the utmost importance, which must not be allowed to fall into the enemies's hands. I will meet you to-morrow at the great oak to give you your final instructions." "Very well, sir," replied Pepper, "I will not fail to carry out your commands to the letter." "Bravo, boys, well done!" commended Mr. Scott, who had been standing in the doorway, unseen by the boys, enjoying the fun. "If I was only a little younger, there is nothing I would like better than to be an Indian brave with you." For a moment the boys were silent in the presence of the bank president, whom they all regarded with more or less awe, until Gerald broke the silence. "Shure, 'tis niver too late to have fun, Mister Scott," he said. "We'd be plased to have ye for one of us. We'll make ye prisident an' ye'll find it a hape more fun than bein' the prisident av the bank." "I don't doubt it," replied Mr. Scott laughingly, "but I'm afraid I am almost too old to keep up the pace you set. But I'll tell you what I am going to do. I am going on an outing some of these days and I am going to invite you all to go along with me." "Hurrah!" cried the boys with a will. "Ready Uncas!" called Don, raising his bugle, "the Scout salute!" As the room rang with the noise Mr. Scott clapped his hands to his ears. "Thanks," he said; "Mrs. Scott sent me up here to see if there was anything the matter, you were so quiet, but after that I think she will conclude that you are all right." "What is that you have there, Rand?" he added as he caught sight of the coin that Rand had been using to toss up. "Where did you get it?" "Those are the ones that we found in the road," replied Rand. "Do you know what they are?" "Yes," answered Mr. Scott; "they are a political token issued in the time of Van Buren during the controversy over the currency. By the way, I shouldn't be surprised if these were some of the coins that were stolen out of Judge Taylor's office when it was broken into." "Then the robbers must have gone away over that road," mused Rand, "and that is how they got there." "That was doubtless the way of it," concluded Jack. "Ay, but you thought there was some connection with them and Monkey Rae," reminded Donald. "Are you sure there isn't?" answered Jack. CHAPTER XV PEPPER TAKES THE MESSAGE When Rand arrived at the great oak, which stood at the fork of the road on the outskirts of Creston, on the following morning, he found Pepper impatiently awaiting his arrival. "I thought you were never coming," grumbled Pepper, when Rand made his appearance. "I expected to be half way there by this time." "Plenty of time," said Rand. "How long do you think it will take you to get there and back?" "How far is it?" "Five miles, as the crow flies," returned Rand, "and near six by the road." "That's an hour and a half on the road each way and an hour to stop. I ought to do it in four hours and a half." "Then you should be back by dinner time," concluded Rand. "We will meet you here at 1 o'clock. Which road are you going to take?" "The upper road," decided Pepper, "it runs through the woods, but it's by far the shortest way." With a whistle the boy started off along the thoroughfare at a good pace. "Look for me at 1 sharp," he called back as he went off. He had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile on his way when, as he was passing a small clump of bushes by the side of the road, there was a rustle behind the bushes, and a voice cried: "Halt!" Pepper, however, broke into a run which carried him past the clump, when again came the command: "Halt, or I'll shoot!" The boy hesitated for a moment as to whether he should stop or run, and as he did so Gerald and Jack came out upon the scene. "Did we scare you?" asked Gerald. "No," replied Pepper stoutly, "I thought it was a joke." "We just wanted to test your courage," said Jack. "That reminds me--" began Dick, who had now joined the others. "That it is time for me to be getting along," broke in Pepper. "Good-by, fellows," starting off again. "Good luck," called the boys after him. The road which he was following ran through the woods along the top of the mountain and was comparatively little traveled, most persons preferring the lower road which, although longer, was not near so rough or hilly. Pepper met but few people on the way, and had gone rather more than half the distance when, as he was descending the slope of a small hill, he observed coming down the opposite slope a horse and wagon, about which there was something familiar. "That looks like the rig that Monkey Rae was driving the other day," he thought, as he looked at it again. "If he is in it, I think I had better do the disappearance act until he goes by." Stepping from the road he waited behind a small thicket until the wagon came nearer, when he saw that it was being driven by the man who had been with Monkey when they had taken the boat, and that, following the wagon was a big, ugly-looking, mongrel dog, that was dashing from one side of the road to the other, interspersed with little excursions into the woods. "Gee!" thought Pepper, "I wouldn't want to fall into their hands. I think it's to the woods for mine," at the same time making his way as quickly as possible deeper into the underbrush. "I didn't get out of the way any too soon," he continued to himself, for on coming to the place where Pepper had left the road the dog stopped, sniffed at the ground and gave vent to a gruff bark. "What is it, Tige, old boy?" called the man, stopping his horse. "Sic 'em!" With a deep growl the dog started on the boy's trail. Pepper could hear him crashing his way through the underbrush and ran as fast as he could, looking about him, as he ran, for a stick or a stone with which to defend himself, but could see none, and all the time the dog was coming closer and closer, his growl becoming more and more menacing. It was nearly upon him, and he imagined that he could feel its hot breath and expected every moment to feel the snap of its jaws, when he saw, a little way ahead of him, what looked like a stout black stick lying upon the ground. "Gee! that's lucky," thought Pepper, running to where the stick lay and, stooping to pick it up when, to his astonishment and terror, the supposed stick glided from under his hand and he saw that he had been about to grasp a large-sized snake. Springing to his feet he made a wild jump upward and, as luck would have it, caught at the branch of a tree above his head, and, getting a firm grasp, drew himself up just as the dog, with its teeth snapping, sprang at him. "Crickets!" said the boy to himself, "but that was a close shave," meantime climbing up into the tree to a more comfortable perch. "I don't know which of them I like the least. It looks as though there was going to be something doing now." So intent had been the dog in its pursuit of Pepper that he did not see the snake until he had run onto it as it lay coiled upon the ground when, with a cry of alarm, the dog bounded into the air, clearing the snake by half a dozen feet. Apparently forgetting the quarry which it had been so eagerly pursuing, the dog now turned its attention to the snake, which was the largest that Pepper had ever seen. For a few moments Pepper was too fascinated to move, as he watched the strangest combat that he had ever seen going on beneath him. A combat in which neither of the combatants seemed desirous of assuming the aggressive. Lying in a close coil, with its head rising from the center, its forked tongue darting in and out, and emitting every now and then an angry hiss, the snake, swaying its head from side to side, closely followed in its movements those of the dog, which circled about it barking furiously, and apparently watching for an opportunity to seize it back of the head, but which the snake was too wary to permit. [Illustration: "The strangest combat that he had ever seen."] "This beats the circus," thought Pepper, after he had watched the fight for a little time, "but this isn't getting the message to Highpoint. I don't believe I have time to wait for the finale. I wonder how I am going to get out of this. If I drop down there they will be making a show of me. Looks as though I might get over into that next tree. I'll try it, anyhow." The trees here had grown so close together that many of the branches were in-lacing, and it seemed possible to Pepper that he could get from the one tree into the other. "It looks kind of thin," thought Pepper, when he had picked out a limb which extended into the adjoining tree, "but, perhaps, it will do." Crawling out upon the branch until it bent and swayed dangerously under his weight, he caught a branch of the other tree and swung himself over, narrowly missing a fall. "So far, so good," soliloquized Pepper, working his way toward the trunk. "I rather like this way of going. Now for the next one." The next tree was a little farther away, but by climbing out on a bough that extended into the other tree he crept on until he could just touch one of the opposite branches, but could not get a hold. "Looks as if I would have to go back," he decided, after he had tried and failed to get a hold on the other tree. But this, he found, was more easily said than done, for when he attempted to turn around he slipped and only his quick clutch of the swaying branch saved him from a tumble. "This is a nice scrape I have got into," he thought, when he tried to climb back onto the limb from which he had slipped, but found it impossible. "I can't get back, and I don't see how I am to go on. I hope it will let me down easy." CHAPTER XVI WHERE WAS PEPPER? "Two o'clock," said Rand, closing his watch with a snap. "An hour behind time." The boys had been waiting at the great oak since just after noon, but Pepper had not yet come. "Perhaps he got off the road and got lost in the woods," suggested Jack. "Maybe he got back sooner than he expected by some other road and went home," said Gerald. "Shall I run over and see?" "Go ahead," replied Rand. "We will wait for you here." Darting off, Gerald was gone but a few minutes, returning on the run to report that Pepper had not been back since morning. "Perhaps he has got hurt somehow," put in Dick. "It is no way impossible," assented Donald. "It might no be a bad idea to walk along the road until we meet him." "Which way did he go?" asked Jack. "The upper road," replied Rand. The boys acted upon the suggested and proceeded along the road, slowly at first, then more rapidly as their comrade did not appear. They had covered more than half the distance to Highpoint. "Listen!" said Jack suddenly, as they stopped for a moment. "What is that?" Faint and far in the distance sounded what seemed like a bugle call. "It is a bugle call," cried Dick. "It must be Pepper." "It may be possible," admitted Donald. Putting his bugle to his lips Rand blew a long, clear call, but it brought no response. "Which way did the sound come from?" asked Gerald. "From over that way," replied Dick, indicating with his hand. "What would he be doing away off there?" demanded Donald. "There is it again," said Gerald, as the sound was repeated. "It is over this way," declared Jack, designating another direction. "No, it's over this way," asserted Dick, but still at variance with the others. "Wait," said Rand, "maybe we can hear it again." The boys stood silent for a few moments, when the call came faintly once again. "It is over this way," declared Rand, leading the way to the right, but, although they stopped from time to time to listen, they did not hear the sound again, nor did they find any trace of their missing comrade. For a half hour or more they continued their search, but in vain, and they were returning to the road when they heard the call again, but so faintly that it was lost almost as soon as heard. "He is going away," decided Rand. "There is certainly something queer about it." "In my opinion," began Donald, "'tis no use looking any more." "Why not?" asked Rand. "Because it was no mortal sound," replied Donald. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Rand. "Nonsense or no," retorted Donald stoutly, "I don't like it." "What is it, then, Donald, if it isn't mortal?" asked Rand. "I can no rightly say," responded Donald, "but I don't believe you will ever find him." "Pooh!" returned Rand; "he may be along any minute." "Let us go on to Highpoint," proposed Jack, "and see if he has been there." As nothing better was suggested the boys set out for Highpoint, which they soon reached, and a short hunt enabled them to find Jack Dudley, the leader of the Highpoint Patrol, from whom they learned that Pepper had not been there. "What time did he start?" asked Dudley. "Eight o'clock," replied Rand. "It's very strange," said Dudley. "He may have met with some accident. I will hunt up our patrol and will help you search for him. If you will go back and start from the point where you searched before we will take up the scout from here and keep on until we find him, or we join forces again, unless you have something better to propose." "I don't think there is any better way," said Rand, with which the others agreed, and thanking him for his offer, the Uncas boys, now thoroughly alarmed, set out again upon the search. It was 5 o'clock when they got back to Creston, searching on the way, and Pepper had not returned, or trace of him found. "What shall we do next?" asked Jack, as they stood undecided in the road. "What is it now?" asked Colonel Snow, who had come up unperceived. "We can't find Pepper," answered the boys. "What is it," went on the colonel, "a game of hide and seek?" "No, sir," responded Rand; "he went over to Highpoint this morning with a message; I mean he started for Highpoint, but he hasn't been there and he hasn't come back. We are afraid he is lost." "Lost!" exclaimed the colonel. "How could that be." "We don't know," answered Jack; "but we have hunted all over for him, and he isn't anywhere about." "All over?" said the colonel. "He couldn't very well be all over at once, could he? But, come along, and we will see if we can't find him. Which way did he go?" "On the upper road," answered Rand; "but we have been all along that." "Well, we'll see if we can't pick up his trail," went on the colonel at once, leading off at a rapid pace. "Did any of you pick it up?" "There are lots of tracks," replied Rand, "but I did not pick his out." "Some who are expert, you know, can read tracks as readily as you read the paper. These look much alike, but we will follow them up and see if any diverge or break away from the road." Walking rapidly along the road the colonel indicated one he thought might be Pepper's track, which the boys followed, with some success, after it had been pointed out until, all at once, the marks indicated that the person had come to a sudden stop and had turned aside. "He left the road here for some reason," decided the colonel, "or the one who made the trail did. He went through here, you can see how these bushes have been thrust aside." "I do now," replied Rand, "but I wouldn't have noticed it myself." "Did he have a dog with him?" continued the colonel, following the trail through the woods. "No," answered Rand. "Probably the dog came from the other direction. Looks as if Pepper was trying to get away from the dog. They were both in a hurry. It stops here; he must have taken to a tree." "Pepper!" he shouted, "where are you?" But neither his calls nor those of the boys brought any response. "He isn't here," went on the colonel; "but there has been a disturbance of some kind. There are dog's tracks all around as if the animal had struggled with something, but no footprints. There is the track of a snake, too." "A snake!" cried Jack, in alarm. "Do you think it could have bitten him?" "No," said the colonel, "if he had been bitten we would still have his trail. He seems to have vanished into the air." "I don't see how he could do that," declared Don. "Neither do I," replied the colonel. "Spread out around the tree and see if you can find where he came down." But a thorough search failed to reveal, to the investigators, any trace. "I never saw anything like this," declared the colonel. "He seems to have disappeared completely." "But where could he have gone?" asked Jack, anxious for the safety of his brother. "I wish I knew," returned the colonel. "If there were any birds around here big enough we might suspect that one of them had carried him off, but we will evidently have to await Pepper's own explanation of the enigma." Then he added after a moment: "Well, boys, we have got to the end of the trail. I don't know what to do next." "That reminds me," started Dick, when there was a hiss, a snarl and a flash through the air from the tree, under whose branches they were standing, and an immense wild cat, spitting and clawing, landed on Dick's back. "Help! Murder!" shouted Dick. "Take it off!" For an instant the boys were so dumfounded by the suddenness of the attack that they all jumped in different directions, but the colonel, with a well-directed blow from the heavy stick he carried, knocked the animal off of Dick, but not before his coat had been torn and Dick himself scratched by its claws. Snarling and spitting the cat now crouched, facing the colonel, and seemed about to spring. "Knock him over the head!" shouted Donald. "Hit it in the head with a stone," looking about for a weapon. "Look out!" called Rand, "give me a chance at it!" drawing back his bow and letting fly an arrow which pierced the animal's body and knocked it sprawling, when Gerald added a blow from a well-directed stone. With a wild scream the cat bounded into the air and fell motionless to the ground. "Look out, Rand!" cautioned Dick, creeping back from the bushes into which he had fled as soon as he had gained his feet, as Rand went up to where the cat was lying. "Take care it don't spring on you!" "No danger," replied Rand: "it's dead." "Faith, thin, Oi w'udn't trust it, dead or alive," said Gerald. "That was a good shot, Rand," commended the colonel, "and just in time. A full-grown wild cat is an enemy not to be despised." "I should say not," agreed Dick. "Ugh! I feel as if I had been scraped with a curry-comb. I wonder," with a look at his clothes, "if I couldn't get a job somewhere as a scarecrow?" "But what has become of Pepper?" asked Don. "That is the puzzle that we have got to solve," replied the colonel. "For the present the only thing we can do is to go back to Creston and see if we can't pick up some new clues." The boys, with Colonel Snow, slowly made their way back to the town, carrying with them the body of the cat, the skin of which Rand proposed to have tanned for a trophy for the club room. As they entered the town they were met by Officer Dugan, who put his hand on Rand's shoulder. "I have a warrant for your arrest," he said. The party were amazed, and the colonel was the first to speak. "For what?" he asked. "For robbing Judge Taylor's office," replied the officer. CHAPTER XVII THE MESSAGE For a moment or two Pepper hung at the extremity of the branch to which he was clinging, when all at once there came an ominous cracking and the end broke away, but fortunately it had swung so low toward the ground that he dropped at the foot of the tree, not much the worse for his experience. It had ail happened so quickly that, before he had time to utter a cry Pepper found himself lying on the ground flat on his back. "My goodness gracious!" exclaimed Pepper, feeling himself all over to make sure that he was ail there. "The farther I go the worse it gets. This is certainly the worst yet. I think the ground is good enough for me after that." A little dazed by his fall, Pepper, without stopping to consider his direction, started off as fast as he could go, turning this way and that as he went, to avoid the thicker growths of under-brush, until he had gone a mile or more, getting ail the time deeper into the forest. "I think," he mused, when he stopped for a breathing spell, looking about for some clue to guide him, "I had better be getting back to the road. Now, I wonder which way it is. Let me see, which is the North. That must be it, because this side of the trees have moss on them; then the road must be off this way." Starting off in the direction he had decided upon Pepper pursued his way, swerving now to the right and again to the left to avoid some all but impassable thicket or some swampy bit of ground, until he judged that he had gone at least a mile. "Crickets!" he exclaimed at length. "I wonder where that road has gone. I was not that far from it, I know. I must have traveled about four miles since I left it, in the wrong direction at that. Gee! It must be pretty near noon, by the way I feel." Looking at his watch he saw it was 12 o'clock, and sat down to eat his lunch. "Lucky I brought it along," he thought; "for, from the looks of things, I don't know when I am going to get any more. I wonder if the boys are waiting for me to return? Looks as though they would have quite a wait. "Now, which way shall I go?" he questioned when he had finished. "There doesn't seem to be any choice in the matter, one way looks as promising as another." Striking off at right angles from the way he had been going he decided to try that course for a while, but after traveling for an hour through the underbrush, which seemed to be getting thicker and more difficult to get through the farther he went, he again came to a halt. "Looks as if I was lost," he mused, "and the farther I go the more lost I am. I suppose if Don were here he would toss up for the way to go, and I guess that's as good a way as any." Taking a coin from his pocket he closed his hand upon the metal without looking at it. "if it is head," he decided, "I will go to the right, and if it is tail I will go to the left. It's head," opening his hand. "Now, I'll bet that isn't the right way, but I'll try it anyhow." Taking the course the coin had indicated Pepper plunged into the brush and doggedly pushed on, although he was getting tired and somewhat discouraged. "I am going to keep on this way," he determined, "until I get to the road or come out on the other side, if it brings me out in California." Stopping to rest, after he had forced his way through a particularly heavy growth of brush, he was startled at hearing the angry bark of a dog not far away. "Crickets!" he cried, "I hope I haven't run across that beast again I think I had better look for a stick while I have time. I don't want to be picking up any more snakes" Looking about him he found a good-sized stick lying upon the ground, which he scrutinized closely before venturing to take possession. In addition to the barking of the dog he could now hear voices, and thus encouraged, he advanced in the direction from which came the sounds. "Perhaps I can find some one who can direct me how to get out of this," he thought. A few minutes' walk brought him near to a small opening in the woods in which stood a rudely-built cabin, and a little way off a smaller shack which, apparently, was used as a stable, as there was a wagon standing beside it, which Pepper recognized as the one he had seen on the road, and as the very one Monkey had been driving when he nearly run them down. There were a couple of kegs in the wagon and several tin cans. Perched on the roof of the cabin was a boy, whom he recognized as Sam Tompkins, who had, apparently, climbed there to escape the dog, which was jumping up, trying to get at him. While Pepper watched, the man whom he had seen driving the wagon, came from the inside of the house and drove the dog away, at the same time calling to Sam to come down. "That's what you get for teasing him," he growled. "He'll take a piece out of you yet." Making a surly response Sam slipped down from the roof and disappeared into the house. "Gee!" exclaimed Pepper. "I am glad I didn't walk in on them. Now, I wonder what is going on here?" From a large chimney, which was built at the back of the cabin, which was nearest Pepper, the smoke from a wood fire was rising, and there was an unpleasant odor in the air. "That must be the smoke we saw from the river the other day," concluded Pepper. "I wonder what they are cooking there? I can't say I like the smell of it, whatever it is, and I don't think this is any good place for me, either." Slipping back as quietly as he had come, Pepper started on his away again. When he had gotten far enough from the place so that, he thought, it would not attract the attention of those there, Pepper sounded a call on his bugle. "Perhaps the boys are out looking for me when I didn't get back on time," he said, sounding the call from time to time as he went on, but which brought no response. "Thank goodness! I've got to the end of the woods," he exclaimed a little later, when he saw an open space not far ahead of him. Hurrying forward he found himself, not, as he had expected, on the road, but on the top of a high bluff which descended almost perpendicularly for a hundred feet to a roadway, which was a welcome sight. Just below him, looking over the edge, he saw that there was a broad ledge about ten feet down and that, below this again, the cliff sloped at an acute angle to another narrow ledge, but below this again there was seemingly nothing but the bare side of the cliff. "No use trying to get down that way," he soliloquized. "I'll just follow along the edge and see where I come out." Turning, he was about to step back when the earth, where he was standing, gave way, sliding down to the ledge below and carrying him with it. "Goodness!" he cried, picking himself up and shaking off the dirt with which he was covered. "I wonder what next? Now, how am I going to get out of this? I doubt if I can get back up there, and it don't look inviting below." It was impossible to climb up the side of the cliff, as it was almost perpendicular, but upon the small ledge below he noticed that a stunted tree was growing from the rocks. "I wonder if I can catch that tree," considered Pepper, preparing to slide down to the ledge. "I guess it ain't a question of can, I've just got to do it, and I won't be any worse off there than I am here, and I may be a good deal better." Carefully calculating his distance he let go, sliding down until he reached the ledge where he clutched a tree and held on until he could gain a footing. The ledge, which was about a foot in width, ran but a short distance in either direction, but to the right, a few feet below, was another level space, which Pepper judged he might gain. Moving cautiously along until he was over the point he let himself down to the lower ledge. Following this along he was able to gain another, and so on, slipping at times and tumbling, until he finally came out upon a small plateau at the foot of the hill. "Thank goodness!" he cried as he got up and shook himself. "I've got to the bottom, anyhow. I hope there isn't anything more coming my way or I won't get that message there to-day, and I've got to move pretty quick, as it is." He had gone but a short distance when he heard a loud "hello," and looked up to see a strange boy in the Scout uniform standing on the rocks not far above him. "Hello!" called the boy again; "who are you?" "Hello!" he replied. "Pepper Blake. Who are you?" "Tom Brown," replied the other, then, with his trumpet, sending out a call that went echoing among the rocks until it brought back an answering call. "Say, hold on until I get down there," he said, addressing Pepper, then clambering down until he stood beside the lost boy. "Do you know we have been hunting all over for you?" "No," replied Pepper; "but I am mighty glad to see you just the same." "How did you get down here?" went on Tom. "Tumbled down, mainly," was the reply. "I took a drop from the top of the hill yonder." By this time several more of the boys, who were members of the Highpoint Patrol, had joined them and began to ply the object of their search with questions. "Hold on a minute," said one of them. "Say, Pepper, ain't you hungry?" "Well, I had a bite," he confessed; "but that was a good while ago, and I want to get on with this message." "I guess you have got there," said the boy, with a laugh. "I am Jack Dudley, the Leader; you can give it to me." "All right," replied Pepper, with a sigh of relief; "I got it to you, anyhow." "You certainly did," said Jack. "Lucky we brought along a day's rations. We didn't know how long we might be out. Now," as the boys got out their supplies from their knapsacks and spread them out on the rocks, "tell us how you got here." Whereupon Pepper related the story of his adventures. "My goodness!" exclaimed Tom, when the story was finished, "I don't believe it is safe for you to be out alone. What do you say, boys, don't you think we ought to see him safe home?" "Sure," agreed the others. "It's getting dark now," continued Tom, "and there is no telling what he will find on the road." So, in spite of Pepper's protests that he was all right and that once put upon the right road he could take care of himself, the boys insisted upon escorting him to the outskirts of Creston, which they reached without further misadventure. "Do you think you will be safe now?" asked Tom as they were about to leave him. "Of course I will," replied Pepper, with a laugh; "why, I am almost home." "Well, then, good night," they called, and with three cheers for Pepper, the messenger of the Uncas, the Highpoint boys turned about and went on their way home. Tired, but happy that he had succeeded in delivering the message, Pepper hurried on home. He was almost there when he was accosted by a schoolmate and was told that his brother Jack and others had been seen going into Judge Taylor's office. It was but a step farther, so thither he directed his course. CHAPTER XVIII IN THE JUDGE'S OFFICE Colonel Snow and the greatly excited boys accompanied the officer and his charge to the judge's office. "Good evening, Colonel; good evening, boys," said the judge, greeting them pleasantly when they came in under the escort of the officer. "I am glad to see you. Is this an official visit?" "Good evening, Judge," replied Rand. "I suppose it must be. The officer said I was under arrest." "Gracious, no! Not at all," said the judge. "That was a blunder, indeed. I merely told him I wanted to see you. I wanted to see if you could throw any light on the robbing of my office." "Have you any reason to think that they know anything about it?" demanded the colonel indignantly. "No sufficient reason," replied the judge. "Now, don't get excited," as the colonel was about to speak, "but there has been a lot of loose talk circulating, and I thought I would like to settle it." "Loose talk!" exclaimed the colonel; "about whom?" "About Randolph, Dick Wilson and young Blake," explained the judge; "and, by the way, where is Pepper? I don't see him here." "We don't know where he is," replied Jack. "We have been hunting for him all the afternoon, but we couldn't find him." "How is that?" questioned the judge. Whereupon the story of the unavailing search was told. "That is certainly remarkable," admitted the judge. "Perhaps we had better put this matter off until we see if we can't find him. Have you any plans, Colonel?" "No," replied the colonel, forgetting his anger over the blundering arrest. "I am at a complete loss how to proceed. If the ground had opened and swallowed him he could not have disappeared more suddenly and more completely." "We shall certainly have to start another search. The question is where to begin," mused the judge, and just then, catching sight of Officer Dugan, his mind reverting to the latter's inexcusable blunder, he gave the chagrined minion of the law a severe reprimand. How far the angry judge might have proceeded is not known, for just at this moment Pepper appeared in the doorway. "Pepper!" cried Jack. "Where in the world have you been?" "Where in the world haven't I been?" he responded. "You evidently found yourself," asserted the colonel. "Is it really you, Pepper?" asked Gerald; "and where did you hide yourself?" and other questions came thick and fast. "Just returned from delivery of the message to the Highpoint Scouts," finally answered the boy when he was afforded an opportunity to speak. "Highpoint! Why, we went to Highpoint!" cried Rand, "and you had not been there. Which way did you go?" "Don't know," replied the messenger. "Round by Robin Hood's barn, I guess; but I came out on the side of the cliff, and the Highpoints fortunately found me." "But how did you get out of the tree?" asked the colonel. "We couldn't find any trail." "Did you know I was up a tree? Well, I climbed into the next tree," was the reply. "Ah!" said the colonel, "that accounts for it. I never thought of that." "Tell us about it," requested the judge. "There isn't very much to tell," said Pepper, repeating the details of his trip, from the time of meeting the horse and wagon with Monkey Rae and the man. "Of course," muttered Jack, "you could bet Monkey would be in it somewhere." "S-s-say," went on Pepper, "how did that fight come out? I didn't have time to stop and see." "I should think not," observed the judge; "it was your busy day." "I think it must have been a draw," answered the colonel, "for each went his own way. But to return to our business. You said, Judge, there was some talk about these boys; what is it?" "Well, you know," began the judge, "my office was broken into some time ago and some things taken." "You don't think that these boys had anything to do with it, do you?" interrupted the colonel. "Of course not," the judge assured him; "but there were some boys' tracks--now let me go on--and it has been said that these boys were out very early on that morning, and that they have been spending money pretty freely of late, buying uniforms and other things." "But we earned that money ourselves," interrupted Pepper indignantly. "Don't get hot, Pepper," counseled Donald. "I don't doubt it," replied the judge; "and then it is reported that Randolph and Pepper claimed to have found money on the road." "I don't know as you could call it money," demurred Rand, showing the coin that he had found. "I found this and Pepper found another." "Ah!" remarked the judge, taking the coin, "that looks like one of those stolen from me. Where did you find it?" "On the Mountain Road," answered Rand. "We did not know that they were yours, or we should have returned them." "I don't know that they are mine," said the judge, "although they are similar. You had better keep them for the present. So that is the way they went," he mused; "they probably escaped in a boat. I'm afraid there isn't much chance of capturing them. That is all, boys. I just wanted to have a talk with you to straighten things out." "Where did all these stories come from?" asked the colonel. "Oh, I think it is mostly boys' talk," said the judge. "I think Tompkins said he heard it from his boy." "Sam Tompkins!" cried Jack, "of course. He's trying to throw suspicion on us, but I guess he knows a lot more about it than we do." "I think you have hit it, Jack," agreed the judge. "I believe that is a clue worth following up." "But what about the tools?" asked the officer. "Oh, yes," continued the judge, "I had forgotten about them. Do you know anything about these tools, Dick?" "Yes, sir; they came from our shop," he answered. "Ah! that's what I thought," said the officer to himself. "It isn't going to end here." "They were taken from there," went on Dick. "We missed them several days before the robbery, but I don't know who took them." "Then they must have been taken by some one around here," concluded the judge. "It seems to me that the farther we go the more mysterious it gets. Jack, I think that you had better set your wits to work and see if you can't clear it up." "Very well, Judge," answered Jack, who had been going over the matter in his mind. "I think I have a clue that I am going to follow up and see what comes of it." "Good," commented the judge. "While I do not believe for an instant that any of you young gentlemen had anything to do with the robbery, I would like to see it brought home to those who did it." "And I, too," added the colonel. "Good night, boys," continued the judge. "You have had rather an exciting day, and I think you had better be getting home. I think you want to look out for Pepper so that nothing more happens to him to-night." "Good night, Judge," responded the boys, Jack adding as they went out, "I won't leave him out of sight until I have him safe in the house." CHAPTER XIX A NARROW ESCAPE "Row, brothers, row," said Gerald "Kape it up, you're doin' fine." "How are we going?" asked Rand. "Almost as fasht as Oi c'ud walk," replied Gerald in his richest brogue. "Av ye hit it up a bit mebbe ye c'ud be in toime to see the ind av it to-morrow, Oi dunno." "But truly, Geraid," asked Donald, "how are we doing?" "As weil as c'ud be ixpected av a lot of farmers," replied the irrepressible Gerald. "Ye moight do worse, Oi dunno. Mebbe av ye tho't ye were hoeing potatoes ye c'ud do betther. Can't ye hit up a bit?" "I guess we can; a little," replied Rand, who was rowing stroke, slightly increasing his effort. "How is that?" "Betther," responded the other, and the boat shot ahead a little faster. The Uncas crew were out for a final spin over the course before the race, which had been set for the following day. Beside the Uncas and the Highpoint, the Alton, from farther up the river, had also entered. It was not thought, even by their friends, that the Uncas had much chance against the others, whose crews, particularly the Alton's, were much heavier and stronger. "Is that better?" asked Rand, after they had rowed a short time. "'Tis a thrifle betther," replied Gerald. "Av ye do as well to-morrow, mebbe we won't be disgraced intirely, Oi dunno." "Come now, Gerald," pleaded Jack, "tell us how we are doing?" "Shure, Oi don't want to discourage ye intirely," replied Gerald, "but ye didn't do any betther than three minutes in the lasht moile." "Three minutes!" shouted Don; "did we do it in that?" "Hurrah!" cried Jack; "we'll be in it yet." "In what?" asked Dick. "In the water," chuckled Jack. "You will be," retorted Donald, "if you spring anything like that on us again." "That reminds me--" began Dick. "What does?" asked Donald. "What is the matter, Gerald?" broke in Rand, as the coxswain, with a sudden exclamation, threw the rudder hard down and called: "Up oars, all!" The boys raised their oars just in time as the shell grazed the stern of a heavy skiff, which a boy, who was rowing, had stopped just in the course of the shell. "Hey, there!" shouted Rand as the boats swept apart: "what are you trying to do, run us down?" "What are you trying to do, yourself?" retorted a man, who was sitting in the stern of the skiff. "Don't you think anybody has any right on the river but you? Think you own the whole place, don't you?" "But you had plenty of room without getting in the way," persisted Rand. "I think you did it on purpose." "Aw, go wan!" returned the man. "Don't get too funny or I'll come over there and take you over my knee." "Come over and try it, if you think you can do it," replied Rand hotly. "Monkey Rae again," murmured Jack. "I thought we had got rid of him." "Keep cool, Rand," advised Don; "it isn't worth while making a fuss over." "He ought to have his head punched," put in Dick. "Who?" asked Jack. "Don?" "No; that fellow in the boat," answered Dick. "That isn't the way to teach him good manners," objected Jack. "It's the only way you can teach some people," argued Dick. "Who is he?" "Oh, that's the man that took our boat up the river," replied Jack. "What do you think he was trying to do?" went on Dick. "Trying to steal it, of course," replied Jack. "I mean now." "Oh, smash us up so we couldn't row to-morrow," guessed Jack. "But what for?" persisted Dick. "Oh, just pure ugliness, I guess," replied Jack. "Then, you know, Monkey has it in for Rand for the thrashing he once gave him for beating his dog." "Does he carry malice like that?" asked Donald. "He will carry it all his life," replied Jack, "and then some more. Then Monkey doesn't like any of us because he was always behind us in school. He says we got ahead by favor, for we aren't any smarter than he is." "Let fall!" ordered Gerald. "Let's try it again." The boys bent to their work, but they had lost their vim, and they did not strike their pace again. "I don't understand about Monkey," began Jack, as they drew into the landing. "There is something back of all this, and I mean to find out what it is." "What have you been doing," cried Pepper, who was waiting for them on the landing, "fishing?" "No; monkeying," answered Rand. "Jim Rae got in the way, and we had to stop for fear of smashing into him." "Why didn't you do it and get rid of him?" asked Pepper. "It would more likely have got rid of us," replied Rand; "and I guess that is what he was trying to do." CHAPTER XX A NIGHT ALARM "Who's there?" called Rand sharply. He was sitting with Donald and Pepper on the steps of the piazza, in front of Mr. Scott's house. "There is nobody there," declared Donald; "it's just your imagination." "But I certainly saw something move behind that bush over there," insisted Rand. "And I, too," confirmed Pepper. "You are always seeing things, even when there ain't any," continued Donald. "And you can't see them until they hit you with a club," retorted Pepper. "Any one there?" called Rand again, going to the spot which Pepper pointed out, and followed by the others. "Sh!" was the whispered reply from behind the bushes. "It is only I." "Who are you?" demanded Rand. "Win Moore," replied a small boy, coming out. "Why, hello, Win," said Rand; "what were you trying to do, play spook?" "No," replied Win, "but I thought maybe Gerald was here." "He isn't here," answered Rand. "Do you want to see him?" "Yes," hesitated Win; "I have something to tell him." "I am sorry he isn't here," continued Rand. "Anything I can do for you?" "There isn't any one around, is there?" went on Win doubtfully. "Nobody but Pepper, Don and I," replied Rand. "You know them. What is it?" "They are going to smash the shell to-night," whispered Win, looking fearfully about him. "They are going to do what?" exclaimed Donald. "Say it again," said Rand, doubting that he had heard aright. "They are going to smash the shell to-night, so you can't row to-morrow," repeated Win. "Who are?" demanded Donald, still incredulous. "Monkey Rae and Sam Tompkins," answered Win. "How do you know?" asked Pepper. "I heard them planning," explained Win. "I was up in the woods to-day and I heard some one talking, and I listened to hear who it was." "What did they say?" "Monkey said he guessed there'd be a surprise party here in the morning, when you found you didn't have any boat to row with. Sam asked how they could do it, and Monkey said they would go down to the boathouse to-night, after it got dark, and fix it. Sam didn't want to go very much, but Monkey said it was all right, and nobody would know who did it." "Do you think he meant our shell?" "Sure," replied Win. "He said he was going to get square with Rand Peyton and Pepper Blake. So I hid in the bushes until they went away, and I came down here to tell Gerald." "Thank you, Win," said Rand; "we are ever so much obliged to you." "Don't let them know I told you," pleaded Win, "or they will half kill me for telling." "Sure not," promised Rand. "You can slip off again and no one will know you have been here." "Well, what do you think of that!" exclaimed Pepper, when Win had gone. "Shure, an' phat mischief are ye's plotting now?" demanded Gerald, who came across the lawn as his brother slipped away. "More monkey tricks," responded Rand. "Monkey is going to surprise us to-night." "Is he now?" asked Gerald; "and phat is he up to now?" "He is going to smash the shell so we can't row to-morrow," replied Donald. "Faith, I think he'll find it a hard nut to crack," asserted Gerald, dropping his brogue in his indignation. "Though there isn't anything surprising about that. I don't think Monkey could surprise us, except by trying to be good." "And I don't believe he'll try that," laughed Pepper. "What shall we do about it?" asked Gerald. "Tell the colonel?" "I am no sure there is anything to it," said Donald. "And it may be possible we can take care of Monkey and Sam ourselves. In my opinion, it would no be a bad plan to go down to the boathouse and capture them if they come." "That isn't a bad idea," agreed Rand. "We can slip away, one at a time, so if they see us they won't suspect anything. I will go first and the rest of you can join me later. There isn't any moon to-night, and we can easily find places to hide around the house." "Faith," whispered Gerald, "we'll beat them at their own game." Acting upon Rand's suggestion the boys separated, each taking a different course, meeting later at the boathouse. The place was in darkness when Rand, who was the first to arrive, got there. Making a hasty examination by the light of a match he saw that the shell was all right. Keeping in the dark, he waited until the others, slipping up like so many shadows, had come. "Seen or heard anything?" asked Donald, as they consulted behind the house. "Not a thing," responded Rand. "Perhaps they have given it up." "You can no depend upon what they may do," commented Donald. "That's right, old Solomon," agreed Pepper; "so it's just as well to be prepared for anything." "What shall we do if they come?" asked Donald. "Jump out and scare them to death," suggested Gerald. "No," advised Rand. "Let's give them a chance to get in. If they go to the door or window, Don or I will give the call and we will all rush on them and grab them." "Don't wait too long or they may spoil the shell," said Pepper. "We will just give them a chance to get inside," went on Rand, detailing his plans. "I think it will be better if we each hide in a different place. Pepper can go over there behind those bushes and watch the road. Don can watch the door, and I will go on the other side and look out for the window." "And phat will Oi be doing?" asked Gerald, who could not resist his fun-making instincts. "You can hide down by the shore and watch the river." "We ought to have some kind of a signal if we hear them coming," suggested Pepper. "Like Paul Revere, 'one if by land, and two if by sea,'" quoted Rand. "If you hear them coming down the road, Pepper, you can give the whip-poor-will call, and Gerald, if he hears anything, can give the owl call." "Owl right," responded Gerald, as they each went to their appointed stations. The night was warm and pleasant. No sound, except the soft lapping of the waves on the shore, the chirp of a cricket or the occasional croak of a tree frog, disturbed the quiet of the night. As the time wore on, without any disturbance, the watches began to doze until Gerald was suddenly roused with a start by a splash in the water and saw a boat gliding silently toward the landing. "Faith, it looks as if there might be some fun after all," whispered Gerald to himself, softly hooting a couple of times and concealing himself behind an upturned boat. "What was that?" asked one of the rowers at the sound of Gerald's call. "Aw, it's nothing but an owl," replied the other. "Whatcher 'fraid of?" The boat was now at the landing, and the taller of the two stepping out fastened the boat and went toward the house, calling upon his companion to follow. "There will be some fun here in the morning," chuckied the foremost, whom Gerald now recognized as Monkey Rae. "Sure there ain't anybody 'round?" asked the other, hesitating. "Of course there ain't," responded Monkey confidently. "Aw, come on! What yer 'fraid of? Nobody knows anything about it but you and I, and we ain't a-shoutin' it." "I thought I heard a noise," demurred the other. "Oh, bother!" returned Monkey impatiently. "You're always hearing something." "How are we going to get in?" "Don't worry about that," answered Monkey, "I fixed the window all right to-day." While talking Monkey had opened the window and started to crawl into the house. "If you're afraid to come in," he said scornfully to the other, "stay outside and keep watch. It won't take me more than a minute to crack this shell." At this instant Rand, with a shrill, clear whistle, sprang out from his hiding place and in a moment all was confusion. "Shure, the fat's in the fire now," chuckled Gerald to himself. As the whistle sounded Monkey sprang back through the window, landing in a heap almost at Rand's feet, but was up and off before Rand could get a hold on him, and sped after his companion, who had started off at the first alarm, in a race down the landing to their boat. "Hi! stop them, Gerald!" shouted Rand, dashing after them. Donald, at the alarm, rushed toward the window, and, tripping over a coil of rope, stumbled against a stack of oars, sending them down with a crash that could be heard a mile. Picking himself up, he ran after Rand down the landing. There was a splash in the water, and the sound of rapidly receding oars, but there was no one at the landing. "What has become of Gerald?" asked Rand, looking around. "He can't be far off," replied Donald, "Give him a call." "Hello-o-o, Gerald!" shouted Rand, but Gerald did not answer. "Hello, there! What's ail the noise about?" demanded Colonel Snow, who had followed Pepper onto the landing. "Why, boys, what are you doing here?" "We can't find Gerald," explained Donald, who was looking in ail kinds of impossible places. "I shouldn't think you would in such a place as that," said the colonel, as Donald turned over some small boxes. "What is it now, hide and seek, or has Gerald been losing himself?" "I don't know," replied Rand. "We heard that Monkey Rae was going to smash the shell tonight, so we came down to catch him, but he got away from us." "Monkey Rae again!" exclaimed the colonel. "I should think there was at least half a dozen of him the way he gets around. But what has that got to do with Gerald?" "Why, Gerald was out here on the landing, and now we can't find him. I don't know what has become of him, or if he is just hiding for fun," explained Rand; "though I don't see where he could hide here," he added. "Sure of that?" questioned the colonel. "Let's take another look around." Lighting a lantern from the boathouse they made a thorough search of the place without finding anything of their missing comrade. "Perhaps he got tired of waiting and went home," suggested the colonel. "That wouldn't be Gerald," averred Rand and Donald. "He wouldn't go off and leave us without saying anything and, besides, he was here when they came, for he gave us the signal." "Well, he isn't here now," decided the colonel after another look around. "Hello, Gerald!" he called, and the boys sounded the call on their bugles. "He ought to answer that if he is anywhere around," said Rand. "Do you think they could have carried him off?" asked Pepper. "I don't know what to think," replied the colonel. "It's queer. You boys certainly have an amazing faculty for getting into trouble." "But how did you get here?" asked Rand. "I was just taking a stroll," replied the colonel, "when I heard the noise and came down to see what it was." CHAPTER XXI A SURPRISE "W-W-WHAT was that?" stammered Pepper. "I t-thought I heard a cry. T-t-there it is again," as a faint call came from the river. The three boys were standing on the landing with Colonel Snow, still discussing the mysterious disappearance of Gerald. "T-that you, Gerald?" shouted Pepper. "Where are you?" cried Donald; but, without waiting for a reply, he threw off his coat and shoes and plunged into the river, swimming in the direction from which the cry had come, "He's all right!" came the reassuring cry from Donald a little later. "I have got him," and shortly afterwards reappeared paddling a boat in which was the bewildered Gerald, who was helped onto the landing by the colonel and the others. "H-h-how did you g-get into the boat, Gerald?" asked Pepper when Gerald had somewhat recovered from the effects of his experience. "Did you think it was a good time to take a row?" "It looks that way," replied Gerald. "But when Rand called to me to stop them I ran out to try and head them off, but something gave me a rap on the head and the next thing I knew I found myself lying in that boat. Say, I feel as if I had a head like a pumpkin." "I s-should think it would feel more like a s-squash," commented Pepper. "That is going altogether too far," asserted the colonel indignantly. "It might have had a very serious ending. I think that there is a bad quarter-of-an-hour in store for that Rae boy if I can get hold of him in the morning." As there was no likelihood that Monkey Rae would return to renew his attempt to injure the boat the house was locked and the boys went back to the town discussing, as they went, the events of the evening. The colonel was very indignant. When they came near to the top of the hill they were met by Jack, who was running at full speed down the road. "Hello!" called Rand when he came near. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" "Hello," returned Jack, slowing up and joining the others. "Where have you been? I have been looking all over for you." "Down to the boathouse," replied Rand. "Down to the boathouse!" exclaimed Jack. "What took you down there tonight?" "Why, we heard that Monkey was g-going to s-smash the boat," answered Pepper. "Monkey!" cried Jack. "I wish I had been there----" "Wouldn't have done you any good," said Donald. "He was too quick for us." "Was any one with him?" asked Jack. "Only Sam Tompkins." "Ah!" returned Jack. "What did I tell you?" "Don't know," replied Pepper; "you tell us so many things that we can't remember them all. What did you tell us this time?" "About Monkey Rae and Sam Tompkins, and the queer coins you picked up in the road that day." "I believe you did say something about Monkey and the coins," admitted Donald, "but I no paid much attention to it." "But what has that got to do with the present excitement?" asked Rand. "Listen to this," exclaimed Jack, stopping under an electric light to read a circular that he drew from his pocket. "Three hundred dollars reward. Escaped from jail. Three hundred dollars will be paid for the arrest and detention of one James Rae, alias 'Limpy,' who escaped from the jail at Melton on June fifth. Said Rae is about forty years old, stoutly built, and five feet eight inches in height. Has smooth face, red hair, and walks with a limp. James Robinson, Sheriff." "W-w-why, t-t-that must be M-M-Monkey Rae's father," stammered Pepper when Jack had finished reading. "I knew he was away somewhere, but I didn't know he was in prison." "Shure, there's lots of things ye don't know, me darlint," interjected Gerald. "And he is the man who was with Monkey on the river," added Rand. "And the man that was in the boat the other day," put in Dick. "I hope they catch him!" said Pepper vindictively. "Go for him, Pepper," encouraged Gerald. "And that is what Monkey stole the fish for," continued Pepper. "Of course it was," replied Jack. "Didn't I tell you there was something back of this monkey business?" "But I no see it yet," remarked Donald. "Of course you don't," said Jack. "You want it explained with a diagram. It was Rae who robbed Judge Taylor's office, and Monkey and Sam Tompkins helped him. He was hiding in the woods when we saw him." "But what has that got to do with the coins?" demanded Donald. "Why, they stole them out of the judge's office and lost them where Rand and Pepper found them. I've been studying this thing out ever since the night we were in the judge's office. You see, there was suspicion of some of us and I wanted to clear it off. It's all as clear as day now." "Whin the fog's so thick ye c'ud cut it with a knife," put in Gerald. "Give us a diagram av it." "Why, the robbery was done by Rae and some of his pals," explained Jack. "They sent Monkey up between the buildings and he opened the window and got in and then opened the doors for the others. When they got through all they had to do was to walk out, and Monkey closed and fastened the doors after them and went down the same way as he got in." "But how do you know that Rae did it?" asked Rand. "By putting two and two together," replied Jack. "I knew that the coins you found were like some that had been stolen. Monkey Rae and Sam went over the road just before you found them. They had not been lying there long, or they would have been covered up in the dirt, or some one else would have found them." "'Tis no way impossible," admitted Donald. "Then some of the tools they used had been taken from Wilson's blacksmith shop, and you know Dick said that Monkey and Sam used to come in there almost every day, so that it was quite probable that they took them; that's number two." "Go on," urged Rand. "It is growing interesting." "Well, there isn't much more; but I saw, from this circular, that Rae had escaped from prison, so I concluded that the man we saw in the boat was Rae, and I put the two and two together and worked it out that it was he who robbed the judge's office." "What was he after?" asked Pepper. "I don't know exactly," replied Jack; "but it was papers of some kind." "Well, it does look as if you were right," conceded Donald; "but you haven't got any proof." "No," admitted Jack; "but I have given the officer the tip, and told him about the shack in the woods where Pepper saw Rae. They are going to make a raid on it tomorrow, and perhaps they will find some of the stolen property in their possession; then we have the impression of a hand on this paper, and we can get one of Monkey's hands and see if they aren't the same." "Faith, hunting is wan thing and finding's anither," commented Gerald. Which proved to be quite true in this case, for when the officers reached the cabin in the woods they found it deserted and dismantled. The occupants had evidently taken alarm and disappeared, leaving no trace, although the boys were destined to meet them again under decidedly unpleasant circumstances. CHAPTER XXII THE RACE The race had been set for 9 o'clock in the morning, but, with the sun, there had come up a strong breeze from the west that had stirred up the water into such a lumpy condition that any kind of time would be impossible, and the advantage would be all on the side of the Altons. So the race was put off from time to time in the hope that the wind would die down so as to equalize the chances, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the committee decided to have it rowed, although the wind was still blowing and the water rough. The course, as agreed upon, was a straight-away three miles over a clear stretch of the river from off the Creston landing. "What have you got there?" asked Dick, as Rand pulled a coin from his pocket and began rubbing it up on his sleeve. "That's his mascot," laughed Jack. "It's the coin he found in the road, and he keeps it for luck." "Well, I guess it has its work cut out for it, all right," went on Dick. "He will have his hands full--if it is a he--to keep us in the procession. Alton has a crew of blacksmiths." "So much the more weight to carry," replied Rand, who made the best of everything. "Not much chance for us," put in Jack. "Oh, I don't know," returned Rand. "'Stranger things than that have happened,' as the old woman said when she kissed her cow." "You mean as the man said when he married his cook," corrected Donald. "Well, there wasn't anything strange about that," returned Rand, "if she was a good cook." "Or if her cooking was good," added Jack. "Are you ready, all?" now called the starter, and each one of the different crews grasped his oar with quickened tension as the coxswains responded: "Ready!" and there followed the sharp report of the pistol. As the report rang out the oars of the three crews, all like a piece of accurate machinery, struck the water at the same instant and the boats leaped forward as if shot from a spring. At the start the weight of the Alton crew told, and their boat darted to the front, only to be hugged a moment later by Highpoint, while the Uncas trailed just behind them. "Easy, boys, easy," cautioned Gerald. "There are three miles of it, you know." The three boats were all together. Alton a bit in the lead, but without any daylight showing between them. The Uncas last, but still in the race. "Shure, 'tis foine, ye'r doing," cried Gerald. "Ye have thim all scared. See how they are running away from ye!" For the first mile there was no change, Alton still leading, but the pace was telling, and Highpoint was creeping up--Uncas still in the rear. In the next mile there was still no change in the order, and it looked like Alton's race, but as the second mile was passed Highpoint poked its nose in front, Uncas still hugging them. "Now, then!" cried Gerald, as they entered on the last half mile, "hit it up, boys; we are still in it!" "The mascot's working overtime," panted Dick, "but he's making good." The boys quickened their stroke in response to Gerald's call, and inch by inch, the Uncas pulled up on their rivals and, just as the finish was reached, slid across the line a scant six inches in front. It was only six inches, but enough, and though the boys could scarce sit up, their fatigue was forgotten in the joy of the unexpected victory. "Tra-la-la," trilled Gerald on his bugle, but its notes were drowned by the call of the leader of the Highpoints for three cheers for the Uncas, which were given with a will by both the losing crews. After cheering each other, until they were hoarse, the three crews went their ways with an agreement to row another race later in the season. "That's one for the mascot," drawled Rand, when the boat had been rowed to the landing, where the colonel, with Pepper and others, were waiting for them. "Well, boys," said the colonel, after he had congratulated them on their victory, "you look as if you had been doing a day's work on a farm." "Well, I don't know," responded Rand. "It was hard work, but I think, after all, I had rather be the man with the row than the man with the hoe." "That reminds me--" began Dick. "It does, eh?" questioned Donald. "Well, I don't know why, I am sure." "That, speaking of roses--" went on Dick. "Roses!" ejaculated Jack. "Who said anything about roses?" "Well, talking about roses, anyhow--" continued Dick. "I don't see anything about here to remind you of roses," contended Donald. "Can you tell me," persisted Dick, "what kind of rows never come singly?" "The kind you have to hoe," responded Donald, whose father had a garden. "I guess that's right, Don," agreed the colonel "Shad roes," proclaimed Dick. "Pooh!" sniffed Don; "that has an ancient and fishlike flavor." "Which reminds me," remarked the colonel, "that I provided some refreshments, as a consolation for your defeat, but as you won I suppose you won't care for them now." "Speaking for myself," said Dick modestly; "it sounds good to me." CHAPTER XXIII CONCLUSION "I hope I am not too late to congratulate you on your victory," said a pleasant voice, and the boys looked up to see a young gentleman standing in the doorway of the room, where, having finished the repast the colonel had provided, they were sitting around talking over the details of the race. "I have been looking for you for a couple of weeks," he went on, coming into the room and offering his hand to Rand. "It was a splendid race and pluckily rowed, and you deserved to win." "Thank you," replied Rand. "Did you say you were looking for me?" "For all of you," replied the gentleman. "I see you don't remember me. I am Frank Whilden, whose sister you saved from drowning the other day. Come in, Nellie," he called to a young girl who was standing outside. "These are the young men who came to our rescue." "I just want to thank you all--" began Nellie. "Oh, it was no anything," returned Donald. "It was very much to me," began Nellie. "I mean," explained Donald confusedly "it's no great thing to make a claver about." "But it was a great thing to have saved you," interposed Rand, with an emphasis on the you. "That's very nice," replied Nellie. "Won't you shake hands with me, all around?" "Faith, you won't be asking me twice to do myself the favor," replied Gerald. "Sure I wasn't there to have the pleasure of saving you, but I would have been there if you had sent me word." "Don't forget the most important part, Nellie," her brother reminded her when she had finished shaking hands. "Mother sends her regards to you all," went on Nellie, "and hopes you will accept the little present she has sent you." "But we don't want any reward for what we did," protested Rand. "It was reward enough to have helped you." "This isn't a reward," continued Nellie; "just a little token of her esteem. We had it sent down to-day. Frank and I thought if you didn't win the race it might console you a little. We do hope you will like it." Frank had gone from the room, but returned now with a handsome Dart motorcycle. "Crickets!" cried Pepper. "I-i-it's a beauty, ain't it?" while the boys gathered around it to examine it. "S-s-say----" "Whistle it, Pepper," said Jack. "I don't know what it is you want to say, but I guess we all agree with you." "We can take turns using it." "We can draw lots for the first ride on it." "Or toss up for it," proposed Donald. "I am glad you like it," began Nellie. "We most certainly do," chorused the boys; "and we are ever so much obliged. We couldn't have had anything that would have suited us nearly so well." "There are five more just like it outside," went on Nellie; "one for each of you, and we hope you will get a lot of pleasure from them." "But we can't accept all these," protested Rand, while the others stood silent in stupefied amazement. "Crickets!" exclaimed Pepper. "I will be awful sorry to-morrow." 
61204	----	THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up--some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone." "But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time." "Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough." Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. "We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books." "But he's unhappy." "Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late." Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all the way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or with eyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retire into limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? One thing--when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pants off Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget his punkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressed impulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was no doubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion. So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alone waiting for the breakout call from HQ. "Well, dear, if you say so," Mother said, with the old resigned sigh that must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. "Relax," Wayne said. "You're not going anywhere tonight." "What, son?" his old man said uneasily. "Sure we are. We're going to the movies." He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn't answer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then was silent. "Okay, go," Wayne said. "If you wanta walk. I'm taking the family boltbucket." "But we promised the Clemons, dear," his mother said. "Hell," Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. "I just got my draft call." He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. "Oh, my dear boy," Mother cried out. "So gimme the keys," Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. His understanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. "Do be careful, dear," his mother said. She ran toward him as he laughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomed the Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramp onto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-calling neon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailed the glaring wonders of escape. * * * * * He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strode under a sign reading _Public Youth Center No. 947_ and walked casually to the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and a pansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. "Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?" Wayne grinned down. "Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey." "Well," the sergeant said. "How tough we are this evening. You have a pass, killer?" "Wayne Seton. Draft call." "Oh." The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wrote on a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. "Go to the Armory and check out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report to Captain Jack, room 307." "Thanks, sarge dear," Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne. Finally he said, "So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kid breaking out tonight?" "Hold your teeth, pop," Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting a cigarette. "I've decided." The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement. "Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city and you're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babes are clever hellcats in a dark alley." "You must be a genius," Wayne said. "A corporal with no hair and still a counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad." The corporal sighed wearily. "You can get that balloon head ventilated, bud, and good." Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward the shelves and racks of weapons. "I'll remember that crack when I get my commission." He blew smoke in the corporal's face. "Bring me a Smith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw in a Skelly switchblade for kicks--the six-inch disguised job with the double springs." The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchblade disguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger, while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled the cylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slipped the knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at its gleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refracted incandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting and scary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his left armpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling the way the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacket back on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward the elevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, "Good luck, tiger." Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive with stuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. Captain Jack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It had a head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed to shrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a pea among bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggy head. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. "Wayne Seton," said Captain Jack as if he were discussing something in a bug collection. "Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you? Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?" "Yes, sir," Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos. His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fear the way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'll show you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat until he screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him, ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. But that wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy, what was he doing holding down a desk? "Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterfly collection." The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inch from Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clamped a knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. "All right, superboy." He handed Wayne his passcard. "Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to make out." "Yes, sir." "Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the West Side. Know where that is, punk?" "No, sir, but I'll find it fast." "Sure you will, punk," smiled Captain Jack. "She'll be wearing yellow slacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a hefty psycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people. They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go and they're your key to the stars." "Yes, sir," Wayne said. "So run along and make out, punk," grinned Captain Jack. * * * * * A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of bright respectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop's quivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. The Olds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming from Slumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind. He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale, secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pitted potholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells. Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breath through the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling with the shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiously into it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy as he spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. _FOUR ACES CLUB_ He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, digging the sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brass filtering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out of a bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoaked shirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grub balanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight had a dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in a grotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror and doom. "I gotta hide, kid. They're on me." Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. "Help me, kid." He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blast of headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushed past Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tires squealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out and crouched as he began stalking the old rummy. "This is him! This is him all right," the teener yelled, and one hand came up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. The teener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the air as the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonder at finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfew and no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything. Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless, until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. He held his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved in spirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a hunting license and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teener laughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yell clogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouth still open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curled up with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and down with his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into the Cad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of falling glass. "Go, man!" The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as it bounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished like bright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying in scummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, made his heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... and pursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. * * * * * He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness and stood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt and yellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift. The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a red slash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager for running, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table near her, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitude of being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in a weirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirty T-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouse heavy. "What's yours, teener?" the slug-faced waiter asked. "Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo," Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. "Sure, teener." Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched and fed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. She sat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttons imbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on one side. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furious cat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk at his lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentrated on staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes bright but dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared little mouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was in the pay of the state. "What else, teener?" "One thing. Fade." "Sure, teener," the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled his veins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumped fast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped the air. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, the white eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at her throat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. "Okay, you creep," Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a table crashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blast filled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the door holding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and was out the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt the cold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinted down the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now and then, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with the life-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots. Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling, sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And her scream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. * * * * * She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire with terror. "You, baby," Wayne gasped. "I gotcha." She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall, her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gave a squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked. He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitated in the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose trickling plaster, a whimpering whine. "No use running," Wayne said. "Go loose. Give, baby. Give now." She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her, feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through a sagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse's shadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railing ripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. He heard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded from cracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into the third-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under the jagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listening to his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. In the corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More like a nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior, shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under the moon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. He snickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent's tongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rotten cloth. "Do it quick, hunter," she whispered. "Please do it quick." "What's that, baby?" "I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know the difference." "I'm gonna bruise and beat you," he said. "Kill me first," she begged. "I don't want--" She began to cry. She cried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouth open. "You got bad blood, baby," he snarled. He laughed but it didn't sound like him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. "Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry." She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring up at him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned and shuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging and clutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. "Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh, God, I'm so tired waiting and running!" "I can't," he said, and sickness soured in his throat. "Please." "I can't, I can't!" He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. * * * * * Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center, studied Wayne with abstract interest. "You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?" "Yes, sir." "But you couldn't execute them?" "No, sir." "They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?" "Yes, sir." "The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girl killed her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing can be done for them? That they have to be executed?" "I know." "Too bad," the doctor said. "We all have aggressive impulses, primitive needs that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in all of us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but _educated_. The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around, Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter, Seton?" "I--felt sorry for her." "Is that all you can say about it?" "Yes, sir." The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. "You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's still in there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later--and maybe shed clean innocent blood, can I?" "No, sir," Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. "I'm sorry I punked out." "Give him the treatment," the doctor said wearily. "And send him back to his mother." Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to split open some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But there was no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and his poker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. 
45582	----	Transcriber's Note: Obvious errors have been corrected, and the illustrations have been moved. A full list of changes can be found at the end of this book. [Illustration: "THE BEAR CAME BOUNDING AFTER THEM!"] JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB Or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail BY CLARENCE YOUNG AUTHOR OF "JACK RANGER'S SCHOOLDAYS," "JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP," "JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE," "THE MOTOR BOYS," "THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY CLARENCE YOUNG THE JACK RANGER SERIES 12mo. Finely Illustrated JACK RANGER'S SCHOOLDAYS Or The Rivals of Washington Hall JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP Or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES Or Track, Gridiron and Diamond JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE Or The Wreck of the Polly Ann JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB Or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES (_Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of._) 12mo. Illustrated THE MOTOR BOYS Or Chums Through Thick and Thin THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND Or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO Or The Secret of the Buried City THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS Or The Hermit of Lost Lake THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT Or The Stirring Cruise of the Dartaway THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC Or The Mystery of the Lighthouse THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS Or Lost in a Floating Forest THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC Or The Young Derelict Hunters THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS Or A Trip for Fame and Fortune Copyright, 1910, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Jack Wins a Race 1 II The New Boy 12 III A Curious Lad 22 IV Bully Snaith 30 V A German-French Alliance 36 VI A Snowstorm 46 VII A Strange Confession 55 VIII The Midnight Feast 64 IX An Alarm of Fire 71 X Saving the Flags 78 XI The Gun Club 85 XII Will Runs Away 93 XIII Off on the Trip 101 XIV The Broken Train 108 XV Jack Meets a Girl 117 XVI A Dangerous Descent 125 XVII Thirsty on the Desert 133 XVIII Lost in the Bad Lands 146 XIX A Perilous Slide 155 XX Long Gun Is Afraid 162 XXI The Deadly Gas 171 XXII An Unexpected Encounter 178 XXIII Another Night Scare 184 XXIV Jack Gets a Bear 191 XXV Some Peculiar Marks 199 XXVI The Spring Trap 206 XXVII Ordered Back 212 XXVIII Will Saves Jack's Life 223 XXIX The Blizzard 231 XXX Jack's Hazardous Plan 238 XXXI A Perilous Ride 245 XXXII Into a Strange Camp 254 XXXIII Held Captives 262 XXXIV The Mystery Explained 272 XXXV Jack Meets Mabel--Conclusion. 283 JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB CHAPTER I JACK WINS A RACE "Now, then, are you all ready?" "I'm as ready as I ever shall be," answered Jack Ranger, in reply to the question from Sam Chalmers. "Let her go!" "Wait a minute," cried Dock Snaith. "I want to put a little more oil on my oarlocks." "Oh, you're always fussing about something, Dock," said Sam. "It looks as if you didn't want to go into this race after all your boasting." "That's what it does," came from Nat Anderson. "Hu! Think I can't beat Jack Ranger?" replied Dock with a sneer as he began putting more oil on the oarlock sockets. "I could beat him rowing with one hand." "Get out!" cried Sam. "You've got a swelled head, Dock." "I have, eh?" "Now are you ready?" asked Sam again, as he stepped forward and raised the pistol, ready to fire the starting shot in a small race between Jack Ranger, one of the best-liked students at Washington Hall, and Dock Snaith, a bullying sort of chap, but who, in spite of his rather mean ways, had some friends. "I guess I'm all ready now," replied Dock, as he got on the center of the seat and adjusted the oars. "Better send for your secretary to make sure," said Nat Anderson, and at this there was a laugh from the students who had gathered to see the contest. "Rusticating rowlocks, but you're slow!" "You mind your own business, Anderson," came from the bully, "or I'll make you." "It'll take more than you to make me," responded Nat boldly, for more than once he had come into conflict with Snaith and did not fear him. "It will, eh? Well, if I can get out of this boat----" "Aw, go on! Row if you're going to!" exclaimed Sam. "Think I haven't anything to do except stay here and start this race? You challenged Jack, now go ahead and beat him--if you can." "Yes, come on," added Jack, a tall, good-looking, bronzed youth, who sat on the seat in the small boat, impatiently moving the oars slowly to and fro. "Oh, I'll beat you," said the bully confidently. "You can give the word whenever you're ready, Chalmers." "Ah! that's awfully kind of you, really it is," said Jack in a high, falsetto voice, which produced another laugh. Dock Snaith scowled at Jack, but said nothing. There was a moment's delay, while Sam looked down the course to see if all was clear on Rudmore Lake, where the contest was taking place. "I'm going to fire!" cried Sam. The two contestants gripped their oars a little more firmly, they leaned forward, ready to plunge them into the water and pull a heavy stroke at the sound of the pistol. Their eyes were bright with anticipation, and their muscles tense. Crack! There was a puff of white smoke, a little sliver of flame, hardly noticeable in the bright October sunlight; then came a splash in the water as the broad blades were dipped in, and the race was on. "Jack's got the lead! Jack's ahead!" cried the friends of our hero, as they ran along the shore of the lake. "Dock is only tiring him out," added the adherents of the school bully. "He'll come in strong at the finish." "He will if he doesn't tire out," was Nat Anderson's opinion. "Dock smokes too many cigarettes to be a good oarsman." "I suppose you think Ranger will have it all his own way?" spoke Pud Armstrong, a crony of Snaith. "Not necessarily," was Nat's answer as he jogged along. "But I think he's the better rower." "We'll see," sneered Pud. "Yes, we'll see," admitted Nat. The two contestants were now rowing steadily. They had a little over a mile to go to reach the Point, as it was called; that being the usual limit of impromptu racing events. The contest between Jack Ranger and Dock Snaith was the result of an argument on oarsmanship, which had taken place in the school gym the night before. It was shortly after the opening of the term at Washington Hall, and in addition to football, which would soon be in full sway, there was rowing to occupy the attention of the students, for the lake, on the shores of which the academy was situated, was well adapted for aquatic sports. The talk had turned on who were the best individual oarsmen in the school, and Jack Ranger's friends lost no time in mentioning him as the champion, for more than once he had demonstrated that in a single shell, or a large, eight-oared one, he could pull a winning stroke. Dock Snaith's admirers were not slow in advocating his powers, and the bully, not at all backward to boast of his own abilities, had challenged Jack to a small race the next day. Jack had consented, and the contest was now under way. "Jack's going to walk right away from him," said Dick Balmore, otherwise known as "Bony," from the manner in which his inner skeleton was visible through his skin, and from a habit he had of cracking his knuckles. "Don't be too sure," cautioned Sam. "Snaith has lots of muscle. Our only hope is that he won't last. His wind isn't very good, and Jack has set him a fast clip." "Go on, Dock," cried Pud Armstrong. "Go on! You can do him easy!" Dock nodded, the boats both being so close to shore that ordinary conversation could easily be heard. "That's the stuff, Jack!" cried Nat Anderson. "Keep it up!" Jack had increased his stroke two or three more per minute, and Dock found it necessary to do likewise, in order not to get too far behind. He was letting his rival set the pace, and so far had been content merely to trail along, with the sharp bow of his frail craft lapping the stern of Jack's a few feet. "Dock's holding back for the finish," remarked Pud as he raced along, and in passing Nat he dug his elbow into the side of Jack's chum. "Well, if he is, that's no reason why you should try to puncture my inner tubes," expostulated Nat. "I'll pitch you into the lake if you do that again." "Aw, you're getting mad 'cause Jack's going to lose," sneered Pud. "That's what he is," added Glen Forker, another crony of the bully. "Am I? Just wait," was all Nat answered as he rubbed his ribs. "Slithering side saddles! but you gave me a dig!" The contestants were now rowing more rapidly, and the students on shore, who were following the race, had to increase their pace to keep up to them. "Hit it up a little, Jack!" called Sam. "You've got him breathing hard." "He has--not! I'm--I'm all right," answered Dock from his boat, and very foolishly, too, for he was getting winded, and he needed to save all his breath, and not waste it in talking. Besides, the halting manner in which he answered showed his condition. Sam noticed it at once. "You've got him! You've got him, Jack!" he cried exultantly. "Go on! Row hard!" "Say, that ain't fair!" cried Pud Armstrong. "What isn't?" asked Sam. "Telling Jack like that. Let him find out about Dock." "I guess I know what's fair," replied Sam with a withering look. "I'll call all I want to, and don't you interfere with me, or it won't be healthy for you." Pud subsided. Sam Chalmers was the foremost authority, among the students, on everything connected with games and sports, for he played on the football eleven, on the nine, and was a general leader. "You'd better hit it up a bit, Dock," was Glen Forker's advice to his crony, as he saw Jack's lead increasing. "Beat him good and proper." "He'll have to get up earlier in the morning if he wants to do that," commented Bony Balmore, as he cracked his big knuckles in his excitement. And it was high time for Dock to do some rowing. Jack had not been unaware of his rival's difficulty, and deciding that the best way to win the race would be to make a spurt and tire him out before the finish, he "hit up a faster clip," the broad blades of the oars dipping into the water, coming out and going in again with scarcely a ripple. "There he goes! There he goes!" cried Sam. "That's the ticket, Jack!" "Go on! Go on!" yelled Nat. "Get right after him, Dock," advised Pud. "You can beat him! Do it!" cried Glen. But it was easier said than done. Jack was rowing his best, and when our hero did that it was "going some," as Sam used to say. He had opened up quite a stretch of water between his boat and Dock's, and the bully, with a quick glance over his shoulder, seeing this, resolved to close it up and then pass his rival. There was less than a quarter of a mile to the finish, and he must needs row hard if he was to win. Dock bent to the task. He was a powerfully built lad, and had he been in good condition there is no question but what he could have beaten Jack. But cigarette-smoking, an occasional bottle of beer, late hours and too much rich food had made him fat, and anything but an ideal athlete. Still he had plenty of "row" left in him yet, as he demonstrated a few seconds later, when by increasing not only the number of his strokes per minute, but also putting more power into them, he crept up on Jack, until he was even with him. Jack rowed the same rate he had settled on to pull until he was within a short distance of the finish. He was saving himself for a spurt. Suddenly Dock's boat crept a little past Jack's. "There he goes! There he goes!" cried Pud, capering about on the bank in delight. "What did I tell you?" "He'll win easy," was Glen's opinion. "It isn't over yet," remarked Nat quietly, but he glanced anxiously at Sam, who shook his head in a reassuring manner. Dock began to increase his lead. Jack looked over his shoulder for one glance at his rival's boat. The two were now rowing well and swiftly. "Go on, Jack! Go on! Go on!" begged Bony, cracking his eight fingers and two thumbs in rapid succession, like a battery of popguns. "Don't let him beat you!" Dock was now a boat's length ahead, and rowing well, but a critical observer could notice that his breathing distressed him. "Now's your chance, Jack!" yelled Sam. But Jack did not need any one to tell him. Another glance over his shoulder at his rival showed him that the time had come to make the spurt. He leaned forward, took a firmer grip on the ash handles, and then gave such an exhibition of rowing as was seldom seen at Washington Hall. Dock saw his enemy coming, and tried to stave off defeat, but it was no use. He was completely fagged out. Jack went right past him, "as if Dock was standing still," was the way Sam expressed it. "Go on! Go on!" screamed Pud. "You've got to row, Dock!" But Dock could not imitate the pace that Jack had set. He tried, but the effort was saddening. He splashed, and the oars all but slipped from his hands. His heart was fluttering like that of a wounded bird. "You've got him! You've got him, Jack!" yelled Nat; and, sure enough, Jack Ranger had. On and on he rowed, increasing every second the open water between his boat and his rival's, until he shot past the Point, a winner by several lengths. "That's the way to do it!" "I knew he'd win!" "Three cheers for Jack Ranger!" These, and other cries of victory, greeted our hero's ears as he allowed his oars to rest on the water flat, while he recovered his wind after the heart-breaking finish. "Well, Dock could beat him if he was in training," said Pud doggedly. "That's what he could," echoed Glen. "Not in a thousand years!" was Nat's positive assertion. The boys crowded to the float that marked the finish of the course. Jack reached it first, and stepped out of his shell, being greeted by his friends. Then Dock rowed slowly up. His distress showed plainly in his puffy, white face. He got out clumsily, and staggered as he clambered upon the float. "Hard luck, old man," said Jack good-humoredly. "I don't want your sympathy!" snapped Dock. "I'll row you again, and I'll beat you!" Jack had held out his hand, but the bully ignored it. He turned aside, and whether the float tilted, or whether Snaith tottered because of a cramp in his leg, was never known, but he staggered for a moment, tried unsuccessfully to recover his balance, and then plunged into the lake at one of the deepest spots, right off the float. CHAPTER II THE NEW BOY "There goes Dock!" "Pull him out!" "Yes, before he gets under the float!" "He can't swim! He's too exhausted!" These were some of the expressions the excited lads shouted as they surged forward to look at the spot where Dock had disappeared. A string of bubbles and some swirling eddies were all that marked the place. The float began to tilt with the weight of so many boys on one edge. "Stand back!" cried Jack Ranger. "Stand back, or we'll all be in the lake!" They heeded his words, and moved toward the middle of the platform. "Some one ought to go in after him," said Pud Armstrong, his teeth fairly chattering from fright and nervousness. "I--I can't swim." "Look out!" cried Jack. "I'm going in!" He began pulling off the sweater which some of the lads had helped put on him, when he stepped from the shell all perspiration. He poised for an instant on the edge of the float, looking down into the dark waters, beneath which Dock had disappeared, and then dived in. "Get one of the boats out. Maybe he won't come up near the float," ordered Sam Chalmers, and several lads hurriedly shoved out into the lake a broad barge, which could safely be used by Jack in getting Dock out of the water, if he was fortunate enough to find the youth. "Queer he doesn't come up," spoke Glen in a whisper. "Who--Dock or Jack?" asked Bony, cracking his finger knuckles in double relays. "Dock." "He's too exhausted," replied Bony. "Can't swim. But Jack'll get him." How long it seemed since Jack had dived down! The swirl he made had subsided, and the water was almost calm again. Anxiously the lads on the float and shore watched to see him reappear. Would he come up alone, or would he bring Dock with him? "Maybe Jack hit his head on something," suggested Nat. "Jack knows how to dive, and it's deep here," said Sam. "I guess he'll come up all right, but----" He did not finish the sentence. At that moment there was a disturbance beneath the surface of the lake. A head bobbed up. "There's Jack!" cried Bony delightedly. A white arm shot up and began sweeping the water. "He's got him!" yelled Nat. "He's got Dock!" Sure enough, Jack had come to the surface, encircling in his left arm the unconscious form of Dock Snaith, while with his sturdy right he was swimming slowly toward the float. "The boat! the boat! It's nearer!" cried Sam, for Jack had come up at some distance from the little pier and closer to the rowboat which had put out from shore. Jack heard and understood. Turning, he began swimming toward the craft, and the lads in it rowed toward him. A few seconds later Jack had clutched the gunwale, holding Dock's head out of water. Several eager hands reached down to grasp our hero. "Take--take him first," he said pantingly. "I'm--I'm all right." Dock was hauled into the boat. "Now row ashore. I'll swim it," went on Jack. "Get the water out of him as soon as you can. He--he was right on the bottom. Struck--struck on the--on the float, I guess." "We'll take you in," cried Bob Movel. "Sure! There's lots of room," added Fred Kaler. "No. Get Dock on shore," ordered Jack, and they obeyed. Relieved of his burden, and having recovered his wind, Jack swam slowly to the float. The boat reached it some time ahead of him, and Dock was lifted out, while, under the direction of Sam Chalmers, the students administered first aid to the drowned. Dock was turned over on his face, a roll of coats having been placed under his stomach to aid in forcing the water out of him. There was no need to remove his clothing, as he and Jack were clad only in rowing trunks and light shirts. "Now turn him over on his back and hold out his tongue, fellows," directed Sam, and this was done, the tongue being held by Nat Anderson, who used his handkerchief to prevent it slipping away. This was done so that it might not fall back into the throat and prevent Dock from breathing. "Now work his arms! Over his head! Press up his diaphragm and start artificial respiration," went on Sam, and under the ministrations of the lads, Dock soon began to breathe again. He sighed, took in a long breath naturally, opened his eyes, and gasped feebly. "He's all right now," said Sam in a relieved tone. "How do you feel, Dock?" "All--right--I--guess. My head----" He closed his eyes again. Sam passed his hand over the prostrate lad's skull. "He's got a nasty cut there," he said, as he felt of a big lump, "but I guess it's not serious. We must get him up to the school." "Come on, let's carry him," suggested Nat. "Never mind--here comes Hexter!" cried Bony. As he spoke the chug-chugging of an automobile was heard, and a touring car came along the road down to the float. It was a machine kept at Washington Hall, and used by the teachers, and, occasionally, when Hexter, the chauffeur, would allow it, by the students. "Dr. Mead sent me down to see what the matter was," said Hexter as he stopped the car. "He saw a crowd on the float and thought something might have happened." "There has," replied Sam. "Here, Hexter, help us get Dock into the car, and then throw on all the speed you've got, if you have to blow out a spark-plug." "Is he--is he dead?" asked Hexter quickly. "No; only stunned. Lively, now!" Hexter aided the boys in lifting Dock into the machine, and then he made speed to the school, where the injured lad was cared for by Dr. Henry Mead, the master of Washington Hall. "Well, that was an exciting finish to the race," remarked Jack as he walked up from the float to the shore, surrounded by some of his chums, after Dock had been taken away. "He oughtn't to try to row," said Fred Kaler. "He hasn't got the staying powers." "Well, he didn't have to-day," observed Jack; "but if he would only train, he'd make a good oarsman. He's got lots of muscle. I hope he isn't hurt much." "He'll be all right in a few days," was Nat's opinion. "Say, Jack, but you're shivering." "Yes, that water's a little cooler than it was Fourth of July." "Here, put a couple of sweaters on," went on Nat, and soon Jack was warmly wrapped up. "Now run up and change your duds," advised Bony, and Jack broke into a dog-trot, his friends trailing along behind him and discussing the race and the accident. While they are thus engaged I will take the opportunity to tell you a little something about Jack Ranger and his friends, so that you who have not previously read of him may feel better acquainted with our hero. The first volume of this series was called "Jack Ranger's Schooldays," and in it there was related some of the fun Jack and his special friend, Nat Anderson, had in their native town of Denton. So exciting were some of their escapades that it was decided to send them off to boarding-school, and Washington Hall, sometimes called Lakeside Academy, from the fact that it was located on the shore of Lake Rudmore, was selected. There Jack made friends with most of the students, including some who have already been mentioned in this present tale. He incurred the enmity of a bully, Jerry Chowden, who, however, was not now at the academy, as you will presently learn. Jack's home was with three maiden aunts, the Misses Angelina, Josephine and Mary Stebbins, who took good care of him. In the first volume there was related something of a certain mystery concerning Jack's father, Robert Ranger, and how he had to go into hiding in the West because of complications over a land deal. In the second volume of the series, "Jack Ranger's Western Trip," was related what happened to Jack, Nat Anderson, and a half-breed Indian, John Smith, whose acquaintance Jack had made at Washington Hall, when they went West in search of Mr. Ranger. They journeyed to a ranch, owned by Nat's uncle, and they had many exciting times, not a few of which were caused by a certain faker, whose real name was Hemp Smith, but who assumed the title Marinello Booghoobally, and various other appellations as suited his fancy. Mr. Ranger was located, but only after the boys had suffered many hardships and gone through not a few perils, and Jack was happy to be able to bring his father back East, there being no longer any reason for Mr. Ranger remaining in exile. "Jack Ranger's School Victories," was the title of the third volume, and in that was told of Jack's successes on track, gridiron and diamond. Hemp Smith and Jerry Chowden made trouble for him, but he bested them. He had plenty of fun, for which two teachers at the school, Professor Socrat, an instructor in French, and Professor Garlach, a German authority, furnished an excuse. But Jack's activities did not all center about the school. There was told in the fourth volume, "Jack Ranger's Ocean Cruise," what happened to him and his chums when they went camping one summer. Jack, Nat Anderson, Sam Chalmers, Bony Balmore, and an odd character, Budge Rankin, who chewed gum and ran his words together, went off to live in the woods, near the seacoast, for a few weeks. There they fell in with a scoundrel named Jonas Lavine, who was aided in his plots by Jerry Chowden and Hemp Smith. Jack and his chums stumbled upon a printing plant, maintained in a cave by Lavine and his confederates, where bogus bonds were made. Before they had time to inform the authorities Jack and Nat were captured by Lavine and sent to sea in a ship in charge of Captain Reeger, a tool of Lavine. Jack learned that Captain Reeger wanted to be freed from the toils of Lavine, and our hero agreed to assist him, in return for which the captain said he would aid Jack. Jack and Nat managed to get out of the cabin in which they were confined. As they were about to escape from the _Polly Ann_ a terrible storm came up, and the ship was wrecked. But not before Jerry Chowden had boarded her, to help in keeping Jack and Nat captives. They had many hardships, afloat on a raft in a fog, and saved Jerry Chowden from drowning. Finally they were rescued, and Lavine and his confederates were arrested, Captain Reeger being exonerated. Jerry Chowden fled to the West, fearing arrest should he remain in the East. Jack and his chums were reunited, and they again enjoyed life under the canvas, until it was time to resume their studies at Washington Hall, where the opening of this story finds them. As Jack and his chums walked up the gravel path to the dormitories, where our hero intended to get into dry clothes, the group of youths chatting eagerly of the events which had just taken place passed a lad standing beneath a clump of trees. The latter, instead of coming to join the throng, turned away. "Who's that?" asked Jack of Bony Balmore. "I don't remember to have seen him before." "He's a new boy," replied Bony, cracking three finger knuckles in his absent-minded way. "What's his name?" "Will Williams." "Looks like a nice sort of chap," added Nat. "But his face is sad," said Jack slowly. "I wonder why he should be sad when he's at such a jolly place as Washington Hall?" "Maybe he's lonesome," suggested Fred Kaler. "Give him a tune on your mouth-organ, and he'll be more so," spoke Bob Movel, but he took good care to get beyond the reach of Fred's fist, at this insult to his musical abilities. "Let's make friends with him," went on Jack. "Hey, Williams, come on over and get acquainted," he called. But the new boy, instead of answering, or turning to join the happy crowd of students, kept on walking away. "That's funny," said Jack, with a puzzled look at his chums. "Fellows, there's something wrong about that boy. I can tell by his face, and I'm going to find out what it is." "You'd better get dry first," suggested Nat. "I will, but later I'm going to make that lad's acquaintance. He looks as if he needed a friend." CHAPTER III A CURIOUS LAD "There's Hexter!" exclaimed Jack as he saw the chauffeur slowly running the automobile to the garage. "Hello, Hexter, is Snaith all right?" "I think so," replied the automobilist. "Dr. Mead says the hurt on his head doesn't amount to much, and that he is suffering mostly from shock. He'll be all right in a day or so." "That's good," said Jack. "I don't want him to be laid up right after I won the race from him." The students began to disperse, Jack to remove his wet clothes, and the others to retire to their rooms to get ready for the summons to supper, which would soon sound. "Why, Mr. Ranger!" exclaimed Socker, the janitor at Washington Hall, as he saw Jack entering the gymnasium, "you're all wet." "Yes, it's a trifle difficult to fall in the lake and keep dry, especially at this time of year," went on Jack. "But I say, Socker, get me a couple of good, dry, heavy towels, will you? I want to take a rub-down." "I certainly will, Mr. Ranger. So you fell in the lake, eh?" "No, I jumped in." "Jumped in? Why, that reminds me of what happened when I was fighting in the Battle of the Wilderness, in the Civil War. We were on the march, and we came to a little stream. The captain called for us to jump over, but----" "Say, Socker, if it's all the same to you will you chop that off there, and make it continued in our next? I'm cold, and I want to rub-down. Get me the towels, and then I'll listen to that yarn. If there's one kind of a story I like above all others, it's about war. I want to hear what happened, but not now." "Do you really? Then I'll tell you after you've rubbed down," and Socker hurried off after the towels. He was always telling of what he called his war experiences, though there was very much doubt that he had ever been farther than a temporary camp. He repeated the same stories so often that the boys had become tired of them, and lost no chance to escape from his narratives. "There you are, Mr. Ranger," went on the janitor as he came back with the towels. "Now, as soon as you're dry I'll tell you that story about the Battle of the Wilderness." "You'll not if I know it," said Jack to himself, as he went in the room where the shower-baths were, to take a warm one. "I'll sneak out the back way." Which he did, after his rub-down, leaving Socker sitting in the main room of the gym, waiting for him, and wondering why the lad did not come out to hear the war story. Jack reached his room, little the worse for his experience at the lake. He possessed a fine appetite, which he was soon appeasing by vigorous attacks on the food in the dining-room. "I say, Jack," called Nat, "have you heard the latest?" "What's that? Has the clock struck?" inquired Jack, ready to have some joke sprung on him. "No, but Fred Kaler has composed a song about the race and your rescue. He's going to play it on the mouth-organ, and sing it at the same time to-night." "I am not, you big duffer!" cried Fred, throwing a generous crust of bread at Nat, but first taking good care to see that Martin, the monitor, was not looking. "Sure he is," insisted Nat. "Tell him how it goes," suggested Bony. "It's to the tune of 'Who Put Tacks in Willie's Shoes?'" went on Nat, "and the first verse is something like this----" "Aw, cheese it, will you?" pleaded Fred, blushing, but Nat went on: "You have heard about the glorious deeds Of the brave knights of old, But our Jack Ranger beats them all-- He jumped in waters cold And rescued one whom he had beat In a race that he had led, And while he strove to find him, Unto me these words he said: "Chorus: "'Never fear, I will rescue you, Dock-- Around you my arms I will lock. I will pull you right out of the hole in the lake, And then upon shore I will you safely take. For though you tried to beat me, In a boat race, tried and true, I came out ahead, Dock, so Wait and I'll rescue you!'" "How's that?" asked Nat, amid laughter. "Punk!" cried one student. "Put it on ice!" added another. "Can it!" "Cage it!" "Put salt on its tail! It's wild!" "Put a new record in; that one scratches." These were some of the calls that greeted Nat's rendition of what he said was Fred's song. "I never made that up!" cried the musical student. "I can make better verse than that." "Go on, give us the tune," shouted Sam. "That's right--make him play," came a score of calls. "Order, young gentlemen, order!" suddenly interrupted the harsh voice of Martin, the monitor. "I shall be obliged to report you to Dr. Mead unless you are more quiet." "Send in Professors Socrat and Garlach," advised Jack. "They can keep order." "That's it, and we'll get them to sing Fred's song," added Sam Chalmers. "Ranger--Chalmers--silence!" ordered Martin, and not wishing to be sent to Dr. Mead's office the two lively students, as well as their no less fun-loving companions, subsided. Quiet finally reigned in the regions of Washington Hall, for the students had to retire to their rooms to study. There were mysterious whisperings here and there, however, and occasionally shadowy forms moved about the corridors, for, in spite of rules against it, the lads would visit each other in their rooms after hours. Several called on Jack to see how he felt after his experience. They found him and Nat Anderson busy looking over some gun catalogues. "Going in for hunting?" asked Sam. "Maybe," replied Jack. "Say, there are some dandy rifles in this book, and they're cheap, too. I'd like to get one." "So would I," added Sam. "And go hunting," put in Bony, cracking his finger knuckles, as if firing off an air-rifle. "It would be sport to organize a gun club, and do some hunting," went on Jack. "Only I'd like to shoot bigger game than there is around here. Maybe we can----" "Hark, some one's coming! It's Martin," said Fred Kaler in a whisper. Jack's hand shot out and quickly turned down the light. Then he bounded into bed, dressed as he was. Nat followed his example. It was well that they did so, for a moment later there came a knock on their door, and the voice of Martin, the monitor, asked: "Ranger, are you in bed?" "Yes," replied our hero. "Anderson, are you in bed?" "Yes, Martin." "Humph! I thought I heard voices in your room." Jack replied with a snore, and the monitor passed on. "You fellows had better take a sneak," whispered Jack, when Martin's footsteps had died away. "He's watching this room, and he may catch you." The outsiders thought this was good advice, and soon Nat and Jack were left alone. "Did you mean that about a gun club?" asked Nat. "Sure," replied his chum, "but we'll talk about it to-morrow. Better go to sleep. Martin will be sneaking around." Jack was up early the next morning, and went down to the lake for a row before breakfast. As he approached the float, where he kept his boat, he saw a student standing there. "That looks like the new chap--Will Williams," he mused. "I'll ask him to go for a row." He approached the new lad, and was again struck by a peculiar look of sadness on his face. "Good-morning," said Jack pleasantly. "My name is Ranger. Wouldn't you like to go for a row?" Will Williams turned and looked at Jack for several seconds without speaking. He did not seem to have heard what was said. "Perhaps he's a trifle deaf," thought Jack, and he asked again more loudly: "Wouldn't you like to go for a row?" "I don't row," was the answer, rather snappily given. "Well, I guess I can manage to row both of us," was our hero's reply. "No, I'm not fond of the water." "Perhaps you like football or baseball better," went on Jack, a little puzzled. "We have a good eleven." "I'm not allowed to play football." "Maybe you'd like to go for a walk," persisted Jack, who had the kindest heart in the world, and who felt sorry for the lonely new boy. "I'll show you around. I understand you just came." "Yes; I arrived yesterday morning." "Would you like to take a walk? I don't know but what I'd just as soon do that as row." "No, I--I don't care for walking." The lad turned aside and started away from the lake, without even so much as thanking Jack for his effort to make friends with him. "Humph!" mused Jack as he got into his boat. "You certainly are a queer customer. Just like a snail, you go in your house and walk off with it. There's something wrong about you, and I'm going to find out what it is. Don't like rowing, don't like walking, afraid of the water--you certainly are queer." CHAPTER IV BULLY SNAITH "Hello, Dock, I'm glad to see you out of the hospital," remarked Jack one morning about a week later, when his boating rival was walking down the campus. "You had quite a time of it." "Yes," admitted Snaith, "I got a nasty bump on the head. Say, Ranger, I haven't had a chance to thank you for pulling me out. I'm much obliged to you." "Oh, that's all right. Don't mention it," answered Jack. "If I hadn't done it, some one else would." "Well, I'm glad you did. But say, I still think I can beat you rowing. Want to try it again?" "I won't mind, when you think you're well enough." "Oh, I'll be all right in a day or so." "Be careful. You don't want to overdo yourself." "Oh, I'll beat you next time. But I want to race for money. What do you say to twenty-five dollars as a side bet?" "No, thanks, I don't bet," replied Jack quietly. "Hu! Afraid of losing the money, I s'pose," sneered Dock. "No, but I don't believe in betting on amateur sport." "Well, if you think you can beat me, why don't you bet? It's a chance to make twenty-five." "Because I don't particularly need the money; and when I race I like to do it just for the fun that's in it." "Aw, you're no sport," growled Snaith as he turned aside. "I thought you had some spunk." "So I have, but I don't bet," replied Jack quickly. He felt angry at the bully, but did not want to get into a dispute with him. "Hello, Dock," called Pud Armstrong, as, walking along with Glen Forker, he caught sight of his crony. "How you feeling?" "Fine, but I'd feel better if there weren't so many Sunday-school kids at this institution. I thought this was a swell place, but it's a regular kindergarten," and he looked meaningly at Jack. "What's up?" asked Pud. "Why, I wanted to make a little wager with Ranger about rowing him again, but he's afraid." "It isn't that, and you know it," retorted our hero quickly, for he overheard what Snaith said. "And I don't want you to go about circulating such a report, either, Dock Snaith." With flashing eyes and clenched fists Jack took a step toward the bully. "Oh, well, I didn't mean anything," stammered Snaith. "You needn't be so all-fired touchy!" "I'm not, but I won't stand for having that said about me. I'll race you for fun, and you know it. Say the word." "Well--some other time, maybe," muttered Snaith, as he strolled off with his two cronies. It was that afternoon when Jack, with Nat Anderson, walking down a path that led to the lake, came upon a scene that made them stop, and which, later, was productive of unexpected results. The two friends saw Dock Snaith, together with Pud Armstrong and Glen Forker, facing the new boy, Will Williams. They had him in a corner of a fence, near the lake, and from the high words that came to Jack and Nat, it indicated that a quarrel was in progress. "What's up?" asked Nat. "Oh, it's that bully, Snaith, making trouble for the freshman," replied Jack. "Isn't it queer he can't live one day without being mean? Snaith, I'm speaking of. He's a worthy successor to Jerry Chowden." "Well, you polished off Chowden; maybe you can do the same to Snaith." "There's no question but what I can do it, if I get the chance. He's just like Jerry was--always picking on the new boys, or some one smaller than he is." "Come on, let's see what's up." They did not have to go much closer to overhear what was being said by Snaith and his cronies on one side, and Will on the other. "I say, you new kid, what's your name?" asked the bully. "Yes, speak up, and don't mumble," added Pud. "My name is Williams," replied the new lad. "I wish you would let me go." "Can't just yet, sonny," said Glen. "We are just making your acquaintance," and he punched Will in the stomach, making him double up. "Hold on, there," cried Snaith. "I didn't ask you to make a bow. Wait until you're told," and he shoved the lad's head back. "Now you stop that!" exclaimed Will with considerable spirit. "What's that! Hark to him talking back to us!" exclaimed Pud. "Now you'll have to bow again," and once more he punched the new boy. "Please let me alone!" cried Will. "I haven't done anything to you." "No, but you might," spoke Snaith. "Have you been hazed yet?" "Of course he hasn't," added Glen. "He came in late, and he hasn't been initiated. I guess it's time to do it." "Sure it is," agreed the bully with a grin. "Let's see--we'll give him the water cure." "That's it! Toss him in the lake and watch him swim out!" added Pud. "Come on, Glen, catch hold!" "Oh, no! Please don't!" begged Will. "Aw, dry up! What you howling about?" asked Pud. "Every new boy has to be hazed, and you're getting off easy. A bath will do you good. Let's take him down to the float. It's real deep there." "Oh, no! No! Please don't! Anything but that!" begged Will. "I--I can't swim." "Then it's time you learned," said Snaith with a brutal laugh. "Catch hold of his other leg, Pud." They quickly made a grab for the unfortunate lad, and, despite his struggles, carried him toward the lake. It was not an uncommon form of hazing, but it was usually done when a crowd was present, and the hazing committee always took care to find out that the candidates could swim. In addition, there were always lads ready to go to the rescue in case of accident. But this was entirely different. "Oh, don't! Please don't!" begged Will. "I--I don't want to go in the water. Do anything but that." "Listen to him cry!" mocked Glen. "Hasn't he got a sweet voice?" Nearer to the lake approached the three bullies and their victim, who was struggling to escape. He was pleading piteously. "I can't stand this," murmured Jack. "Williams is afraid of water. He told me so. It's probably a nervous dread, and if they throw him in he may go into a spasm and drown. They should do something else if they want to haze him." "What are you going to do?" asked Nat. He and his chum were hidden from the others by a clump of trees. "I'm going to make Snaith stop!" said Jack determinedly as he strode forward with flashing eyes. "You wait here, Nat." CHAPTER V A GERMAN-FRENCH ALLIANCE "Oh, fellows, please let go! Don't throw me in the lake! I--I can't swim!" It was Will's final appeal. "Well, it's time you learned," exclaimed Snaith with a laugh. "Come on now, boys, take it on the run!" But at that moment Jack Ranger fairly leaped from behind the clump of trees where he and Nat Anderson stood, and running after the three mean lads who were carrying the struggling Will, our hero planted himself in front of them. "Here--drop him!" he cried, barring their way. Surprise at Jack's sudden appearance, no less than at his words and bearing, brought the hazers to a stop. "What--what's that you said?" asked Snaith, as if disbelieving the evidence of his ears. "I said to drop this, and let Williams go." "What for?" demanded Pud. "For several reasons. He can't swim, and he has a nervous dread of the water, as I happen to know. Besides, it's too chilly to throw any one in the lake now." "Are those all your reasons?" asked Snaith with a sneer. "No!" cried Jack. "If you want another, it's because I tell you to stop!" "S'posing we don't?" "Then I'll make you." "Oh, you will, eh? Well, I guess we three can take care of you, all right, even if you are Jack Ranger." Snaith had a tight hold on Will's arm. The timid lad had been set down by his captors, but they still had hold of him. "Please let me go," pleaded Williams. "We will--after you've had your dip in the lake," said Glen. "Yes, come on," added Snaith. "Get out of the way, Ranger, if you don't want to get bumped." "You let Williams go!" demanded Jack, still barring the way. "We'll not! Stand aside or I'll hit you!" snapped Snaith. He and his cronies again picked Williams up, and were advancing with him toward the lake. Snaith had one hand free, and as he approached Jack, who had not moved, the bully struck out at him. The blow landed lightly on Jack's chest, but the next instant his fist shot out, catching Snaith under the ear, and the bully suddenly toppled over backward, measuring his length on the ground. [Illustration: "JACK'S FIST SHOT OUT, CATCHING SNAITH UNDER THE EAR."] He was up again in a second, however, and spluttered out: "Wha--what do you mean? I'll fix you for this! I'll make you pay for that, Jack Ranger!" "Whenever you like," replied Jack coolly, as he stood waiting the attack. "Come on, fellows, let's do him up!" cried Pud. "We're three to one, and I owe him something on my own account." "Shall we let the freshman go?" asked Glen. "Sure!" exclaimed Snaith. "We can catch him again. We'll do up Ranger now!" The bully and his cronies advanced toward Jack. Will, hardly understanding that he was released, stood still, though Jack called to him: "Better run, youngster. I can look out for myself." "Oh, you can, eh?" sneered Snaith. "Well, I guess you'll have your hands full. Come on, now, fellows! Give it to him!" The three advanced with the intention of administering a sound drubbing to our hero, and it is more than likely that they would have succeeded, for Jack could not tackle three at once very well. But something happened. This "something" was a lad who came bounding up from the rear, with a roar like a small, maddened bull, and then with a cry Nat Anderson flung himself on the back of Pud Armstrong. "Flabgastered punching-bags!" he cried. "Three to one, eh? Well, I guess not! Acrimonious Abercrombie! But I'll take a hand in this game!" "Here! Quit that! Let me go! Stop! That's no way to fight! Get off my back!" yelled the startled Pud. "I'm not fighting yet," said Nat coolly, as he skillfully locked his legs in those of Pud and sent him to the ground with a wrestler's trick. "I'm only getting ready to wallop you!" Snaith, who had rushed at Jack with raised fists, was met by another left-hander that again sent him to the ground. And then, to the surprise of the rescuers, no less than that of the would-be hazers, Will, who had seemed so timid in the hands of his captors, rushed at Glen Forker, and before that bully could get out of the way, had dealt him a blow on the chest. "There!" cried Will. "I guess we're three to three now!" "Good for you, youngster!" cried Jack heartily. "You've got more spunk than I gave you credit for. Hit him again!" "Now, Pud, if you'll get up, you and I will have our innings," announced Nat to the lad he had thrown. "Suffering snufflebugs! but I guess the game isn't so one-sided now." But, though Pud got up, he evinced no desire to come to close quarters with Nat. Instead, he sneaked to one side, muttering: "You wait--that's all! You just wait!" "Well, I'm a pretty good waiter. I used to work in a hash foundry and a beanery," said Nat with a smile. Snaith, too, seemed to have had enough, for he sat on the ground rubbing a lump on his head, while as for Glen, he was in full retreat. "I hope I didn't hurt you, Snaith," said Jack politely. "Don't you speak to me!" snarled the bully. "All right," said Jack. "I'll not." "I'll get square with you for this," went on Snaith as he arose and began to retreat, followed by Pud. "You wait!" "That's what Pud said," interjected Nat. "It's getting tiresome." The two bullies hurried off in the direction taken by Glen, leaving Jack, Nat and Will masters of the field. "I--I'm ever so much obliged to you," said Will to Jack after a pause. "That's all right. Glad I happened along." "I--I don't mind being hazed," went on the timid lad. "I expected it, but I have a weak heart, and the doctor said a sudden shock would be bad for me. I'm very much afraid of water, and I can't swim, or I wouldn't have minded being thrown into the lake. I--I hope you don't think I'm a coward." "Not a bit of it." "And I--I hope the fellows won't make fun of me." "They won't," said Jack very positively, for, somehow, his heart went out to the queer lad. "If they do, just send them to me. As for Snaith and his crowd, I guess they won't bother you after this. Say, but you went right up to Glen, all right." "I took boxing lessons--once," went on Will timidly. "I'm not afraid in a fair fight." "Glad to hear it, but I fancy they'll not bother you any more. Do you know Nat Anderson?" and Jack nodded at his chum. "I'm glad to meet you," spoke Will, holding out his hand. "Same here," responded Nat. "Unified uppercuts! but you went at Glen good and proper!" "You mustn't mind Nat's queer expressions," said Jack with a smile, as he saw Will looking in rather a puzzled way at Nat. "They were vaccinated in him, and he can't get rid of them." "You get out!" exclaimed Jack's chum. "Going anywhere in particular?" asked Jack of Will, as he straightened out a cuff that had become disarranged in the scrimmage. "No, I guess not." "Then come on and take a walk with us." The lad appeared to hesitate. Then he said slowly. "No--no, thank you. I--I don't believe I will. I think I'll go back to my room." He turned aside and walked away. Jack and Nat stared after him in silence. "Well, he certainly is a queer case," remarked Nat in a low voice. "I don't know what to make of him." "I, either," admitted Jack. "He showed some spunk when he went at Glen, but now it appears to have oozed away." The two chums continued their walk, discussing the recent happening. "Do you know, I think something is about due to happen, fellows," announced Fred Kaler that night, when he and some of Jack's and Nat's chums were in the latters' room. "Why, what's up, you animated jewsharp?" asked Nat. "I don't know, but it's been so quiet in the sacred precincts of our school lately that it's about time for something to arrive. Do you know that Socrat and Garlach haven't spoken to each other this term yet?" "What's the trouble now?" asked Jack, for the French and German teachers, with the characteristics of their race, were generally at swords' points for some reason or other. "Why, you know their classrooms are next to each other, and one day, the first week of the term, Professor Socrat, in giving the French lesson, touched on history, and gave an instance of where frog-eaters with a small army had downed the troops from der Vaterland. He spoke so loud that Professor Garlach heard him, his German blood boiled over, and since then neither has spoken to the other." "Well, that often happens," remarked Nat. "Sure," added Bony Balmore, cracking his finger knuckles by way of practice. "Yes," admitted Fred, as he took out his mouth-organ, preparatory to rendering a tune, "but this time it has lasted longer than usual, and it's about time something was done about it." Fred began softly to play "On the Banks of the Wabash Far Away." "Cheese it," advised Nat. "Martin will hear." "He's gone to the village on an errand for the doctor," said Fred as he continued to play. Then he stopped long enough to remark: "I'd like to hear from our fellow member, Jack Ranger." "That's it," exclaimed Sam Chalmers. "I wonder Jack hasn't suggested something before this." "Say!" exclaimed Jack, "have I got to do everything around this school? Why don't some of the rest of you think up something? I haven't any monopoly." "No, but you've got the nerve," said Bony. "Say, Jack, can't you think of some scheme for getting Garlach and Socrat to speak? Once they are on talking terms we can have some fun." Jack seemed lost in thought. Then he began to pace the room. "Our noble leader has his thinking apparatus in working order," announced Nat. "Hum!" mused Jack. "You say the trouble occurred over something in history, eh?" "Sure," replied Fred. "Then I guess I've got it!" cried Jack. "Wait a minute, now, until I work out all the details." He sat down to the table, took out pencil and paper, and began to write. The others watched him interestedly. "Here we are!" Jack cried at length. "Now to carry out the scheme and bring about a German-French alliance!" "What are you going to do?" asked Nat. "Here are two notes," said Jack, holding aloft two envelopes. "We'll take your word for it," remarked Bob Movel. "One is addressed to Professor Garlach," went on Jack, "and in it he is advised that if he proceeds in the proper manner he can obtain information of a certain incident in history, not generally known, but in which is related how Frederic II, with a small squad of Germans, put a whole army of French to flight. It is even more wonderful than the incident which Professor Socrat related to his class, and if he speaks loudly enough in the classroom, Professor Socrat can't help but hear it." "What are you going to do with the note?" asked Fred. "Send it to Garlach." "And then?" "Ah, yes--then," said Jack. "Well, what will happen next will surprise some folks, I think. The information which Garlach will be sure to want to obtain can only be had by going to a certain hollow tree, on the shore of the lake, and he must go there just at midnight." "Well?" asked Dick Balmore as Jack paused, while the silence in the room was broken by Bony's performance on his finger battery. "Well," repeated Jack, "what happens then will be continued in our next, as the novelists say. Now come on and help me fix it up," and he motioned for his chums to draw more closely around the table, while he imparted something to them in guarded whispers. CHAPTER VI A SNOWSTORM Professor Garlach received the next day a neatly-written note. It was thrust under the door of his private apartment, just as he was getting ready to go to breakfast. "Ach! Dis is a letter," he said, carefully looking at the envelope, as if there was some doubt of it. "I vunder who can haf sent it to me?" He turned it over several times, but seeing no way of learning what he wished to know save by opening the epistle, he did so. "Vot is dis?" he murmured as he read. "Ha! dot is der best news vot I haf heard in a long time. Ach! now I gets me efen mid dot wienerwurst of a Socrat! I vill vanquishes him!" This is what the German professor read: "I am a lover of the Fatherland, and I understand that an insult has been offered her glory by a Frenchman who is a professor in the same school where you teach. I understand that he said a small body of the despised French beat a large army of Germans. This is not true, but I am in a position to prove the contrary, namely, that in the Hanoverian or Seven Years' War, in 1756, a small troop of Germans, under Frederic II, defeated a large army of the French. The incident is little known in history, but I have all the facts at hand, and I will give them to you. "The information is secret, and I cannot reveal to you my name, or I might get into trouble with the German war authorities, so I will have to ask you to proceed cautiously. I will deposit the proofs of what I say in the hollow of the old oak tree that stands near the shore of the lake, not far from the school. If you will go there at midnight to-night, you may take the papers away and demonstrate to your classes that the Germans are always the superiors of the French in war. I must beg of you to say nothing about this to any one. Proceed in secret, and you will be able to refute the base charges made against our countrymen by a base Frenchman. Do not fail. Be at the old tree at midnight. For obvious reasons I sign myself only "BISMARK." "Ha!" exclaimed Professor Garlach. "I vill do as you direct. T'anks, mine unknown frient! T'anks! Now vill I make to der utmost confusionability dot frog-eater of a Socrat! Ha! ve shall see. I vill be on der spot at midnight!" All that day there might have been noticed that there was a subdued excitement hovering about Professor Garlach. Jack and his chums observing it, smiled. "He's taken the bait, hook and sinker," said Jack. When the class in history was called before him to recite, Professor Garlach remarked: "Young gentlemens, I shall have some surprising informations to impart by you to-morrow. I am about to come into possession of some remarkable facts, but I cannot reveal dem to you now. But I vill say dot dey vill simply astonishment to you make alretty yet. You are dismissed." He had spoken quite loudly, and Professor Socrat, in the next room, hearing him, smiled. "Ah," murmured the Frenchman, "so my unknown friend, who was so kind as to write zis note, did not deceive me. Sacre! But I will bring his plans to nottingness! Ah, beware, Professor Garlach--pig-dog zat you are! I will foil you. But let me read ze note once more." Alone in the classroom, he took from his pocket a letter. It looked just like the one professor Garlach had received that morning. "Ha, yes. I am not mistake! I will be at ze old oak tree on ze shore of ze lake at midnight by ze clock. And I will catch in ze act Professor Garlach when he make ze attempt to blow up zat sacred tree. Zat tree under which La Fayette once slept. Queer zat I did not know it before. Ha! I will drape ze flag of France on ze beloved branches. Ah! my beloved country!" For this is the note which Professor Socrat received: "DEAR PROFESSOR: This is written by a true friend of France, who is not at liberty to reveal his name. I have information to the effect that the old oak tree which stands on the shore of the lake is a landmark in history. Under it, during the American war of independence, the immortal Washington and La Fayette once slept before a great battle, when their tents had not arrived. The tree should be honored by all Frenchmen, as well as by all Americans. "But, though it is not generally known that La Fayette slept under the tree, Professor Garlach has learned of it in some way. Such is his hatred of all things French, as you well know, that he has planned to destroy the tree. At midnight to-night he is going to put a dynamite bomb in the tree, and blow it to atoms. He hopes the plot will be laid to the students. If you wish to foil him be at the tree at midnight. I will sign myself only "NAPOLEON." "Ha! destroy zat sacred tree by dynamite!" murmured Professor Socrat. "I will be zere! I will be zere!" It lacked some time before twelve o'clock that night, when several figures stole out of a dormitory of Washington Hall. "Have you got everything, Jack?" asked a voice. "Yes; but for cats' sake, keep quiet," was the rejoinder. "Come on now. Lucky Martin didn't spot us." "That's what," added Nat Anderson. "Scouring sky-rockets, but there'll be some fun!" "Easy!" cautioned Jack as he led a band of fellow conspirators toward the lake. They reached the old, hollow oak tree, of which Jack had spoken in his two letters to the professors, and which he had made the rendezvous for his joke. Into the hollow he thrust a bundle of papers. Then, some distance away from the tree, he stuck something else upright in the ground, and trailing off from it were what seemed to be twisted strings. "Lucky it's a dark night," whispered Bony. "They won't see each other until they get right here. What time is it now?" "Lacks a quarter of twelve," replied Jack, striking a match and shielding it from observation under the flap of his coat as he looked at his watch. The boys crouched down in the bushes and waited. It was not long before they heard some one approaching in the darkness. "That's Garlach by the way he walks," whispered Bob Movel. "Yes," assented Jack. "I hope Socrat is on time." The German professor approached the tree, anxious to take from it the papers that were to prove the valor of German soldiers. A moment later another figure loomed up in the darkness on the other side of the big trunk. "There's Socrat," whispered Nat. "But what is he carrying?" "Blessed if I know," answered Jack; "but we'll soon see." He struck a match and touched it to the end of the twisted strings. There was a splutter of flame, and some sparks ran along the ground. A moment later the scene was lighted up by glaring red fire, the fuse of which Jack had touched off. By the illumination the boys hidden in the bushes could see Professor Garlach, with his hand and arm down the hollow of the old oak tree. At the same time Professor Socrat rushed forward, and what he had in his hand was a pail of water. "So!" cried the Frenchman. "I have caught you in ze act! I will foil you!" "Don't bodder me!" cried the German. "Ach! You would steal der evidence of your countrymen's cowardice, vould you? But you shall not! I vill haf my revenge!" "Stop! stop!" cried Professor Socrat. "You shall not destroy ze tree under which ze immortal Washington and La Fayette slept! You shall not! I, Professor Socrat, say it! Ha! you have already lighted ze dynamite fuse! But I will destroy it!" Professor Garlach drew from the tree the bundle of papers. No sooner had he done so than Professor Socrat dashed the pail of water over him, drenching him from head to foot. "Du meine zeit! Himmel! Hund vot you are! I am drowning!" cried the German, choking. "Ha! ha! I have put out ze fuse! I have quenched ze dynamite cartridge! Ze tree shall not be blown to atoms! I will drape it wiz my country's flag." From his coat the French professor drew the tri-colored flag, which he draped over the lowest branches of the old tree. Then, as the red fire died out, the boys saw the German make a spring for his enemy. "Come on, fellows!" softly called Jack. "We'd better skip while they're at one another." They glided from the bushes, while at the foot of the tree, in the dying glow from the red fire, could be seen two shapes struggling desperately together. From the midst came such alternate expressions as: "Ach! Pig-dog! Frog-eater! Sauerkraut! Maccaroni! Himmel! Sacre! La Fayette!" "Oh, but aren't they having a grand time!" said Nat as he hurried along at Jack's side. "It worked like a charm. But who would have thought that Socrat would have brought along a pail of water?" "Couldn't have been better," admitted Jack, "if I do say it myself." "But won't they find out who did it?" asked Bony. "They may suspect, but they'll never know for sure," said the perpetrator of the trick. "How about the bundle of papers you left in the tree?" "Nothing but newspapers, and they can't talk. But I guess we've livened things up some. Anyhow, they've spoken to each other." "They sure have," admitted Sam, as from the darkness, at the foot of the tree, came the sounds of voices in high dispute. The next day Professor Socrat passed Professor Garlach without so much as a look in the direction of the German, but when he got past he muttered: "Ze La Fayette tree still stands." And Professor Garlach replied: "Pig-dog vot you are! To destroy dot secret of history!" Jack and his chums awaited rather anxiously the calling of the French and German classes that day, but neither professor made any reference to the happenings of the night previous. All there was to remind a passer-by of it were some shreds of a French flag hanging to the limbs of the tree. "They must have ripped the flag apart in their struggle with each other," said Sam as he and Jack passed the place. Matters at Washington Hall went on the even tenor of their ways for about two weeks. The boys buckled down to study, though there was plenty of time for sport, and the football eleven, of which Jack was a member, played several games. The weather was getting cold and snappy, and there were signs of an early and severe winter. These signs were borne out one morning when Jack crawled out of bed. "Whew! but it's cold!" he said as he pulled aside the window curtains and looked out. Then he uttered an exclamation. "Say, Nat, it's snowing to beat the band!" "Snowing?" "Sure, and I've got to go to the village this afternoon. Look!" Nat crawled out, shivering, and stood beside Jack. "Why, it is quite a storm," he admitted. "B-r-r-r-r! I'm going to get my flannels out!" "No football game to-morrow," said Jack. "I guess winter's come to stay." CHAPTER VII A STRANGE CONFESSION "Say, Jack," began Nat at breakfast a little later, "what are you going to the village for?" "Got to get something Aunt Angelina sent me," replied our hero. "I got a letter saying she had forwarded me a package by express. It's got some heavy underwear in it for one thing, but I know enough of my aunt to know that's not all that's in it." "What else?" "Well, I shouldn't be surprised if there were some pies and doughnuts and cakes and----" "Quit!" begged Bony, who sat on the other side of Jack. "You make me hungry." "What's the matter with this grub?" inquired Jack. "Oh, it's all right as far as it goes----" "Smithering slaboleens!" exclaimed Nat. "Doesn't it go far enough in you, Bony?" and he looked at his tall chum. "Do you want it to go all the way to your toes?" "No; but when I hear Jack speak of pies and doughnuts----" "You'll do more than hear me speak of them if they come, Bony," went on Jack. "We'll have a little feast in my room to-night, when Martin, the monitor, is gone to bed." "When are you going?" asked Nat. "Right after dinner. Want to come along? I guess you can get permission. I did." "Nope. I've got to stay here and bone up on geometry. I flunked twice this week, and Doc. Mead says I've got to do better. Take Bony." "Not for mine," said Bony, shivering as he looked out of the window and saw the snow still coming down. "I'm going to stay in." "Then I'll go alone," decided Jack, and he started off soon after the midday meal. The storm was not a severe one, though it was cold and the snow was quite heavy. It was a good three-mile walk to the village, but Jack had often taken it. He was about a mile from the school, and was swinging along the country road, thinking of many things, when, through the white blanket of snowflakes, he saw a figure just ahead of him on the highway. "That looks familiar," he said to himself. "That's Will Williams. Wonder what he can be doing out here? Guess he's going to town also. I'll catch up with him. I wish I could get better acquainted with him, but he goes in his shell as soon as I try to make friends." He hastened his pace, but it was slow going on account of the snow. When Jack was about a hundred yards behind Will he was surprised to see the odd student suddenly turn off the main road and make toward a chain of small hills that bordered it on the right. "That's queer," murmured Jack. "I wonder what he's doing that for?" He stood still a moment, looking at Will. The new boy kept on, plodding through the snow, which lay in heavy drifts over the unbroken path he was taking. "Why, he's heading for the ravine," said Jack to himself. "He'll be lost if he goes there in this storm, and it's dangerous. He may fall down the chasm and break an arm or a leg." The ravine he referred to was a deep gully in the hills, a wild, desolate sort of place, seldom visited. It was in the midst of thick woods, and more than once solitary travelers had lost their way there, while one or two, unfamiliar with the suddenness with which the chasm dipped down, had fallen and been severely hurt. "What in the world can he want out there?" went on Jack. "I'd better hail him. Guess he doesn't know the danger, especially in a storm like this, when bad holes are likely to be hidden from sight." He hurried forward, and then, making a sort of megaphone of his hands, called out: "Williams! I say, Williams, where are you going?" The new boy turned quickly, looked back at Jack, and then continued his journey. "Hey! Come back!" yelled our hero. "You'll be lost if you go up in those hills. It's dangerous! Come on back!" Williams stopped again, and turned half around. "Guess he didn't hear me plainly," thought Jack. "I'll catch up to him. Wait a minute," he called again, and he hastened forward, Will waiting for him. "Where are you going?" asked Jack, when he had caught up to him. "I don't know," was the answer, and Jack was struck by the lad's despondent tone. "Don't you know there's a dangerous ravine just ahead here?" went on Jack. "You might tumble in and lose your life." "I don't care if I do lose my life," was the unexpected rejoinder. "You don't care?" repeated Jack, much surprised. "No." "Do you realize what you're saying?" asked Jack sternly. "Yes, I do. I don't care! I want to be lost! I never want to see any one again! I came out here--I don't care what becomes of me--I'd like to fall down under the snow and--and die--that would end it all!" Then, to Jack's astonishment, Will burst into tears, though he bravely tried to stifle them. "Well--of all the----" began Jack, and words failed him. Clearly he had a most peculiar case to deal with. He took a step nearer, and put his arm affectionately around Will's shoulder. Then he patted him on the back, and his own voice was a trifle husky as he said: "Say, old man, what's the matter? Own up, now, you're in trouble. Maybe I can help you. It doesn't take half an eye to see that's something's wrong. The idea of a chap like you wanting to die! It's nonsense. You must be sick. Brace up, now! Tell me all about it. Maybe I can help you." There was silence, broken only by Will's half-choked sobs. "Go ahead, tell me," urged Jack. "I'll keep your secret, and help you if I can. Tell me what the trouble is." "I will!" exclaimed the new boy with sudden determination. "I will tell you, Jack Ranger, but I don't think you can help me. I'm the most miserable lad at Washington Hall." "You only think so," rejoined Jack brightly. "Go ahead. I'll wager we can make you feel better. You want some friends, that's what you want." "Yes," said Will slowly, "I do. I need friends, for I don't believe I've got a single one in the world." "Well, you've got one, and that's me," went on Jack. "Go ahead, now, let's hear your story." And then, standing in the midst of the storm, Will told his pitiful tale. "My father and mother have been dead for some time," he said, "and for several years I lived with my uncle, Andrew Swaim, my mother's brother. He was good to me, but he had to go out West on business, and he left me in charge of a man named Lewis Gabel, who was appointed my guardian. "This Gabel treated me pretty good at first, for my uncle sent money regularly for my board. Then, for some reason, the money stopped coming, and Mr. Gabel turned mean. He hardly gave me enough to eat, and I had to work like a horse on his farm. I wrote to my uncle, but I never got an answer. "Then, all at once, my uncle began sending money again, but he didn't state where he was. After that I had it a little easier, until some one stole quite a sum from Mr. Gabel. He's a regular miser, and he loves money more than anything else. He accused me of robbing him, and declared he wouldn't have me around his house any longer. "So he sent me off to this school, but he doesn't give me a cent of spending money, and pays all the bills himself. He still thinks I stole his money, and he says he will hold back my spending cash, which my uncle forwards, until he has made up the amount that was stolen. "I tried to prove to him that I was innocent, but he won't believe me. He is always writing me mean letters, reminding me that I am a thief, and not fit for decent people to associate with. I'm miserable, and I wish I was dead. I got a mean, accusing letter from him to-day, and it made me feel so bad that I didn't care what became of me. I wandered off, and I thought if I fell down and died under the snow it would be a good thing." "Say, you certainly are up against it," murmured Jack. "I'd like to get hold of that rascally guardian of yours. But why don't you tell your uncle?" "I can't, for I don't know his address." "But he sends money for your schooling and board to Mr. Gabel, doesn't he?" "Yes, but he sends cash in a letter, and he doesn't even register it. I wrote to the postal authorities of the Western city where his letters were mailed, but they said they could give me no information." "What is your uncle doing in the West?" "He is engaged in some secret mission. I never could find out what it is, and I don't believe Mr. Gabel knows, either. Oh, but Gabel is a mean man! He seems to take delight in making me miserable. Now you know why I act so queerly. I like a good time, and I like to be with the fellows, but I haven't a cent to spend to treat them with, and I'm not going to accept favors that I can't return. Why, I haven't had a cent to spend for myself in six months!" Jack whistled. "That's tough," he said. "But say, Will, you're mistaken if you think our crowd cares anything for money. Why didn't you say something about this before?" "I--I was ashamed to." "Why, we thought you didn't like us," went on Jack. "Now I see that we were mistaken. I wish we had Mr. Gabel here. We'd haze him first, and throw him into the lake afterward. Now, Will, I'll tell you what you're going to do?" "What?" asked the lad, who seemed much better in spirits, now that he had made a confession. "In the first place, you're coming to the village with me," said Jack. "Then you're going to forget all about your troubles and about dying under the snow. Then, when I get a bundle from home, you're coming back with me, and----" "Home!" exclaimed Will with a catch in his voice. "How good that word sounds! I--I haven't had a home in so long that--that I don't know what it seems like." "Well, we're going to make you right at home here," went on Jack. "I'm expecting a bundle of good things from my aunt, and when it comes, why, you and me and Nat and Sam and Bony and Fred and Bob, and some other choice spirits, are going to gather in my room to-night, and we're going to have the finest spread you ever saw. I'll make you acquainted with the boys, and then we'll see what happens. No spending money? As if we cared for that! Now, come on, old chap, we'll leg it to the village, for it's cold standing here," and clapping Will on the back, Jack linked his arm in that of the new boy and led him back to the road. CHAPTER VIII THE MIDNIGHT FEAST "Well, fellows, are we all here?" asked Jack Ranger later that night, as he gazed around on a crowd in his room. "If there were any more we couldn't breathe," replied Bony Balmore, and the cracking of his finger knuckles punctuated his remark. "When does the fun begin?" asked Bob Movel. "Soon," answered Jack. "We ought to have some music. Tune up, Fred," said Sam. "Not here," interposed Jack quickly. "Wait a bit and we can make all the noise we want to." "How's that?" inquired Bony. "Have you hypnotized Dr. Mead and put wax in Martin's ears so he can't hear us?" "No, but it's something just as good. This afternoon I sat and listened while Socker, the janitor, told me one of his war stories." "You must have had patience," interrupted Nat Anderson. "Bob cats and bombshells, but Socker is tiresome!" "Well, I had an object in it," explained Jack. "I wanted him to do me a favor, and he did it--after I'd let him tell me how, single-handed, he captured a lot of Confederates. I told him about this spread to-night, and was lamenting the fact that my room was so small, and that we couldn't make any noise, or have any lights. And you know how awkward it is to eat in the dark." "Sure," admitted Bony. "You can't always find your mouth." "And if there's anything I dislike," added Nat, "it's putting pie in my ear." "Easy!" cautioned Jack at the laugh which followed. "Wait a few minutes and we can make all the noise we want to." "How?" asked Bony. "Because, as I'm trying to tell you, Socker did me a favor. He's going to let us in the storeroom, back of where the boiler is, in the basement. It'll be nice and warm there, and we can have our midnight feast in comfort, and make all the row we like, for Martin can't hear us there." "Good for you, Jack!" cried Nat. "That's all to the horse radish!" observed Sam. Jack's trip to town that afternoon had been most successful. He had found at the express office a big package from home, and from the note that accompanied it he knew it contained good things to eat, made by his loving aunts. But, desiring to give an unusually fine spread to celebrate the occasion of having made the acquaintance of Will Williams, Jack purchased some other good things at the village stores. He and Will carried them back to school, and managed to smuggle them in. It was a new experience for Will to have a friend like Jack Ranger, and to be taking part in this daring but harmless breach of the school rules. Under this stimulus Will was fast losing his melancholy mood, and he responded brightly to Jack's jokes. "Now you stay in your room until I call for you," our hero had said to Will on parting after supper that night. Jack wanted to spring a sort of surprise on his chums, and introduce Will to them at the feast. In accordance with his instructions the lads had gathered in his room about ten o'clock that night, stealing softly in after Martin, the monitor, had made his last round to see that lights were out. Then Jack had announced his plan of having the feast in the basement. "Grab up the grub and come on," said the leader a little later. "Softly now--no noise until we're downstairs." "Will Socker keep mum?" asked Bony. "As an oyster in a church sociable stew," replied Jack. "I've promised to listen to another of his war tales." "Jack's getting to be a regular martyr," observed Sam. "Silence in the ranks!" commanded Captain Jack. The lads stole softly along the corridors. Just as they got opposite the door of Martin's room, there was a dull thud. "What's that?" whispered Jack softly. "I--I dropped one of the pies," replied Bony, cracking his knuckles at the double-quick in his excitement. "Scoop it up and come on. You'll have to eat it," said Jack. In fear and trembling they went on. Fortunately, Martin did not hear the noise, and the lads got safely past. Jack, who was in the rear, paused at a door at the end of the hall, and knocked softly. "Yes," answered a voice from within. "Come on," commanded Jack, and he was joined by a dark figure. They reached the basement safely, no one having disputed their night march. Socker, the janitor, met them at the door of the boiler-room. "Here we are," said Jack. "So I see, Mr. Ranger. Why, it reminds me of the time when Captain Crawford and me took a forced night march of ten miles to get some rations. We were with Sherman, on his trip to the sea, and----" "You must be sure to tell me that story," interrupted Jack. "But not now. Is everything all right?" "Yes, Mr. Ranger. But I depend on you not to say anything about this to Dr. Mead in case----" "Oh, you can depend on us," Jack assured him. "I thought I could. It reminds me of the time when we were before Petersburgh, and a comrade and I went to----" "You must not forget to tell me that story," interrupted Jack. "I particularly want to hear it, Socker." "I will," said the janitor, delighted that he had at last found an earnest listener. "But not now," said Jack. "We must get to work. Do you like pie, Socker?" "Do I, Mr. Ranger? Well, I guess I do. I remember once when we were at Gettysburg----" "Bony, where's that extra choice pie you had?" asked Jack with a wink at his chum. "Give it to Mr. Socker here," and Bony passed over the bit of pastry that had met with the accident in the hall. "That will keep him quiet for a while," said Jack in a whisper. The lads, bearing the good things Jack had provided, passed through the boiler-room and into a storage apartment, where cans of oil, waste, tools and the like were kept. Socker had arranged some boards on a couple of sawhorses for the students, and there, by the light of several candles stuck in the necks of bottles, the table was spread. "Say, but this is jolly, all right," said Sam Chalmers. "Jack, you're a public benefactor." He leaned over to shake hands with our hero. "Look out! You'll upset the table!" cried Jack, as Sam, leaning against the boards, tilted them. "Save the pieces!" cried Nat, springing to the rescue. "Gentlemen, be seated!" invited Jack as the lads arranged themselves about the table. Socker had provided planks, stretched across big, empty oilcans. "Here you are, Will, right next to me," went on our hero in a low tone to the lad who had joined him in the dark hall. "I'll introduce you presently." No one of Jack's chums had yet noticed the new lad, for Will had kept in the shadows, and there was much confusion attending the placing of the good things on the board. But as the guests prepared to seat themselves, Sam Chalmers caught sight of the unfamiliar face of Will Williams. He knew he was not one of Jack's crowd, and thinking the lad might have come uninvited he said: "We have a stranger with us." There was a sudden hush, and all eyes were fastened on Will, who turned red. "He is a stranger," said Jack quickly, "but we are going to cure that. Boys of Washington Hall--the top-notchers--the élite--the high-rollers--the cream of the bunch--allow me to present my friend Bill Williams. He is one of us, though I didn't know it until to-day. I'm giving this blowout in his honor. Henceforth he is one of us, and in token of that we will dub him not William, but Bill, which has a more kindly sound. Fellows, salute our new member!" CHAPTER IX AN ALARM OF FIRE There was a moment's pause after Jack's announcement, then, as one, the assembled lads bowed to Will, or, as he was to be more affectionately called, Bill. He blushed with pleasure at the new sensation of having friends. "New member of the Irrepressibles, we, who are about to dine, salute thee!" exclaimed Sam. "We sure do, and now, if the salutin' ceremony is over, let's eat," suggested Bob Movel. "Wait until Fred gives us a tune," came from Nat. "Jumping gewhillikins, but they always have music at a banquet!" "Then don't let Fred play--if you want music," said Sam, dodging behind Jack to be out of the musical student's reach. "I'll punch your head!" exclaimed Fred. "No, go on and play," said Jack. "It will liven things up a bit." So Fred got out his mouth-organ, and rendered a lively march, the boys parading around the table, each one clapping on the back the new member of the informal club. "Now I guess we can eat," announced Jack. "Bill, pass that plate of sandwiches at your elbow. Fred, juggle the doughnuts down this way. Sam, don't let those pies go to sleep. Bob, you open some of the ginger-ale, but don't let it pop too loud, or Doc. Mead may think it's the safety valve of the boiler going off, and send Martin to investigate." The lads were soon actively engaged in putting away the good things, and then, for a time, conversation languished, save for intermittent remarks. "Are you having a good time, boys?" asked Socker, poking his head in the storeroom, after having shoveled some coal on the fire. "We sure are, and we're much obliged to you," replied Jack. "Oh, that's all right. It reminds me, to see you all eating, of how I once was nearly starved in Andersonville prison. I was in there----" "I'm coming out to hear that story in about five minutes, Socker," interrupted Jack. "Have it all ready for me." "I will," promised the janitor, as he went back to look at the boiler. It was a merry time, and Will, or, as the boys called him, Bill, enjoyed it more than any one. It seemed as if a new world had opened before him. His face lost the downcast look, his eyes were brighter, and he even ventured to make one or two jokes. The boys seemed to like him, and Jack was glad of it, for he had a genuine admiration for the new boy, and wanted to befriend him. To some of his chums he told something of Will's story, and there was general indignation expressed against the mean guardian. "Well, fellows, I guess we've eaten everything except the table and the candles," said Jack after a while. "I think we'd better be getting back to our rooms, for Martin may take it into his head to pay a late visit." The advice was timely, and as the lads had had a jolly evening, they prepared to disperse. They cleared away the remains of the feast, leaving Socker to put aside the boards, cans and bottles. As they filed out of the boiler-room, Socker called to Jack: "I'm all ready to tell you that story now." "I've got to see these infants to bed," replied our hero with a wink. "Then I'll be back, Socker. Think over all the points in the story. I don't want to lose any." "I'll do that, Mr. Ranger," and Socker sat down in a chair before the fire and began to think deeply. The students reached their rooms without being detected, whispering to Jack, on their way, their thanks for the spread. "I've had the best time in my life!" exclaimed Will as he clasped Jack's hand at his door. "I can't thank you enough." "Then don't try," replied Jack. "Brace up, and you'll be all right." "I will." Whether it was the effect of the pie or doughnuts Jack never knew, but some time during the night he began to dream that he had swallowed a big piece of pastry the wrong way, and it was choking him. He sat up, gasping for breath, and found to his horror that his room was full of smoke. "There's a fire!" he spoke aloud. Then he called to Nat, who was in the bed across from him: "Nat! Nat! Wake up! There's a fire!" "No, I can't get up any higher," sleepily responded Nat, turning over in bed, and evidently thinking that his chum had asked him to climb up a tree. "It's a fire!" cried Jack, springing from bed. "There's a fire, Nat!" This roused the sleeping lad, who also bounded out from under the covers. There was no doubt about it. Their room was filled with smoke, which was getting thicker every minute. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" yelled Jack, for he heard no one stirring about in the school dormitory, and he rightly guessed that he was the first to sound the alarm. His call was sufficient to arouse students on either side of him, and then Martin and several of the teachers came running from their apartments. "Where is the fire, Ranger?" asked Mr. Gales, one of the mathematical instructors. "I don't know, but my room is full of smoke." Just then, from somewhere below stairs, sounded a cry: "Fire! Fire! There's a fire in the boiler-room! Help!" "That's Socker, the janitor," declared Jack. "Come on, fellows, we'll help him." He rushed for the stairs, attired in his pajamas and slippers, and was followed by Nat and a score of other students. "Boys, boys! Be careful!" called Mr. Gales. Meanwhile, the smoke was getting thicker, and every one was beginning to cough. "Fire! Fire!" yelled Socker. Jack, leading the rush of pupils through the smoke, soon reached the boiler-room in the basement. Through the clouds of vapor, illuminated by gasjets here and there left burning all night in case of accident, he could see the flicker of flames. "Come on!" he called. "There are some pails with water along the wall, and a couple of hand extinguishers!" They reached the engine-room, to find a blaze in one corner, where Socker kept some waste, cans of oil, old rags and brooms. The fire had been eating toward the storeroom, where the midnight feast had been held. "Forward the fire brigade!" yelled Jack as he grabbed up an extinguisher and began to play it on the flames, while some of his chums caught up pails of water, kept filled for just such an emergency. The flames were beginning to crackle now, and the fire seemed likely to be a bad one. Suddenly Socker, who was running about doing nothing, looked at the boiler and cried out: "Run! Everybody run! The safety valve has caught, and the boiler will blow up! Run! Run!" The boys needed no second warning. Jack paused for a moment, for the stream from his extinguisher was beginning to quench the flames, but as he saw Socker fleeing from the room, and as he reflected that it would be dangerous to remain, he turned and fled, carrying the apparatus with him. "Everybody out!" cried Socker. "Get 'em all out! The boiler will blow up!" The lads, lightly clad, fled through the basement door out into the night. The snow, which had ceased that evening, had started in again, and the storm was howling as if in glee at the plight of the students of Washington Hall, who were driven from their beds by fire. CHAPTER X SAVING THE FLAGS "Telephone for the town fire department!" cried Dr. Mead, who had been apprised of the fire. He, like all the others, was out in the storm, with a few clothes he had hastily donned. "They can't get in the boiler-room to fight the fire!" cried Socker. "Why not?" "Because the boiler will blow up. Something is wrong with the safety valve, and there are two hundred pounds of steam on. The boiler is only meant for one hundred." "How did the fire start? What made the safety valve get out of order?" asked the principal. The group of students and teachers, standing in the storm, could now see the bright flicker of flames in the boiler-room. "I don't know," replied Socker. "I was asleep in front of the boiler, waiting to put some more coal on, when all of a sudden I smelled smoke." "How long before the boiler will go up?" asked Dr. Mead anxiously. "I have some valuable books I must save." He started to re-enter the school. "Don't go back!" cried Socker. "It's liable to go up any minute!" Dr. Mead returned to the waiting group, his face betraying intense excitement. "We must get the fire out!" he cried. "Can't some one send word to the village?" "There's a telephone in Mr. Raspen's house, about half a mile away," volunteered Sam. "I'll run there." He started off, and just as he did so a series of alarming cries broke out at one of the upper corridor windows of the school. "Fire! Fire!" cried a voice. "Der school ist being gonsumed by der fierce elements! Safe me, somebodies! I must get out my German flag! I must out get quvick, alretty yet!" The anxious face of Professor Garlach appeared at one of the windows. "Don't jump!" cried Jack, as the teacher seemed about to do so. "You've got time enough to come down the stairs." "B-r-r-r-r! It's cold!" cried Nat Anderson, as some snow got inside the slippers he had put on, and some flakes sifted down his back. "It will soon be warm enough," observed Jack. "The fire is gaining. Poor Washington Hall! It deserved a better fate than being burned down." "Look!" cried Sam, who had paused in his run to go to the telephone. "There's Socrat." The French professor had joined his German colleague at the window, and both were struggling to climb out of it. "Stand aside, German brute zat you aire!" exclaimed the Frenchman. "I must save ze glorious flag of la belle France! Let me toss it out of ze window!" "I vill nottings of der kind do alretty yet!" responded Professor Garlach. "I vos here firstest!" "Zen you are no gentlemans!" was Professor Socrat's reply. "Bah! Sacre! Let me out, I demand of you! I am insult zat you should flout zat rag in my eyes!" The wind had blown the German flag, which Professor Garlach held, into the face of the Frenchman. "Rag! Hein! You call dot glorious flag a rag! Himmel! I vill of der mincemeat you make now!" Professor Garlach made a grab for his enemy. To do so he lost his hold on his precious flag. It fluttered out of the window and to the ground. "Save it! Save it!" he cried, leaning out. "My flag!" "I'll get it," shouted Jack. With a quick movement the German snatched the French colors from the hand of Professor Socrat. An instant later that, too, was fluttering to the snow. "Oh! la belle tri-color! It is insult! I moost have blood to satisfy my honaire!" shouted the Frenchman. He made a lunge, and clasped Professor Garlach about the neck. The two struggled at the window. With a quick wit Jack grabbed the two flags, and, waving them, intertwined, above his head, he shouted: "See, professors! A German-French alliance at last. Both flags are saved. They have not touched the ground. Now come on down and get them. Quick! The fire is gaining!" "Ach! Dot is goot! Der flag is not sullied!" called Professor Garlach. "And mine also--my beautiful tri-color, eet is safe!" added Professor Socrat. "Ranger, you are ze one grand gentleman. I salute you!" and the enthusiastic Frenchman blew Jack a kiss. The two enemies, reconciled by the flag incident, embraced each other, and as Jack called to them to make haste down the stairway, they disappeared from the window. Meanwhile, the smoke was pouring from the boiler-room, and the flames were brighter. Sam had raced off through the storm to the telephone to summon the fire department. "Say, I don't believe that boiler's going to blow up," announced Jack. "If it was going to, it would have done so long ago. I'm going to take a look." "No, no," begged Socker. "You'll all risk your life!" "Don't be rash, Ranger," cautioned Dr. Mead. "I think Socker exaggerated the danger," replied our hero. "I'm going to take a look." He ran back to the engine-room and looked in. He could see the boiler plainly, as the place was brightly illuminated by the flames. His eyes sought the steam gage. "Why!" he cried. "There are only twenty pounds of steam on! Socker took it for two hundred. There's no danger. That's a low pressure." Then he raised his voice in a shout: "Come on, fellows! Help put out the fire! There's no danger! The boiler's all right!" There was an immediate rush. Jack still held his extinguisher, and Nat Anderson had secured one. Several other students, hearing Jack's reassuring news, rushed into the school, and came back with pieces of hand apparatus. "Now to douse the fire!" yelled Jack, again turning on the chemical stream. "Use snow!" cried Bob Movel. "That will help!" He scooped up some in a water pail that he had emptied, and tossed the mass of white crystals on the edge of the flames, which were in one corner of the boiler-room. There was a hissing sound, a cloud of steam arose, and the fire at that particular point died out. "That's the stuff!" cried Jack, and other students and some of the teachers followed Bob's example. The fire was fast being gotten under control, and Socker, returning to the boiler-room, had attached a small hose to a faucet, and was playing water on the flames. Suddenly, above the noise made by the shouting lads, the hiss of snow and water, and the snapping of the flames, there sounded a cry of distress. "Help! Help! Help!" "Some one is caught by the flames! They must have eaten their way up to the upper floors!" cried Dr. Mead. "It iss dot boy Snaith--he und two odders!" announced Professor Garlach, rushing into the boiler-room, his beloved German flag clasped in his arms, where Jack had placed it. "Quick! Sacre! We must not let zem perish!" added Professor Socrat, as he caught up a big fire shovel and dashed from the basement. "I will rescue zem!" "Und me also," added Professor Garlach as he grabbed up a long poker. "There can't be much danger," said Jack. "The fire is almost out. Here, Nat, you keep things moving here, and I'll take a look." He ran out into the storm. Looking up at the side of the school, he saw, framed in a window, behind which a light burned, the figures of Dock Snaith, Pud Armstrong and Glen Forker. "Save us! Save us!" cried Dock. "We can't get out." "Catch me! I'm going to jump!" yelled Pud. "No! no! Don't!" Jack called. "There's no danger. I'll come and get you!" and he dashed into the main entrance of the school. CHAPTER XI THE GUN CLUB For a few moments after Jack's disappearance into the burning school, the spectators, pupils and teachers hardly knew what to do or say. The thick volumes of smoke that rolled out, even though they knew the fire in the boiler-room was under control, seemed to indicate that the conflagration was raging in some other part of the building. "Ach! Dot brafe Ranger fellow!" exclaimed Professor Garlach. "He vill burned be alretty yet! Ach Himmel! Der school will down burn!" "So! Sacre!" exclaimed the French professor. "It iss too true, zat which you speak. Terrible! terrible!" "Und dose odder boys! Der flames vill gonsume dem also!" wailed the German. "But ze flags--ze flags of our countries--zey are safe!" exclaimed Professor Socrat, and at this thought the two former enemies threw their arms about each other. Meanwhile, Jack was dashing upstairs. "I don't see any signs of fire," he said. "I believe it's only smoke, after all." Up he went to the floor where Dock Snaith and his cronies had their rooms. The smoke was very thick, but there were no evidences of flame. And as Jack reached the trio, who were still leaning out of the window and calling for help, he saw that a lighted gasjet, reflecting through the clouds of vapor, had made it appear as if there were flames. "Oh! will no one save us!" cried Snaith. "Fellows, I guess we're going to die!" and he began to whimper. "No! no!" yelled Pud Armstrong. "Let's jump!" "I'm--I'm afraid!" blubbered Snaith. "Come on!" cried Jack, bursting into the room. "There's no danger. It's only smoke. The fire's 'most out." "Are you--are you sure?" faltered Glen Forker. "Yes. Come on! It's all down in the boiler-room." Thus assured, the three bullies, who were the worst kind of cowards, followed Jack through the smoke-filled corridors. When the four appeared there was a cheer, and Professors Socrat and Garlach embraced each other again. "It's all out!" cried Nat Anderson, running from the boiler-room. "Fire's all out!" He was smoke-begrimed, and his thin clothing was wet through. "Are you sure there is no more danger?" asked Dr. Mead. "None at all," answered Nat. Jack hurried up to join his chum. The snow was changing into rain, mingled with sleet, and it was freezing as it fell. "Say, if I was you I'd go in," exclaimed a voice at Jack's elbow, and he turned to see a lad standing near him, whose lower jaw was slowly moving up and down, for he was chewing gum. "Hello, Budge," said Jack. "Where have you been all this while?" For Budge Rankin, the odd character whom Jack had befriended by getting him the position of assistant janitor at Washington Hall, was clad in overcoat and cap. "Me? Oh, I've been in town," answered Budge, stretching some gum out of his mouth and beginning to pull it in again by the simple process of winding it around his tongue. "In town?" questioned Nat. "Yep. 'Smynightoff." "Oh, it was your night off," repeated Jack, for Budge had a habit of running his words together. "Yep. Wow! My gum's frozen!" he exclaimed, pausing in the act of trying to chew it again. "But say," he added, "if the fire's out, you'd better go inside. It's cold here." "You're right; it is," admitted Jack, shivering. "Here, take my coat," spoke Budge, starting to take it off. "Indeed, I'll do nothing of the sort," replied Jack. "I'll go in and get warm." "I guess that's what we'd all better do," added Nat, for the wintry wind was beginning to make itself felt, now that the exercise in putting out the fire no longer warmed them. "Come, young gentlemen, get inside," called Dr. Mead, and the students filed back into the school. The smoke was rapidly clearing away, and after a tour of the building, to make sure the flames were not lurking in any unsuspected corners, the pupils were ordered to bed. Jack and his chums managed to get a little sleep before morning, but when our hero awoke, after troubled dreams, he called out: "Say, Nat, there doesn't seem to be any steam heat in this room." "There isn't," announced Nat, after feeling of the radiator. "It's as cold as a stone." "Socker must have let the fire in the boiler get low," went on Jack. "Probably he thought the blaze last night was enough. B-r-r-r! Let's get dressed in a hurry and go down where it's warm." They soon descended to the main dining-room, where to their surprise they found a number of shivering students and teachers. There was no warmth in the radiators there, either. "What's the matter?" asked Jack. "Ach, Ranger," explained Professor Garlach, "der fire from der boiler has avay gone, alretty, und dere is no more hot vasser mit vich more can be made yet. So ve haf der coldness." "I should say we did," commented Jack. "Can't Socker start a new fire and get up steam?" "I believe not," said a voice at Jack's side, and he turned to see his new friend, Will Williams. "I heard the janitor tell Dr. Mead something was wrong with the boiler. They have gone to look at it." "I'm going to get my overcoat," spoke Nat, and his example was followed by several others, for the room was very chilly. Presently Dr. Mead came in, followed by Socker. "Young gentlemen of Washington Hall," began the head of the school, "I regret to inform you that the fire last night has damaged the boiler in such a way that it is impossible to get up steam. I have just made an investigation, and the boiler will have to have extensive repairs. It will take some time to make them, and, I regret to say it, but I will have to close the school until after the holidays----" "Hurray!" yelled Nat. The doctor looked shocked. Then he smiled. "Such feeling is perhaps natural," he said, "and I would resent it, only I know that Nat Anderson is a good pupil, who loves his school, as, I hope, you all do. But we cannot hold sessions in cold rooms. Now I suggest that you all retire to the general assembly room. There is a large fireplace there, and I will have the janitor build a blaze in it. You can at least have a warm breakfast, and discuss future plans." There was a buzz of excitement at once, and the lads made a rush for the assembly room. There, a little later, somewhat warmed by a big log fire, they ate breakfast. The fire of the night previous, it was learned, had been caused by spontaneous combustion among some oiled rags, and the damage was only in the boiler-room. There had been no need for the fire department from the village, and though Sam had summoned it, the order had been countermanded before the apparatus started, so there was no damage by water to the school. Some smoke-begrimed walls were the only evidence in the upper stories of the fire. "Well," remarked Nat Anderson, as Jack and several of his chums gathered around in a warm corner, "no more school for a couple of months, anyhow. Solidified snowballs! but I wonder what we'll do all that time?" "Go home and rest up," suggested Bony Balmore as he cracked a couple of finger knuckles just to keep in practice. "Rest! Why, we just had one during the summer vacation, Bony," remarked Fred Kaler. "Oh, I can use more," said Bony. "What are you going to do, Jack?" "I'm going hunting and camping," announced Jack quietly. "Hunting?" questioned Nat. "Camping?" cried Sam Chalmers. "Sure," went on Jack. "I've been thinking of it for some time, but I didn't see any opportunity of doing it. I'm going camping and hunting after big game out West, and I wish some of you fellows would go along." "We haven't any guns--that is, such as would do for big game," objected Nat. "We can get 'em," declared Jack. "I was thinking we fellows who went camping before might organize a sort of gun club and take a trip. Now that the school is to close, it will give us just the chance we want." "A gun club," mused Nat. "Say, but that's a fine idea! Petrified pedestrians! but we'll call it Jack Ranger's Gun Club! That will be a dandy name." "You'll do nothing of the sort," said Jack quickly. "It won't be my gun club any more than it will be yours or Bony's or Sam's." "But you're organizing it." "That doesn't make any difference. Every fellow will pay his own way. We'll just call it a gun club." But, in spite of Jack's objection, when the organization was perfected a little later, every one thought of it as Jack Ranger's club, even if they didn't say so. "Where could we go hunting?" asked Nat. "There's no big game around here." "I guess you're right," admitted Jack, "but I know where there is some, and I'm going." "Where?" "Out in the Shoshone Mountains, in the 'bad lands' district of Wyoming. There's the finest hunting in the United States." "Hurrah for the gun club!" cried Nat. "I'm going, too." "Well, don't leave me behind," pleaded Sam. "I guess you can count me in." Jack looked around at the eager faces of his chums. Then off in a corner he saw the somewhat downcast countenance of the new boy--Will Williams. "I wonder if he wouldn't like to go, too?" Jack said to himself. CHAPTER XII WILL RUNS AWAY The boys gathered about the warm fire, crowding close around Jack to hear more details of the proposed trip of the gun club. "I've been reading up about hunting big game," went on Jack, "and I asked my father if I could go the first chance I got. He said I could, and now I've got the chance." "What are those bad lands?" asked Fred Kaler. "Any Indians out there?" "Some, I guess. A few Sioux, Crows and some Shoshones. But they're mostly guides. You see, bad lands are what the Westerners call a region that isn't very good for anything but hunting. They consist of a lot of sandstone peaks, with deserts here and there." "And what can you hunt there?" asked Nat. "Oh, lots of things. Big-horn sheep, bears, elk, deer, jack-rabbits and birds. It will be lots of sport." "Wyoming, eh?" mused Sam. "That's quite a way off." "Yes, it is, but we've got lots of time. I've been making some inquiries, and they say the best spot to aim for is around the town of Cody, which is named after Buffalo Bill. You see, we can go to Fort Custer, and from there we have to travel in wagons or on horses. I've got a route all mapped out. We'll go along a small stream, called Sage Creek, across the Forty-mile Desert, and hunt along the Shoshone River, near Heart Mountain. It's a fine hunting ground, and we'll have no end of fun camping out." "But it'll be cold," objected Bony. "There'll be snow." "What of it?" asked Jack. "It'll do you good. We'll have warm tents, warm clothing, and we can build big camp fires that will make the ones here look like a baby bonfire." "Galloping gasmeters!" exclaimed Nat. "When can we start, Jack?" "Oh, it'll take some time to get ready. We've got to get the guns and camping outfit together." The boys talked for some considerable time about the prospective trip. Socker, meanwhile, came in to replenish the fire. In some of the rooms there were stoves and gas heaters, and these were soon in operation to take the chill off the apartments, for the big building, being without steam heat, was like a barn. Budge Rankin came in once with some logs for the fire. "Goinome?" he said to Jack. "Going home?" repeated our hero. "That's what I am, Budge. Are you?" "SoonsIkin." "As soon as you can, eh? Well, it will be this afternoon for mine," went on Jack. "Can't stay here and freeze." Dr. Mead and his assistants were busy arranging for the departure of the pupils, while the head of the school also telegraphed for new parts of the damaged boiler. Jack and Nat packed their belongings, and prepared to start for Denton. "Say, who all are going camping and hunting?" asked Nat, pausing in the act of thrusting his clothes into his trunk. "Why, I was thinking if we could take the same crowd we had before you and I were captured and taken aboard the _Polly Ann_ this summer, it would be nice," replied Jack. "There's you and Bony and Sam and me." "And Budge." "Oh, yes, Budge. I'll take him along if he'll go. He likes to putter around camp, but he doesn't care much about hunting. He'd rather chew gum." Though Budge worked as assistant janitor at Washington Hall, Jack and his chums did not consider that his position was at all degrading. Jack felt that Budge was one of his best friends, and though the lad was poor he was independent, which quality Jack liked in him. "And I tell you some one else I'm going to take, if I can manage it," went on our hero. "Who?" "Bill Williams. I like that fellow, and he's had it pretty hard. I'd like to do something for him, and I'm going to ask him to come hunting with us." "S'pose he'll go?" "I don't know. Guess I'll go ask him now. Say, you finish crowding my stuff into my trunk, will you? We want to catch the twelve o'clock train for Denton." "Sure," agreed Nat, ending his packing by the simple process of crowding all that remained of his clothes into the trunk and then jumping on them with both feet, so that they would collapse sufficiently to allow the lid to fasten. Jack found the new boy sitting in his room beside his trunk and valise. "All ready to go home?" asked Jack. "Yes," was the answer in a sad sort of voice. "Why, you don't seem to be very glad that school has closed, giving you an additional vacation," remarked Jack. "I'm not." "Why?" "Because I've got to go and live with my guardian. He hates me. He'll be twitting me of how I robbed him, when I had no more to do with the loss of his money than--than you did. I was beginning to like it here, but now I've got to go back. It's tough!" "Say, how would you like to come with me?" "Come with you? Where?" "Hunting in the Shoshone Mountains." "Do you mean it?" asked Will eagerly, his eyes brightening. He sprang to his feet, all his sadness gone. "Of course I mean it," went on Jack. "Some of my chums are going to form a sort of gun club, and I'd like to include you in it. Will you come?" "Will I come? Say, I----" Then the lad paused. The light faded from his eyes. He sank back into his chair. "No--no," he said slowly. "I'm much obliged, but I--I guess I can't go." "Why not?" Will hesitated. "Well--er--you see--er--the fact is, I haven't any money. My guardian pays all the bills, and, as I told you, he doesn't give me any spending money. Not even enough for a postage stamp." "That's tough," said Jack, "but I guess you didn't quite understand me. I didn't ask you to spend any money." "How can I go camping and hunting, away off in Wyoming, without money?" "You'll go as my guest," said Jack simply. "I'm inviting you to go with me. The other fellows are coming on their own hook, as members of the gun club, but I'd like to have you come just as my guest. Will you do that?" "Will I?" Once more the lad's eyes sparkled. "Of course I will," he said, "only it doesn't seem right to have you pay my way. If my uncle only knew of my plight he'd give me some money, I'm sure, but I can't even write to him. It's quite mysterious the way he hides himself. I can't understand it." "Then you'll come?" "Yes--but I don't like to feel that it is costing you money." "Don't let that worry you," said Jack quickly. "I'm pretty well off, and my dad has all the money he can use. I guess you didn't hear about the gold mine Nat and I helped discover when we were out West looking for my father." "No, I never did." "Well, that will keep the wolf from howling around the door for a while. I'm real glad you're coming, Bill. I hope you'll enjoy it." "I know I will. I'm fond of hunting and camping." "All right. Now I'm going back to Denton. I s'pose you're going home, too?" "Well, it isn't much of a home. I live in Hickville with my guardian." "Hickville, eh? That's about a hundred miles from Denton. Well, I was going to say that I'll write you a few days before we start, and you can come on to Denton." "All right. I'll do it." "Then I'll go and finish packing. I left Nat Anderson to do it, and he's just as likely to put things upside down as right side up. I'll see you at Denton, then." "Yes," replied Will. But Jack did not see the new boy at Denton, and not until some time after their parting at the school; and when he did see him, it was under strange circumstances. Good-bys were said among the pupils and teachers of Washington Hall, and Jack and his chums separated, he and Nat journeying to Denton, which they reached that night, much to the surprise of Mr. Ranger, Jack's three aunts, and Nat's folks. Jack lost no time in beginning his preparations for the camping trip, his father consenting that the gun club might be formed. Our hero wrote many letters, arranged for transportation to the West, got into communication with a guide near Cody, Wyoming, and invited Budge to go along. "Sure I'll go," said the gum-chewing lad as he placed into his mouth a fresh wad of the sticky substance. "When'll it be?" "In about two weeks," said Jack. "There are quite a few things to do yet." In the meanwhile, Nat Anderson, Sam Chalmers and Bony Balmore had secured permission from their parents to go with Jack, and they were busy at their respective homes, making up their kits. Sam and Bony lived about a day's journey from Denton. "Now I'll write to Bill, and invite him to come on," said Jack one night, and then he waited for a reply from the lad with whom he had so recently become friends. "Here's Bill's answer," said Jack to Nat one afternoon a few days later, when they went down to the post-office, and Jack received a letter marked "Hickville." As Jack read it he uttered a low whistle. "What's the matter? Can't he come?" asked Nat. "No. This is from his rascally guardian. It's to me. Bill's run away." CHAPTER XIII OFF ON THE TRIP Nat stood still in the street and stared at Jack. "What's that you said?" he asked. "Bill's run away. Listen and I'll read the letter to you. It says: 'A few days ago my ward, William Williams, returned from Washington Hall, greatly to my regret. He explained the cause of his enforced vacation, and stated that you had asked him to go off on a hunting trip. Of course, I refused to let him go. In the first place I don't believe in hunting, and for a lad of William's age to go off to the West, where he may learn bad habits, is not the thing. Besides, I cannot trust him away from the authority of older persons.'" "Wouldn't that jolt you?" commented Jack as he looked up from the letter. Nat nodded. "Suffering snufflebugs!" he exclaimed. "That's the limit--isn't it, Jack?" "Pretty near. Listen; there's more to it: 'When I told my ward that he could not go, he answered me very sharply that if his uncle was here he could get permission. That may be, but his uncle is not here. He begged to be allowed to go, but I was firm in my refusal. I do not believe in such nonsense as camping out, and I told William so. "'The other day, to my surprise, he disappeared from my home, and I have not been able to get a trace of him. I am forced to come to the conclusion that he has run away in a fit of anger, because I would not let him go camping with you. I hold you partly to blame for this, as it was wrong of you to ask him to go. I must therefore ask you, in case you see him, to at once compel him to return to me. I absolutely forbid him to go camping with you, and should he join you, you must send him back. He has defied me, and must be punished. If you see him, turn him over to the nearest police officer, inform me, and I will come and get him.'" "Well, wouldn't that loosen your liver pin!" exclaimed Nat. "Do you s'pose he's coming here, Jack?" "I don't know. I'm glad he ran away from such a mean man as Mr. Gabel, though. The idea of not letting him go camping! It's a shame!" "Will you make him go back if he does come?" "Will I? Not much! I'll take him camping." "That's the stuff!" cried Nat. "Gollywoggled gimlet giblets! but some persons can be mean when they try real hard! I wonder if he will come here?" "It's hard to say," replied Jack. "He showed spunk, though, in running away, and I guess he couldn't have taken any money with him, either, for his guardian never let him have any. Well, if he comes I'll look out for him, and I'll not hand him over to a policeman, either." "Say," called a voice from the other side of the street. "Bettergome, Jack." "Better go home--what for, Budge?" asked Jack as he saw the queer, gum-loving lad coming toward him. "Some of your camping stuff arrived, and your aunts don't know where to put it. It's all over the parlor floor," explained Budge, taking his gum out of his mouth in order to speak more plainly. "I hope it's my new gun!" exclaimed Jack. "Come on, Nat, let's hurry. Did they send you after me, Budge?" for the assistant janitor used to do chores for Jack's aunts, and was constantly around the house. "'Swat," replied Budge, that being his gum version of "That's what." Jack and Nat hurried to the former's house. They found several packages strewn about the parlor, while Jack's three maiden aunts were sitting in chairs, staring helplessly at the accumulation of stuff. "Oh, Jack!" exclaimed Aunt Angelina. "Whatever is in all those packages? The man who brought them told us to be careful, as one was marked firearms." "That's all right," said Jack easily. "It's only some guns and cartridges I expect, Aunt Angelina." "But--but suppose it should blow up the place, Jack dear?" asked Aunt Mary. "Yes, and break my best set of china," added Aunt Josephine. "Oh, Jack, take them away, please!" "All right," exclaimed Jack. "I'll give you a correct imitation of Marinello Booghoobally, _alias_ Hemp Smith, making things disappear. Catch hold, Nat, and we'll take them out to our private office," and with his chum's aid Jack had soon removed the offending packages to a loft over the barn, which he had fitted up as a sort of clubroom. "Now, Jack, be careful," cautioned Mr. Ranger as he saw his son busily engaged. "You know the danger of firearms." "Sure, dad. Say, I wish you were going hunting with us. Why can't you?" "I had enough of the West," remarked Mr. Ranger, as he thought of his enforced stay there for many years. "I'm not going back. You brought me home, Jack, and I'm going to stay East. But I hope you have a good time." "I guess we will, if Jack has anything to do with it," remarked Nat. "Say, Jack, that's a dandy gun." "Pretty fair," observed our hero, as he brought to view a fine new rifle, which he had sent for. There was also a shotgun in the outfit, and many other things to be used on the trail and in camp. Nat's eyes showed his admiration. "Jumping jillflowers!" he exclaimed, "but you are certainly doing this up good and brown, Jack." "Yes, I don't like anything half done. It's bad for the digestion. You've got a gun, haven't you?" "Oh, yes, a pretty fair one. But I wish I had one like yours." "You can use it whenever you want to," was Jack's generous offer. "Budge hasn't any, and I'm going to let him take my old rifle, though I expect he'll get the lock all stuck up with gum, so it won't shoot." "I'm glad Budge is going. He'll keep things lively." "Yes, and I'm sorry Bill Williams can't go. I s'pose I've got to write to his guardian, and tell him I haven't seen Bill. Well, we're almost ready. I guess we can start in about three days." "When will Sam and Bony arrive?" "I expect them to-morrow. Then we'll make for the West, for the mountains, the bad lands, the desert, and the home of big game! Whoop! La-la! Hold me down, Nat! I'm feeling fine!" Jack began dancing about the loft, and the loose boards of the floor made such a racket as he leaped about, pulling Nat this way and that in his enthusiasm, that Budge, who was cleaning out the stable, called up from below: "'Sanythingwrong?" "No, nothing's wrong, you old gum-masticating specimen of a big-horn sheep," replied Nat. "We're just working off some steam, that's all." "Better send it back to Washington Hall," advised Budge. "They need it there." "That's right," laughed Jack. Sam Chalmers and Bony Balmore arrived the next day, and were entertained at Jack's house. Preparations were rushed, Nat and Budge finishing their packing, and two days later, with their guns, their camping outfits, and their baggage, they stood in the railroad station, ready to start for the West. It was a fine, clear, crisp November day, all traces of the recent storm having disappeared, and it seemed as if winter, having sent on an advance agent, rather repented of opening the season so early. "It will be fine hunting weather," said Jack as he and his chums waited for the train. "Couldn't be better," agreed Nat. At that moment the agent came hurrying from the depot, holding aloft an envelope. "Here's a telegram for you, Jack Ranger," he said as he handed it over. "It just came." "A telegram?" mused Jack. "I wonder who it's from?" He tore open the envelope, and as he read the message he gave a start. CHAPTER XIV THE BROKEN TRAIN "What is it?" asked Nat. "Any bad news? Can't you go camping?" "It's a message from Mr. Gabel, Bill Williams' guardian," replied Jack. "He says he has a clue that Bill has gone out to a settlement on the Big Horn River, in Montana, and he wants me to tell him to go back to Hickville at once if I see him." "But you're not likely to, are you? Is the Big Horn River near where we are going?" asked Bony. "Not very, I guess," answered Jack. "The Big Horn starts in Wyoming, but I rather think the chances are a thousand to one against seeing Bill. Poor chap! He has a hard row to hoe. I wish I could help him, but if he's run away I don't see how I can." "I wish we'd meet him out West," said Sam. "Wouldn't it be a joke if, after all, he could go camping with us and fool his mean old guardian?" "Oh, what's the use discussing fairy tales?" asked Jack. "Are you fellows all ready? Don't leave anything behind, now." "I guess we're all here--what there is of us," remarked Bony, cracking his finger joints. Just then the whistle of an approaching train was heard. "Gotchertickets?" asked Budge Rankin, taking in a fresh wad of gum. "Hu! Do you think I left them until now?" inquired Jack. "I've got all the tickets. That's our train, fellows. Now we'll say good-by to Denton for a while, and live in the wild and woolly West. Here, Budge, you take that satchel, and I'll tote the dress-suit case. Try and get seats together, boys." A little later they were on the train and being whirled rapidly away from Denton. They had a long journey before them, and as the first part of it contained no features of interest the lads spent all their time discussing what was before them. "I want to get a big buck mule deer," remarked Jack as they were talking about what kind of game they would be likely to find. "Me for a big-horn sheep," said Nat. "I want to get the head mounted and put it in my room. Then I'll put my rifle across the horns, and show it to every one who comes in." "I s'pose you'll tell 'em you shot it, won't you?" asked Bony. "Of course. I will shoot it." "You won't if you haven't improved your aim any since we were camping this summer." "I can shoot better than you can," retorted Nat. "Like pie!" exclaimed Bony, discharging a whole volley of knuckle-bone shots. "Why, you missed that big muskrat you aimed at, the day before Jack and I were kidnapped!" taunted Nat. "Yes, but you joggled my arm." "I did not." "You did so." "Hold on," interposed Jack in a quiet voice. "All the passengers are laughing at you two." "I don't care," replied Nat. "I guess I can shoot as good as he can." "Oh, I fancy there'll be game enough out there, so if you miss one thing you can hit another," consoled Sam. "What I want to see are the bad lands. Just think of thousands of small sandstone peaks, so much alike that they look like a stone forest, with sulphur springs here and there, and all sorts of queer-shaped rocks. It must be a great sight!" "Yes, and it's easy to get lost among those same peaks," added Jack. "I read of a hunter who went out there, and he was so near camp that his friends could hear him shouting, but they couldn't locate him until he began to fire his gun, and then they had hard work because of the echoes. We'll have to keep together if we get in such a place as that." "But there are some woods, aren't there?" asked Bony. "Sure, woods, mountains, valleys, and all sorts of wild places," said Jack. "I fancy there'll be plenty of snow on the upper peaks, too, but it's likely to be nice and warm down below." "What do you want to shoot, Budge?" asked Nat, for the gum-chewing youth had not said much. "Hu! Guessarabbit'lldome." "A rabbit," remarked Jack. "Maybe we'll be glad of a good rabbit stew, or one roasted, in case these mighty hunters don't bring down a buck or a bear." Thus they talked for many miles, until they had to change cars, where they took another road leading more directly West. They arrived at Chicago the morning after the day on which they had started, and spent some time in the Windy City. Then they started off again. "Two days more and we'll be in Wyoming," remarked Jack the next afternoon, as they were speeding through Iowa. "Then for a good time. Eh, fellows?" "That's what!" answered Sam. "My, but I'm getting stiff. I'd like to get out and have a ball game." "So would I," said Nat. Their train stopped at a small station, and was held there for some time. "Wonder what we're waiting for?" ventured Jack. "What's the matter?" he asked of a brakeman who passed through their car at that moment. "Some block on the line ahead," was the reply. "We'll go in a few minutes." There was some fretting among the passengers at the delay, but finally the train started off again. It proceeded slowly. Then followed some sharp whistles, and finally there sounded a report like a gun. "It's a hold-up!" cried an excited man. The boys and all about them leaped to their feet in alarm. "That's what it is," went on the man. "It's a Wild West hold-up! Better hide your watches and money." He began emptying his pockets of his valuables, and was thrusting them under his seat. The train had come to a sudden stop. "Do you s'pose it's train robbers?" asked Bony in some alarm. "I don't know," answered Jack. "I guess----" "Where'sthegunsan'we'llshoot'em!" exclaimed Budge, jumping up. Just then a brakeman ran through the car, carrying a red flag. "What's the matter? Is it a hold-up? Are they after our money?" These questions were rapidly fired at him. "A freight train has broken in two just ahead of us," explained the railroad man. "The engine's disabled," he went on. "We've got to back up to a switch so as to pass it. I've got to go back with a danger flag." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed a woman. "But who got shot? I'm sure I heard a gun go off." "That was a torpedo on the track, ma'am," explained the brakeman. "The freight crew put it there on a sharp curve, so we wouldn't run into the tail-end of their train. It's all right. There's no danger." The brakeman hurried down the steps of the last car, in which the boys were riding, and began to run along the track. When he was about a hundred yards away the train began to back slowly up. "I wonder how far back we have to go to reach the switch?" asked Jack. "About two miles," answered a man across the aisle from the lads. "It's near Mine Brook Station, and it'll take us quite a while to get there." "Why?" asked Bony. "Can't the train go fast backward?" "Yes, but the engineer dare not run past the man with the flag. He has to keep a certain distance in the rear of the last car, to warn any other trains that may be approaching behind us. So we really can't back up any faster than the brakeman can run. I don't like this delay, either, as I have an important engagement. But something always seems to be happening on this road. I wish I'd come another route." There were other grumbling remarks by the various passengers, but the boys were too interested in watching the brakeman to notice them. The train must have gotten too close to him, for it came to a stop, in obedience to a signal on the air whistle, and waited until the man with the red flag was out of sight around a curve. Then it began to back again. This was kept up for some time, and finally the boys saw the brakeman come to a halt and wave his flag in a peculiar manner. "He's at the switch now," remarked the man who had first spoken to the lads. "We'll soon be on our way again." The train proceeded more slowly, and then the boys saw where a switch crossed from one track to another. The rear car was halted some distance from the cross-over, and a man came running up from the head end, carrying a key in his hand, with which to unlock the switch. He quickly turned it, and then began to wave his arm, as a signal for the engineer to back up. He continued to wave for several seconds, and then he exclaimed: "He can't see me. Hey!" he called to a group of men on the back platform of the last car, "give him the whistle signal, will you?" "What?" asked a man. "Give him the whistle. Blow it three times, so he'll back up. Hurry! I can't leave this switch." The men did not seem to know what to do. Some of them began looking inside the car for the old-fashioned bell cord, that used to run through the train to the engineer's cab. This is now displaced by a small red cord at one side of the car, and it operated a whistle connected with the air-brake system. "Pull the cord. Give him three whistles, can't you?" cried the man at the switch. "We can't lay here all day." "I don't see any whistle," murmured the man who had told the boys about the switch. "Let him come and pull it himself. This is a queer road, where they expect the passengers to help run it." "Can't some of you pull that whistle cord?" demanded the man. "Hurry up." Jack heard and understood. He had often seen the brakemen or conductor at the Denton station start the trains by pulling on something under the hood of the car, as they stood on the platform. "I guess I can do it," he said as he worked his way through the crowd of passengers about the door. He reached up, and his fingers encountered a thin cord. He pulled it slowly, as he had seen the railroad men do, for as the air pressure had to travel the entire length of the train it required some time, and a quick jerk would not have been effective. Once, twice, three times Jack pulled the whistle cord, and he heard the hissing of escaping air that told of the signal sounding in the locomotive cab. An instant later came three blasts from the engine, and the train began to back up. "Much obliged to you," called the man at the switch to Jack, as the rear car passed him. "I'm glad somebody knew how to work it." "Is that where the whistle cord is?" asked a man. "I was looking for a bell cord." The train backed across the switch, and was soon on another track, and one not blocked by a disabled freight. "Say," remarked Nat to Jack, "you're getting to be a regular railroad man." "Well, I'm in a hurry to get out to camp and take the trail," replied Jack. "That's why I'm helping 'em run this road." CHAPTER XV JACK MEETS A GIRL The train soon began to move forward again, but it had to proceed slowly, as it was on the wrong track, and a flagman had to precede it to prevent a collision. It was tiresome traveling, and nearly every one grumbled--that is, all save the boys. To them the affair was novel enough to be interesting. Finally they reached and passed the disabled freight train. As they puffed past it a girl, who had come in from some car ahead with an elderly gentleman, took a seat with him just across from where Jack sat. "There, daddy," said the girl in a sweet, resonant voice that made Jack look up quickly, "there's the train that made all the trouble. Now we'll go more quickly." "Are you sure, Mabel?" he asked. "Why, yes, daddy. Didn't the conductor say that as soon as we passed the broken freight train we would get on our regular track? You heard him." "Yes, I know, but you can't always believe what these railroad men tell you. They'd say anything to keep a passenger quiet. I'm nervous riding in these cars. There may be a collision when we're on the wrong track. Don't you think so?" he asked, turning to Jack. "Why, no. I don't believe we're in any danger," replied our hero, and his heart beat faster at the grateful look which the pretty girl flashed at him from her brown eyes. "There is a flagman ahead of us, and we'll soon be on the right track. There is no danger." "I'm sure I hope so," went on the aged man. "I'm not used to this way of traveling. A wagon, a horse, or hitting the trail for mine. I came out of the front car, because I thought it would be safer here in case of a collision. Don't you think so?" he asked anxiously. "Of course," answered Jack reassuringly, and again the girl looked gratefully at him. "My name's Pierce," went on the timid man. "Dan Pierce. What's yours?" "Oh, daddy!" exclaimed the girl. "Perhaps the young gentleman doesn't want to tell his name." "Why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Pierce quickly. "Every one ought to be proud of his name. I'm proud of mine. Dan Pierce it is. I'm an old Western hunter, and this is my daughter Mabel. We've been East on a visit, and we're going back. I'm glad of it, too. What's your name?" he went on. "Father," expostulated the girl, "perhaps he doesn't wish to tell." "Oh, I haven't the least objection," answered our hero. "I'm Jack Ranger, and these are some friends of mine." "I'd like to know 'em," said Mr. Pierce quickly, and Jack introduced the boys, the old hunter, in turn, presenting his daughter Mabel, who blushed more than ever. But Jack thought her ever so much prettier when the color surged up into her brown, olive-tinted cheeks. "Going far?" asked Mr. Pierce. "We're taking a hunting trip to the Shoshone Mountains," replied Jack. "You don't say so? Why, that's where I lived and hunted for forty years!" exclaimed Mr. Pierce. "That's where me and my daughter live. About ten miles from Pryor's Gap. But my hunting days are over," he said a bit sadly. "I have to settle down now and live in a house with Mabel here." Jack thought that was not at all a bad arrangement, and he stole a glance at the girl. He caught her looking at him, and he felt the blood mounting to his face, while he saw the blush spread again over her cheeks. "How long are you going to stay?" asked Mr. Pierce. Then Jack told of the formation of the gun club, and how it happened that they had a chance to come West on a late fall hunting trip. "It makes me feel young again," declared Mr. Pierce as his eyes lighted up. "I declare, I've a good notion to hit the trail again." "Oh, you mustn't think of that, daddy!" exclaimed Mabel. "Remember, you promised me you would stay home now and rest." "Rest? I guess you mean rust," said Mr. Pierce, his deep-set eyes sparkling with fun. "I sure would like to hit the trail again." "We would be very glad to have you come along with us," said Jack. "We have plenty of shelter tents, and lots of grub." "I'd like it--I'd like it," said Mr. Pierce musingly. "Daddy!" expostulated his daughter. She shot a somewhat indignant glance at Jack for proposing such a thing, but she was not angry. "There, there, Mabel, of course I won't go," said her father. "I'll stay home. My hunting days are over, I reckon, but I sure would like a chance to wrassle with a bear or draw a bead on a mule deer or a fine big-horn sheep. Say, if you boys ever get near Pryor's Gap I'll feel mortal offended if you don't stop off and see us." "We'll stop," promised Jack heartily, and he looked into Mabel's eyes, whereat she blushed again, and Jack felt his heart strangely beating. "Masquerading mud-turtles! but that's a fine view!" suddenly exclaimed Nat, who was looking from a window. "You can see fifty miles, I'll wager." Mabel laughed heartily. "What a funny expression!" she said. "Where did you get it?" "Oh, he makes them up as he goes along," explained Jack, while Nat was in some confusion. "It must be some tiresome," observed Mr. Pierce, while his eyes twinkled humorously. "But we sure do have fine views out here. You needn't be in a hurry to look at 'em. There's plenty where you're going. But I meant to ask you boys how do you calculate to travel after you get to Fort Custer? I believe you said you were going there first." "We are," replied Jack, "and from there we have arranged to go in wagons to Sage Creek and across Forty-mile Desert." "That's a good route," observed Mr. Pierce. "Who was you depending on to tote your stuff across the desert?" "Why, a man named Isaac Blender," answered Jack. "I wrote to him on the advice of my father, who heard of him through some Western friends he has." "Oh, you mean Tanker Ike," said Mr. Pierce. "Tanker Ike?" repeated Jack. "Yes. You see, we call him that because he used to drive a water tank across the desert to the mining camps. So you're going with Tanker Ike, eh? Well, that's middlin' curious." "Why so?" asked Sam. "Because me and my daughter are going to take a short trip with him. I've got a sister I want to visit before I go back to Pryor's Gap, and Mabel and I are going in one of Tanker Ike's wagons." "Maybe we can go together," spoke Jack quickly, and he glanced at Mabel, who suddenly found something of interest in the scenery that was rushing by. "That's just what I was thinking," went on Mr. Pierce. "I'll give you a proper introduction to Ike. Are you going to have a guide?" "Yes," answered Jack. "I wrote to Mr. Blender about it, and he promised to get an Indian guide for us. Do you think he can?" "Oh, yes. There are plenty of Crow Indians that can be hired. I'll see that he gets you a good one." "Thank you," said Jack, secretly delighted that he could travel for some time longer in Mabel's company. The rest of the railroad journey seemed very short to Jack, and to his chums also, for Mr. Pierce proved an interesting talker, and told them many stories of camp and trail. Finally they reached Fort Custer, found their camping outfit on hand, with their guns, tents and other necessaries, and there was Tanker Ike on hand to meet them. "Hello, Ike!" called Mr. Pierce as he descended from the car. "Well, bust my off wheel! If it ain't Dan Pierce!" exclaimed the other. "Where did you drift in from?" They greeted each other heartily, and then Mr. Blender approached Jack and his chums, Mr. Pierce doing the introducing, which was hardly necessary, as the man who was to pilot the boys across the desert was a hearty, genial Westerner, whom to meet once was to feel well acquainted with. "And I want you to get these boys a good Indian guide," said Mr. Pierce. "None of those lazy, shiftless beggars." "I've got Long Gun for them," said Mr. Blender. "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Pierce. "Long Gun is as good a Crow Indian as there is. You'll be safe with him, boys." "Sanctimonious scalplocks!" exclaimed Nat. "Are we going to travel with a real live Indian?" "That's what, son," replied Tanker Ike softly. "But don't let off any more of them curious expressions than you can help. They might scare Long Gun, and he's sort of timid--for an Indian," and Mr. Pierce joined the wagon driver in a laugh. "Well, if we're going to start we'd better be going," remarked Mr. Blender at length. "Let's see. I guess I can get you all in one wagon, and pack the grub and camp truck in another." "Where will the Indian guide meet us?" asked Jack. "The other side of the desert." "Do you think he'll be there?" "When Long Gun says a thing, it's as good as done," commented Mr. Pierce. "Well, Mabel, climb up, and I'll get aboard in a few minutes." Jack made a start for the wagon. "Where you going?" asked Nat quickly. "I'm going to get in, of course." "But what about our stuff?" "Oh, Mr. Blender will look after that, I guess." Jack kept on, following close after Mabel, and he took a seat beside her in the big wagon. "Say, fellows," remarked Nat in a low voice to the other lads, "what do you think of Jack?" "He's got 'em bad," commented Sam. "But I don't know as I blame him. She's awful nice." "Cut it out! You're getting sentimental in your old age, Sam," objected Bony, as he cracked a couple of knuckles for practice. CHAPTER XVI A DANGEROUS DESCENT Jack looked down at his chums from his seat in the big wagon beside Mabel. "Aren't you going to get aboard?" he asked with a smile. "Are we going to start soon?" asked Nat. "As soon as our stuff is loaded in the freight wagon," replied Jack. "Why?" "I want to get my gun," replied Nat. "We may see something to shoot at." "Not much around here," commented Mr. Pierce. "Better leave your truck all together until you get to camp. It'll carry better that way." "Juthinkwe'llseeanyrobbers?" asked Budge suddenly. "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Pierce slowly, while a look of surprise slowly spread over his face. "But what was that remark you just made?" For Budge had not talked much, thus far on the journey, and when he had spoken he had not used any of his conglomerated remarks. "He merely inquired if you thought we'd see any robbers," answered Sam with a smile. "'SwatIsaid," added Budge, rapidly chewing gum in his excitement. "No, I don't cal'alate we'll meet up with any bandits," answered Mabel's father with a smile. "If we do--well, Tanker Ike and I are pretty well heeled, I guess," and he lifted from his side coat pocket, where he carried it as if it was a pound of sugar, a revolver of large size. "Oh, daddy! Don't bring out that horrid gun!" exclaimed Mabel. "I thought Western girls were used to guns and such things," remarked Jack. "So she is," said her father. "Mabel is as good a shot with the rifle as I am, but somehow she don't exactly seem to cotton to these pocket pistols." "I think they're dangerous," explained the girl with a glance at Jack that set his heart to beating faster again. "I don't mind a rifle, but for all daddy says so, I'm not as good a shot as he is." "I'd like to see you shoot," said Jack. "Maybe you will--if you come to see me--I mean us," she corrected herself quickly, with a blush. "I'll come," said Jack. Meanwhile, Mr. Blender and some men from the railroad freight office were loading the other wagon. This was one with a canvas top, something like the prairie schooners of the early Western days, and was drawn by a team of four mules. The passenger vehicle was hauled by four horses. "Well, I guess I've got everything in," commented Tanker Ike. "Now it's up to you boys to get the game. There's plenty of it, and I expect when you come back here to take a train East you'll have a great collection." "We'll try," answered Jack. "All aboard!" sung out Mr. Blender, and Sam, Bony and Budge, together with Nat, who had been wandering about, looking at the view, started to climb up into the big wagon. Jack had not relinquished his seat by Mabel's side, and he was oblivious to the winks and grins of his chums. "Have you got a good seat, Jack?" asked Sam, giving Nat a nudge in the ribs. "I've got the best seat in the wagon," replied Jack boldly, and Mabel seemed to find something very interesting on the opposite side of the vehicle from where Jack sat at her elbow. Mr. Pierce and Mr. Blender took their places on the front seat, the four other boys distributing themselves in the rear, while a teamster in charge of the freight wagon drove the mules that were to haul the camping outfit over the desert and mountains. It was fine, clear weather, not cold, in spite of the lateness of the season, and the boys, as well as all the others in the party, were in fine spirits. "Hurrah for Jack Ranger's gun club!" cried Nat, when they started off, the horses and mules plunging forward in response to pistol-like cracks of the long whips. "That's right!" sung out Sam. "Is it your gun club?" asked Mabel. "Well, they call it that," explained Jack, as he told how it came to be formed. "Cæsar's side saddles!" suddenly exclaimed Nat, when they had gone a little farther. "Did you see that rabbit? It was as big as a dog!" "That's a jack-rabbit," explained Mr. Pierce. "Why didn't I keep out my gun?" asked Sam with regret in his voice. "I'd like a shot at it. That's the biggest game I've seen in some time." "Wait until you see a mule deer, or a big-horn sheep," said Mr. Blender. "Then you can talk." They continued on slowly for several miles, the view changing every moment, and bringing forth exclamations of astonishment and delight from the boys. To Jack and Nat, who had been West before, there was not so much novelty in it, but Sam, Budge and Bony said they had never seen such beautiful aspects of mountain and valley. They stopped at noon to get dinner at a stage station, and though the place was of the "rough and ready" style, the meal was good. "'Sanycowboys?" asked Budge of Jack, as they came out to resume their journey. "I suppose you mean where are any cowboys," said Jack, and Budge nodded, being too busily engaged in preparing a fresh wad of gum at that moment to answer in words. "There aren't many around here," explained Mr. Pierce, who had heard Jack's interpretation of the question. "Oh, the West isn't half so wild and woolly as some book writers make it out to be." "Are you boys pretty good at going dry?" asked Tanker Ike, turning to Jack, when they had accomplished several miles more of their journey. "Going dry?" repeated our hero. "Yes. Can you go without a drink if you have to?" "Why?" "Well, you see, we'll start to cross the desert to-morrow, and though we'll take plenty of water along, you never can tell what will happen. It usually takes two days to make it, but sometimes an accident happens to a wagon, or a horse or a mule may go lame, and then you're longer on the trip. When you are, your water doesn't always last, and many a time I've finished the journey with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, and the poor beasts as dry as powder-horns. So I just thought I'd ask you if you were pretty good at going dry." "Well, Nat and I were shipwrecked once," answered Jack, "and if it hadn't rained we'd have been in a bad way, eh, Nat?" "That's what. Sanctified sand-fleas! but that was a tough time," he added, as he thought of the cruise of the _Polly Ann_. "Well, it never rains on this desert," commented Mr. Pierce. "Can't you carry enough water so that if you're four days instead of two crossing the desert you'll have plenty?" asked Bony. "You can only carry just so much," replied Tanker Ike. "But don't worry. I was only asking just for fun. I reckon we'll make out all right." "Were you really shipwrecked?" asked Mabel, interestedly turning to Jack. "Well, yes," he admitted, for he disliked to talk about himself. "Oh, do tell me about it, please. I love to hear real stories of adventure." "And tell her how you knocked out Jerry Chowden," put in Sam. "Say, maybe we'll meet him out here. He went West, you know." "I hope not," responded Jack, and then he told Mabel of his ocean cruise. "Everybody hold on tight now," cautioned Mr. Blender about an hour later, as he set the brake of the wagon and called back a warning to the driver of the freight vehicle. "Why?" asked Jack. "There's a bad hill just ahead, and I've got more of a load on than I usually carry. But I guess we'll make it all right," and he gathered the reins in a firmer grip and braced himself on the seat. A few minutes later they came to a turn in the road, and started down a dangerous descent of the bluff that bordered the valley of the desert. The brake began to screech on the wheels, and the horses threw themselves almost on their haunches to hold back the heavy wagon, which, in spite of the fact that two wheels were almost locked, was sliding down the declivity at a dangerous speed. "I'd oughter chained the wheels," said Tanker Ike grimly, as he tried to force the brake lever forward another notch. "Can't you do it now?" asked Mr. Pierce. "Nope!" spoke the driver between his clenched teeth. "We've got to go on." More and more rapidly the vehicle slid down the hill. The horses were slipping, but they managed to keep their feet, and the brake was more shrilly screeching on the wheels. All at once, as they made a turn and came to yet a steeper part of the trail, there was a sudden chill to the air, and some white flecks, as if some one had scattered tiny feathers, swirled in front of those in the wagon. "Snow!" exclaimed Tanker Ike. "I thought it was coming." A moment later there was a sharp squall, and the air was filled with white crystals, which came down so thick that it was impossible to see twenty feet ahead. "Steady, boys--steady!" called the driver to the horses, which seemed frightened by the storm and the weight of the wagon pushing them from behind. The speed was faster now, though Tanker Ike was doing his best to have the animals hold back the wagon. The horses were almost "sitting down," and were fairly sliding along. Suddenly there sounded a sharp snap, and the wagon seemed to plunge forward. "What's that?" cried Mr. Pierce. "Brake's busted!" shouted Mr. Blender. "Now we're in for it!" He loosened his hold on the reins slightly, and swung his long whip over the heads of the astonished horses with a crack like that of a rifle. "Go on!" he yelled. "Go on! Run!" The steeds began to gallop, just in time to prevent the wagon, so unexpectedly released from the hold of the brake, from striking them, and they dashed down the mountain-side, dragging the vehicle after them. CHAPTER XVII THIRSTY ON THE DESERT "Hold fast, everybody!" called out Tanker Ike, giving one glance backward at his passengers. The fury of the sudden storm increased. The road became more steep, and the speed was faster. "I hope we don't meet any other wagon," thought Jack. He gave one glance at the girl at his side. He could see that she was pale, but there was no sign of fear in her brown eyes. She was clinging tightly to the side of the seat, and Jack edged closer to her, hoping he might be of some service. "Look out!" suddenly cried the driver. An instant later Jack and his chums knew the reason why. The wagon struck a big stone in the road, and the occupants of the seats were nearly thrown off them. Then followed a sound as of something breaking, and the next moment Jack felt the seat, on which he and the girl were, sliding forward. It had broken loose from its fastenings. Another jolt of the wagon threw the end on which Mabel sat down into the bottom of the vehicle, and she pitched sideways over the edge of the wagon, which at that moment was on a narrow part of the road, skirting a big cliff. On one side the rock rose sheer like a wall. On the other there was a precipice, dropping away for a hundred feet or more. Mabel could not repress a scream as she felt herself tossed out of the wagon, and she threw her hands upward, vainly clutching for something to cling to. Her father turned and saw her. He prepared to leap backward to her aid, but he could not have done it. But Jack saw what had happened. His end of the seat was elevated, as the other was depressed, and, taking in the situation at a glance, he made a spring toward the girl, and clasped her about the waist just in time to prevent her falling out. He braced himself against the edge of the wagon, and held on with all his strength, for the girl was no lightweight, and the swaying of the vehicle threatened to toss them both out. By this time Mr. Pierce had left his seat beside Tanker Ike, who was doing his best to safely guide the horses down the winding, steep road in the storm, and Mabel's father came to the aid of her and Jack. "I've got her!" Jack managed to gasp. "So I see!" cried Mr. Pierce, and then, lending his strength to that of our hero, he pulled Mabel safely within the wagon. "That--that was a narrow squeak," commented Mr. Pierce, when Mabel, pale and gasping from fright, had been assisted to the seat, which was replaced and braced up after a fashion. "Rather," admitted Jack with a smile. "You saved her life, Ranger," went on Mr. Pierce, and there was a husky note in his voice. "She's--she's all I've got, and--and--I don't know how to thank you. If she'd gone over the edge there--well, I don't like to talk about it." "Oh, if I hadn't grabbed her some one else would," said Jack modestly. Mabel did not say much, but the glance she gave Jack from her brown eyes more than repaid him. The excitement caused by the second accident calmed down, and then the occupants of the wagon had time to notice that the progress of the vehicle was slower. The road was not so steep, and a little later Tanker Ike guided his horses to a comparatively level stretch. The snow squall, too, suddenly ceased. "Well," remarked the driver slowly as he halted the team and got out to repair the broken brake, "I don't want a thing like that to happen again. I wanted to help you, Mabel, but I didn't dare leave the horses." "I--I was helped in time," answered the girl with a little blush. "Guess we'll wait for the freight wagon," went on Tanker Ike. "Then I'll fix things up and we'll go on. There's no more danger, though. We're over the worst part of the road." Mexican Pete, who drove the freighter, soon came up, he having had no mishap on the trip down. The three men soon mended the broken brake, and the journey was resumed. That night they arrived at the stage station, which marked the beginning of the two days' trip over the desert. It was here that Mr. Pierce and his daughter were to leave the boys, to go on a different route. "Now don't you young fellows forget to come to Pryor's Gap if you get a chance," commanded Mr. Pierce. "My daughter and I will be there in a few weeks, after I do a little more visiting. You can get there from where you are going to hunt without crossing this desert, though it's rather a long, roundabout way. But I hope I'll see you again." "Yes, try to come," added Mabel as she shook hands with the boys, Jack last of all. Was it fancy, or did she leave her hand in his a little longer than was absolutely necessary? I rather think she did, or perhaps Jack held it. "I hope you'll come to see me--I mean us," she said. "I'll come," was Jack's answer. Mr. Pierce and his pretty daughter went to stay with a friend that night, while the boys, Tanker Ike and Mexican Pete put up at the stage hotel. "We'll start early in the morning," said Mr. Blender as the boys were getting ready to retire. "I'll see to filling the water tanks, and the grub you ordered in advance is here. I'll stack it in the wagon, and we'll start off as soon as it's daylight. I've got good horses for us all." "Horses? Are we going to ride horses?" asked Sam. "Of course, from now on," replied Jack. "Didn't I tell you?" "There's so much about this trip, I guess if you did tell us we'd forget some of it," said Bony. "But traveling on horses will be sport. I wish it was morning. Don't you, Budge?" "I'mungry," was the queer lad's reply. "Hungry?" remarked Jack. "Didn't you eat enough supper?" "I guess it must be this Western air," put in Nat. "Salubrious centipedes! but I could eat a bit myself. I wish we had some of that last spread you gave, Jack." Then, though it was almost bedtime, the boys went to the dining-room, where they bribed the only waiter to set them out some pie, cheese and glasses of milk, on which they regaled themselves. Meanwhile, Mr. Blender and Mexican Pete had loaded the freight wagon, which was to start off ahead of the travelers, who were to go on horseback. They would catch up with the vehicle at noon, and have dinner in the shade of it. Jack aroused his companions next morning, when there was only a faint light in the east. "It's time to start," he said. "How is it you're dressed?" asked Sam suspiciously. "Oh, I--er--I was up a little earlier," replied Jack. "Say, I know where he was," commented Bony, cracking his knuckles in the semi-darkness. "He was off to bid Mabel good-by again. I heard him say last night he'd come over before the start of the stage she was to take." "Masticated mushrooms!" exclaimed Nat. "I wouldn't have thought it of you, Jack!" "Come on, get up!" was all Jack replied as he hurried from the room to see if Tanker Ike had everything prepared. The boys, after a hasty breakfast, found the horses in readiness for them. They had taken out the night before their guns and some clothes from the bundles shipped from the East, and now were equipped to take the trail and begin hunting. They started off some time before the sun shone above the horizon, and almost immediately found themselves upon a bare and partly sandy waste. "This is Forty-mile desert," explained Ike. "If you have any trouble at all, it'll be here. But I hope we won't have any." It was warm, in spite of the lateness of the season, and as they jogged along on their horses they began to feel the discomfiture of the journey. But no one minded it. "We ought to come up with Mexican Pete soon," remarked Ike, when they had trotted along for several miles. "That looks like the wagon over there," he added, pointing ahead. Jack and his chums could make out a white speck on the trackless waste. As they approached it grew larger, until it evolved itself into the freight wagon. They halted at it for a meal, and, resting the horses, gave Pete a chance to get some distance ahead of them. Then they resumed their jaunt. It was the middle of the afternoon when Ike, who was in the lead, made a sudden exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Jack. "Mexican Pete's just ahead," replied the old plainsman with a worried accent in his voice. "I wonder what he's stopping for? I told him not to halt until we reached Stinking Spring, where we are to camp for the night." "Maybe something's happened," suggested Bony. "I hope not, but it looks so." A moment later Tanker Ike had leaped from his horse, and was examining something on the ground. It looked like a small streak of darker sand than any which surrounded it. "His water tank has sprung a leak!" he exclaimed. "You can see where it's been running out. That's why he's halted to wait for us. Come on, boys; let's hurry up. I can see trouble ahead." They soon reached the driver of the freight wagon. He met them with a rueful face. "Water mos' gone," he said. Tanker Ike made a hasty examination. There was only a small quantity left in the second tank, the full one, which had not yet been drawn upon, being completely empty, from a leak that had sprung in the bottom. "Well, this is tough luck, boys," commented the plainsman. "I don't know what to do. We're bound to be up against it bad whatever we do. We haven't hardly enough water to last us going back for a fresh supply, and if we keep on we'll be awful dry by to-morrow night. I don't like to waste time going back, either." "Didn't you say something about Stinking Spring?" asked Jack. "Can't we get water there?" "Yes, but neither man nor beast can drink it. It's filled with some kind of vile-smelling chemical, and it gives off a gas so deadly that at times it will kill animals that come too close. I've even seen a big bear killed by it. No, we can't get water there." "Then what can we do?" asked Sam. He and the other boys were alarmed by the accident, the most serious that had yet befallen them. "Well, the only thing I see is for us to keep on," replied Ike. "If we travel all to-night and keep up a pretty good pace to-morrow, we may strike the Shoshone River in time to--well, in time to wet our whistles. But it's going to be a hard pull, and I don't know whether the horses will stand it." "Let's try," suggested Jack, who never believed in giving up in the face of difficulties. "That's the way to talk!" commented Ike. "Maybe we can do it." They halted for a short rest, then resumed the journey again. But this time they kept with the freight wagon, and they had to travel more slowly to accommodate the pace of the horses to the slower gait of the mules drawing the heavy vehicle. They made a light supper, and drank sparingly of the little water that remained, doling out the smallest possible quantity to the horses and mules, which greedily thrust their tongues even against the wet sides of the pails, after all the fluid was sucked up. "Now for the night journey," said Tanker Ike, and they started off, with the moon shining from a clear sky. It was a trip that would have been wonderfully interesting to the boys had there not been the worry about the water. As it was, they enjoyed it at first, for in the cool, moon-lit darkness they did not suffer from thirst. But when daylight came, and the sun began to mount into the heavens, pouring down considerable heat on them, their tortures began. Tanker Ike served out the water with sparing hand. The animals were given barely enough to wet their parched mouths, and the boys and two men got but little more. They made all the speed they could, which was not much, for the wagon held them back. "Don't eat much," cautioned Ike as they stopped for a mid-day lunch. "You'll not be so thirsty then." But even refraining from food did not seem to make much difference, and as the day wore on and the supply of water became lower and lower, with a consequent reduction of the ration, the sufferings of the boys grew acute. "Oh, for a good glass of ice water," sighed Bony. "Dry up!" commanded Nat. "I can't be any drier than I am now," responded the bony lad. Meanwhile, Tanker Ike had been anxiously scanning the horizon. He appeared worried, and Jack, seeing this, asked him: "Do you think we ought to be at the river now?" "We ought to, yes, but we're not," was his answer. "I'm afraid I've gotten off the trail. I don't see any familiar landmarks, yet I was sure I took the right route." He called a halt and consulted with Mexican Pete. That individual was of the same opinion as Ike--that they were on the wrong trail. "Well, there's no help for it," said the plainsman. "We'll have to go back a ways. I'm sorry, boys. It's my fault. It's the first time I ever did a thing like that." "Oh, mistakes will happen," said Jack, and he tried to speak cheerfully, but his voice was husky and his throat was parched. They turned around, the horses seeming unwilling to retrace their steps, and they were beginning to get restive, as were the mules. "The last of the water," announced Tanker Ike at dusk that evening, when they halted for a short meal. "We'll have to push on with all speed to-night. If we don't find water in the morning----" He did not finish, but they all knew what he meant. That night was one of fearful length, it seemed. As it wore on, and the parched throats of the travelers called for water where there was none, it became a torture. Morning came, and the sun blazed down hotter than ever. The horses and mules acted as if crazed, but they were urged on relentlessly. The tongues of Jack and his comrades began to get thick in their mouths. Those of the animals were hanging out, and foam was falling from their lips where the bits chafed. At noon, though Tanker Ike strained his eyes for a sight of the Shoshone River or for some water hole, there was no sign of either. On and on they pushed, trying to swallow to relieve their terrible thirst. Suddenly the horse which Sam rode gave a leap forward, and then began to go around in a circle. "That's bad," murmured Ike in a low voice. "He's beginning to get locoed from want of water." He urged his own beast up to Sam's, and gave the whirling animal a cut with the quirt. That stopped it for a while, and they went on. Mexican Pete and Tanker Ike said little. They were men used to the hardships of the West, and it was not the first time they had suffered in crossing the desert. But it was hard for Jack and his chums. Nevertheless, they did not complain, but taking an example from the men, silently rode their horses. The poor beasts must have suffered dreadfully. Tanker Ike, who was riding ahead, suddenly leaped off his horse. At first the boys thought he had seen a water hole, but he merely picked up some pebbles from the sand. "Put some of these in your mouth and roll them around," he said. "It will help to make the saliva come and keep down your thirst some." Mexican Pete followed his example, and the boys were about to do likewise, when Budge Rankin, reaching into his pocket, called out: "What'smatterwithis?" And he held out several packages. CHAPTER XVIII LOST IN THE BAD LANDS "Gum!" cried Jack. "Gum! That's the stuff, Budge!" "The very thing!" added Tanker Ike. "I wonder I didn't think to ask for some. That will be better than the pebbles. Pass it around, young man." Budge handed out packages of gum, which he was seldom without, and soon all the travelers were busily engaged in chewing it. In a measure it relieved their thirst at once, and their tongues felt less swollen, and not so much like pieces of leather. "'Stoobad," remarked Budge as he put in a fresh wad. "What is?" asked Jack. "That the horses can't chew," replied Budge. "Hu! I guess it would take a bigger cud than you could muster to satisfy a horse--or a mule," remarked Tanker Ike. "But it's lucky you had it for us. I was feeling pretty bad." The little diversion caused by the production of the gum and the relief it brought, helped them to pass over several miles in a comfortable fashion. But the terrible thirst did not leave them, and as for the horses and mules, they were half crazed, or "locoed," as Tanker Ike expressed it. How they traveled the remainder of that day none of them could tell exactly afterward. But they managed to keep on, and just as it was beginning to get dusk there was a sudden movement among the animals. "They smell water," cried Ike as the mules, drawing the heavy wagon, broke into a run. "They smell water! They do, for sure!" And he was right. Half an hour later they came to a small water hole, and here they slaked their thirst, drinking slowly at first, and keeping the animals back from it by main force, until they had each been given a pailful, which they drank greedily. Then, after the life-giving fluid had had a chance to take off the first pangs of thirst, boys, men and horses drank more freely. "Petrified persimmons!" exclaimed Nat. "I used to think ice-cream sodas were the best ever, but now I think a cupful of water from a mud hole is the finest thing that ever came over the pike. Let's have another, boys!" Their sufferings were at an end, and, their thirsts having been slaked, they ate a good meal and rested that night beside the water hole. The next day they reached the Shoshone River and the end of the desert. "Well, boys, now I'm going to leave you," said Tanker Ike. "Long Gun will be here pretty soon, and he'll show you where to get some big game. Then you'll have to sort of shift for yourselves. Mexican Pete will take your camp stuff wherever you tell him to, and the rest depends on you." "Oh, I guess we'll make out all right," replied Jack. "But what about that Indian, Long Gun?" asked Sam. "I thought he was to meet us here." "He will," replied Tanker Ike confidently, and, sure enough, about an hour later there sauntered into the camp a tall, silent Indian guide, who, as he advanced to the fire, uttered but one word: "How?" "How?" responded the plainsman, and then he introduced the boys. Long Gun merely grunted his salutations, and then seating himself near the fire, he took out his pipe and began to smoke. "I wonder why he doesn't pass it around," whispered Nat to Jack. "Pass what around?" "His pipe? Isn't that a peace pipe? I thought Indians always smoked the pipe of peace with their friends." Long Gun must have had good ears, for he looked up at Nat's words. Then he smiled grimly. "No peace pipe. Corn-cob pipe--plenty bad, too," he said. "Yo' got better one?" "No, Long Gun, they don't use pipes," said Tanker Ike with a smile. "Say, he understands English," remarked Sam. "That's what," put in Bony. "Pity he wouldn't," remarked Ike. "He's been guiding hunting parties of white men for the last ten years." Early the next morning Tanker Ike started back, taking a longer trail, that would not make it necessary for him to cross the desert. On the advice of Long Gun the boys and Mexican Pete started off up into the mountains, where they were to make a camp, and begin to hunt. "Here good place," remarked Long Gun that afternoon, as they came to a level clearing on the shoulder of the mountain. "Plenty much mule deer and sheep here. Like um jack-rabbits, or um bear? Plenty git here. We camp." "Hu! Good!" grunted Mexican Pete, and he began to unload the wagon. In a short time all the things Jack and the other boys had brought were on the ground, beside the two tents that formed part of their outfit. "At last it begins to look like camping," remarked Bony. "It'll look a good deal more like it if you'll give us a correct imitation of a fellow helping put up a tent," said Jack. "Every one get busy, now." Mexican Pete started back with the freight wagon, agreeing to come and get the camp stuff whenever word was sent to Tanker Ike or him. They pitched in with a will, Budge helping to good advantage, and soon the canvas shelters were up, a fire built, and, under Jack's direction, a meal was in progress, Long Gun volunteering to oversee this. It was no novelty for the boys to sleep in a tent at camp, but as the night advanced they found that it was far from being summer, in spite of the hot days, and they were glad of heavy clothing and the blankets which they had brought along. "Now for a hunt!" cried Jack the next morning, after a fine, hot breakfast. "Long Gun, I want to get a big mule deer." "I want a bear!" cried Sam. "A big-horn sheep for mine!" was Nat's stipulation. "I'd like a mountain lion," remarked Bony. "How about you, Budge?" asked Jack. "'FIkillanelkI'llbesatisfied," was the answer. "An elk!" exclaimed Jack. "I guess so! Why, I'd like that myself." "Well, I thought I might as well wish for something big while I was at it," said Budge calmly, as he stowed away some fresh gum. Under the guidance of Long Gun they mounted their horses and started out for their first hunt in that region. The Indian gave them some good advice about how to shoot, for going after big game was something new to them. "If git lost, fire gun," was the Indian's final word of caution. They rode on together for a mile or more, but got no sight of any game. "I think we'd better separate," suggested Jack. "We'll never get anything if we stick together. Let's try it alone. We can meet at some central point. Eh, Long Gun?" "Hu!" grunted the Indian. "Git lost, maybe." "That's right," assented Bony. "I don't want to go off alone." "Well, Nat and I will strike off to the left," went on Jack. "You, Sam and Budge can keep with Long Gun and go to the right. We'll meet by that big peak over there," and he pointed to one that could easily be seen. This was agreed to, the Indian giving his consent with a grunt, and then Jack and Nat started off alone. "I hope we get something," remarked Jack when they had traveled for a mile or more. "Same here," added Nat. "Let's go closer to that bad lands section Long Gun told us of." "I'm afraid we'll get lost," objected Jack. The bad lands, as they are called, are a peculiar tract covered with ten thousand little sawtooth peaks and cones of earth and sandstone, rising abruptly from the plain, and so closely set together, and so lacking in any distinctive objects to mark them, that one can wander about in them as in a maze. The two lads had been hunting on the edge of them, but had not ventured in. "Oh, I guess we can find our way back, if we don't go in too far," said Nat. "Well," began Jack a little doubtfully, "I don't know----" And then he saw something that made him change his mind. "Look!" he whispered to Nat, and his chum, looking where Jack pointed, saw a big deer, just on the edge of the bad lands, and about to enter them. "It's a buck!" exclaimed Nat, bringing his rifle around. "We'll follow him and get a shot," decided Jack, and they left their horses and began to stalk the big buck. Fortunately the wind was blowing from him to them, or the animal might have taken fright. As it was, they were not far behind him when he entered the maze of little peaks. Several times they thought they were in a position to get a good shot, but each time the deer moved just as one or the other of the lads was drawing a bead on him. Finally Jack got just the chance he wanted. Kneeling down he took quick aim and pulled the trigger. The report that followed nearly deafened him and Nat, so many were the echoes, but when the smoke cleared away they saw the big deer lying on the ground not far away. [Illustration: "KNEELING DOWN, HE TOOK QUICK AIM AND PULLED THE TRIGGER."] "You've got him!" cried Nat. "Our first big game!" exclaimed Jack as he ran forward. "My, but he's big!" commented Nat. "How we going back to camp?" "Put him on the horses, of course," said Jack. "We can do it. We'll lead them up here." "Sure," responded Nat. "I forgot we had 'em. We'll go back and lead 'em in." They started back, full of confidence in their ability to find where they had tethered the animals. They walked on for half an hour, and then Jack said: "Say, it seems to me we're a long time finding those horses." "That's right," agreed Nat. "We didn't take so long coming in here. I guess we came the wrong way." "I'm sure of it," declared Jack. "We should have gone to the right." "No, the left." They discussed it for some time, and finally decided to try the right. They went on for some distance, but no horses were seen. "Let's go back to where we left the deer and begin over," proposed Jack. They started, but the sawtooth peaks seemed to multiply. They turned this way and that, but could not find the place where they had made their first kill. "Jack," said Nat at length, "do you know it's getting late?" "It sure is," admitted his chum. The sun was low in the western sky. The two boys stared about them. On every side were the peculiar peaks of the bad lands. Jack turned around in a circle. He was trying to see some landmark, by which he could tell whether they had passed that spot before. He saw none. "Nat," he said finally, "we're lost." CHAPTER XIX A PERILOUS SLIDE For a few seconds after Jack's announcement Nat stared at his chum. "Lost?" he repeated. "That's what I said, Nat. Long Gun was right, and so was Tanker Ike. It's a heap sight easier to get lost in here than I thought. Why, every one of these peaks looks just like the one next to it. I don't believe we've been over the same bit of ground twice." "I know how we can tell." "How?" "Make a mark on one of these peaks, and then walk around and see if we get back to it." "That's a good way, but in which direction shall we go?" Nat shrugged his shoulders. "You've got me," he admitted. "But, say, didn't we come into this bad section from the east when we were after the deer?" "Yes," said Jack after a little thought, "I believe we did. I know when we were eating lunch I noted the sun. We sure did come in from the east. But what of that?" "Why, if we want to go back we must walk toward the east. That is, have the sun at our backs. Instead of that we've been walking with the sun in our faces most of the time. Let's try it." "All right, but first let's make a mark on one of these peaks." They did so by digging out a hollow with their hunting knives, and placing some stones in it. This accomplished, they started off again. "What about the deer you shot?" asked Nat. "We'll not try to get back to that. Make for camp is what I say. Long Gun will probably be able to find the deer." It was getting quite late now, and the sun was barely visible from over the peaks of the bad lands. But turning their backs to it they started off. They did not know how far they went, but it was getting dusk rapidly, and they saw no indication that they were getting nearer to the edge of the curious region in which they were lost. "Well?" asked Nat dejectedly as he sat down on a stone. "How about it?" "We don't seem to be getting any closer to camp," admitted Jack. "Say!" he exclaimed, "why didn't we think of it before? We ought to yell." "Yes, and fire our rifles," added Nat. "That's what Long Gun told us to do if we got lost. Queer we didn't think of it long ago. Well, here goes!" He raised his voice in a loud shout, and Jack joined in. They called several times, but the echoes seemed to be their only answer. "Now let's fire a few shots," proposed Jack, and they discharged their weapons together, making a terrible din, and causing so many echoes that it seemed as if a thunderstorm was in progress. "I believe those echoes will confuse them," said Nat. "I know they would me." "I guess Long Gun can tell where we are if he hears 'em at all," replied Jack. "But I think we're quite a way from camp. I wish we'd stuck together." "Too late for that now. Fire again." They did so, and also shouted a number of times, moving about in the interval. "Well," said Nat at length as he noted the shadows growing longer and longer, "I guess we're in for the night; and it's getting colder, too." "You're right, there," answered Jack, turning up the collar of his coat. "Still there's one consolation." "What's that?" "We haven't gone in a circle. We haven't seen anything of that peak we marked." "No; but it will soon be so dark we can't see anything." The two lads gazed at each other. Their plight was a serious one, for they were in no condition to remain out in the cold night without shelter. All at once, from somewhere off to the left, there came a curious noise. It startled the lads, and Nat exclaimed: "What's that?" "I don't know," answered Jack. "Some sort of an animal," and in spite of himself he felt the cold chills running down his spine. "Maybe it's a bear," suggested Nat. "I wish----" The noise came again, louder than before, and closer. Jack burst into a laugh. "Aren't we the ninnies?" he exclaimed. "Those are our horses whinnying, and the echoes made their calls sound strange. Now we're all right, Nat. We'll find the horses and ride right to camp." "My! but that's good news!" responded his companion. Once more came the whinnying, and following the direction of the sound, the lads soon came to their horses, but, to their surprise, the steeds were standing in among the sawtooth peaks of the bad lands. "Didn't we leave them outside, on the edge of this pestiferous region?" asked Nat in some doubt. "We sure did," replied Jack, "but they've pulled up the tether pegs and followed us in. Never mind, they can probably find their way out. We'll mount them and let them take us back to camp." With hearts very much lighter, the two lads leaped into the saddle, and calling to the horses, let the reins lie lightly on their necks, trusting to the superior intelligence of the beasts to extricate them from their plight. As if only waiting for their masters, the horses started off. It was almost dark now, and one or two early stars could be seen. "Ho! for camp, and a good, hot supper!" exclaimed Jack. "Jumping Johnniecakes! but you're right!" cried Nat with something of his old enthusiasm. "I don't believe I ever was so hungry." The horses walked at a fast pace, and seemed to have no hesitation in making their way out of the bad lands. "Next time I'll ride my horse in," said Jack. "I didn't think it was good footing, or I'd have done it to-day." They rode on for some time longer, and then Nat remarked: "Seems to me it's taking quite a long while to get out of this place. The horses must have come in quite a distance." "Maybe they did," agreed Jack, "or maybe they're taking us out on the other side. I don't know as it makes much difference." "Well, we're going up hill, anyhow," went on Nat. "It's quite a grade." It certainly was, and the horses were having no easy task. But they kept on, as if they knew just where they were going. The boys were beginning to get a bit anxious again, wondering if, after all, the horses were taking them right, when the bad lands came to a sudden end. There were no more of the sawtooth peaks. "Hurrah, we're out of 'em!" cried Jack. "Yes, and look where we are," said Jack. "Nowhere near camp." They were on the shoulder of a steep mountain, while below them, wrapped in the fast approaching night, was a great valley. Then something else caught the eyes of the boys. "There's a fire!" called Nat, pointing to a blaze at the foot of the mountain. "I'll wager it's our camp," declared Jack. "Here goes for a hail." He shouted and fired his gun. In a few seconds there came an answering call, and a firebrand was waved in the air. "That's Bony's voice," cried Nat. "I can almost hear him cracking his knuckle bones." "Yes, but how are we to get down?" asked Jack. "I don't see the sign of a trail." The next instant his horse answered the question for him by starting right down the side of the mountain, which at that point was composed of shaling stones, and quite smooth. "Where you going?" cried Nat. "I don't know," answered Jack. "My horse seems to want to take a slide." Then Nat's steed followed the other, and a moment later the two lads, on the backs of their animals, were sliding, stumbling and slipping down the precipitous slope of the mountain. CHAPTER XX LONG GUN IS AFRAID From below them Jack and Nat could hear cries of alarm, and they could see several waving firebrands and note ghostly figures circling about the camp blaze. "Can you stop your horse, Jack?" called Nat. "I'm not going to try," was the reply. "I've got all I can do to hold on. How about you?" "I'm in the same boat. I hope we don't strike anything, for if we do I'll shoot over his head and land I don't know where. This is fierce!" "Hold on tight!" "That's what I'm doing!" The horses reached a place that was not quite so steep, and managed to stop sliding, running for a short distance. Then the slipping began again, but both animals were like cats on their feet, and seemed to take it all as a matter of course. "We're almost there!" cried Jack as he saw the camp fire more plainly, and could distinguish Sam's and Bony's voices calling to them. "I'm--glad--of--that," replied Ned brokenly, for he was bounding up and down in the saddle. A minute later and the horses had come to a stop on the level ground where the camp was pitched. "'Sanyoneurt?" asked Budge anxiously. "No, I guess neither of us is hurt," answered Jack, "though we're some shaken up." "Where in the world have you been?" asked Bony. "What did you come down that way for?" was Sam's question. "Were you lost?" inquired Budge. "Heap long time gone," was Long Gun's contribution. "Say, if you'll give us a chance we'll tell you," said Jack. "I wonder if the horses are hurt, though? I never expected to get down with them alive." "Horses plenty much all right," announced the Indian after a short examination. "They do that afore. Slide down mountain many times. Know how--easy." "Well, I'm glad they knew how," spoke Nat. "I thought it was an accident." Then Jack told of the shooting of the deer, how they were lost in the bad lands, and how they found the horses and slid down to the camp fire. Long Gun, in his broken English, explained that the horses which they had were often used by hunters, who thought nothing of sliding down a favorable place in the side of the mountain on the backs of their steeds. Jack's and Nat's animals had probably thought that their riders desired to come down that way, as it was the shortest route to camp and supper. "Well, you certainly had us worried," said Sam as the two wanderers were seated before the fire, eating a late meal. "We could hear your guns, but the echoes confused us. Long Gun said you'd be all right, but if you hadn't come pretty soon Bony and I were going after you." "Say, what about our deer, that you shot, Jack?" asked Nat a little later. "Can't we go get it?" "Not to-night," replied Jack. "I wouldn't venture in among those peaks in the dark for ten deer. We'll get it in the morning." "Hu! Mebby none left," grunted the Indian. "None left? What do you mean?" "Plenty things eat um. Bears, rats, foxes, mebby." "Well, we'll have to shoot another, that's all," said Jack. "But did you fellows have any luck?" "Bony shot a jack-rabbit," replied Sam, "but the rest of us didn't get anything, though I fired at a big sheep." "Too far off," explained Long Gun. It was getting colder, and there was a promise of snow in the air, which, the Indian explained, would make it all the better for tracking game. The boys were glad to wrap themselves up well when they went to their beds, which consisted of heavy blankets spread over hemlock boughs, placed inside the tent on the ground. A big camp fire was kept going, with enough wood at hand, so that if any one awakened in the night and found it low the fuel could easily be thrown on. The whole party, with Long Gun included, left after breakfast to bring in the deer Jack had shot. They found it without any trouble under Long Gun's guidance, but the carcass had been so torn by other beasts that it was not fit for food. "Rambunctious ram's horns!" exclaimed Nat. "I was counting on some nice venison steaks, too." "Well, we'll try again," suggested Jack, and the whole party, on horseback, started off to hunt. This time they did not go into the region of the bad lands, but to an easy slope of the mountain, well wooded, yet with rocky precipices here and there, with bare spots where, the Indian said, the big-horn sheep might be found. On Long Gun's advice the party separated, Jack, Nat and Budge going off to one side, and the others in a different direction. As there was a plain trail back to camp, and plenty of landmarks, there was no danger of any one getting lost. Jack, Nat and Budge rode along, watching for signs of game, but all they saw were numbers of jack-rabbits. "ShallIshoot'em?" asked Budge, as a particularly large one dashed by. "If you want to," replied Jack. "But I'm going to wait for bigger game. A buck or a ram for mine, eh, Nat?" "That's what." But the bucks and the rams did not seem to be on view that day, and after riding about all the morning the three boys stopped to rest near a spring and eat their lunch. "I tell you what we'll do," suggested Jack as they prepared to resume their journey. "Let's leave the horses here and work up that mountain," and he pointed to the steep sides of a towering peak, at the foot of which they had halted. "I'm with you," agreed Nat. "'Stoomuchwork," announced Budge as he turned over on his back and began chewing some fresh gum. "I'll stay here until you come back." They tried to get him to come with them, but he would not, so Jack and Nat started off alone. They had not gone more than a mile before Jack, who was slightly in advance, came to a sudden halt and motioned to Nat to make no noise. "There he is," whispered Jack, when Nat had joined him, and he pointed to a distant boulder that jutted out from the side of the mountain, a short distance away. Nat looked, and saw something that made the blood leap in his veins. It was a big mountain ram, with a massive pair of horns--a fine specimen. The animal's back was toward them, and it seemed to be viewing the valley spread out below it. "You shoot first, and if you miss I'll take him," directed Jack in a whisper, wishing to give his chum the first chance. Fixing his eyes on the ram, Nat brought forward his gun, cocked it, and aimed. Then for some unaccountable reason his hand began to tremble. It was his first shot at big game, and he was nervous. "I--I can't shoot," he whispered, lowering his rifle. "Nonsense! You've got to," said Jack sternly, and this brought Nat to himself. Once more he raised his weapon. Jack was in readiness with his in case his chum should miss. There was a moment of breathless suspense, and then Nat fired. Instantly the ram wheeled about and stood facing the spot where the two lads were. He must have seen them, for the floating cloud of smoke drew his gaze. "I've missed! You fire!" exclaimed Nat. And, indeed, he had missed the ram cleanly. Jack threw his gun to his shoulder, and instantly it cracked out. "You hit him! I saw him jump!" cried Nat excitedly. "Come on! We'll get him!" Without a word Jack pumped another cartridge into the chamber, and fired again. But just as he did so the ram gave a leap and disappeared from the rock. "We've got him! We've got him!" yelled Nat excitedly. "Come on!" "No use," said Jack quietly, placing a restraining hand on Nat's arm. "No use? Why?" Jack pointed to a bare spot below the rock and some distance to the right. Along it the ram was running at full speed. "Guess I only grazed him," he said. "He isn't hurt much when he can run like that." "Side-splitting sandpaper!" exclaimed Nat. "That's tough luck. Why did I miss?" "That's nothing. I missed him, too. We can't hit everything we aim at, or it wouldn't be any fun--especially for the animals." "Let's trail him," proposed Nat. "No, it's too late. We'd better get back to camp." They found Budge with the horses, and the gum-chewing lad did not appear to have moved, but three big dead jack-rabbits at his side showed that he had not been idle. "Well, you had some luck," observed Jack. "'Stooeasy--killin' them," remarked Budge. "They are almost tame." "Well, they'll make good eating," observed Nat. "I hope the others did better than we did." And when they were back at camp, which Long Gun, Sam and Bony reached shortly after they did, they found that Sam had killed a fine deer, and Bony a small sheep, which gave them plenty of fresh meat. It was very dark that night, for it was cloudy, and the moon and stars were obscured. Outside the circle of light from the camp fire, there was blackness so deep that it seemed like a wall of ebony. "I'd hate to be lost out there," observed Bony, motioning toward the dark valley as he prepared to turn in with the others. "Yes, it wouldn't be very pleasant," admitted Jack. "I wish we could----" He stopped suddenly. From the black void above them there came a peculiar sound. It was like the blowing of a wind, that sighs and moans in the pine trees, but there was no wind blowing. Then it was like the rush of some mighty wings, while there sounded a deep throbbing, and all in camp were conscious of some large object passing close over their heads, but they could see nothing. The boys stared at each other in wonder, not unmixed with fright. "Are there any big eagles around here?" asked Jack, quickly turning to Long Gun. But the Indian did not seem to hear. He was staring up into the black sky. The noise passed on, the throbbing becoming fainter. Then Long Gun cried out: "Great spirit! Danger come! Bad luck!" With a howl that did more to frighten the boys than had the mysterious sound, the Indian made a dive for the tent, and hid himself under his blankets. CHAPTER XXI THE DEADLY GAS Long Gun's example and his fright were contagious, to a certain degree. Seeing him run, Bony and Sam turned also, for they thought the Indian heard or recognized some danger. Then, as the noise ceased, they stopped in their progress toward the tent. "What in the world do you suppose that was?" asked Sam. "You've got me," was Bony's answer, while, in his excitement, he cracked his knuckles on the double-quick. "What do you think it was, Jack?" "Blessed if I know. It sounded like a big bird, or, maybe, a whole lot of them. But Long Gun wouldn't be frightened of some birds, even if they were eagles." "Let's ask him," suggested Nat. They went into the tent, which was illuminated by a couple of lanterns, and found Long Gun groveling among his blankets. "What was that, Long Gun?" asked Jack. The Indian murmured something in his own tongue. "Were they birds?" went on Jack. "What's the matter with you?" "Long Gun 'fraid," was the reply. "No like sound in dark night. Long Gun 'fraid." "But what sound was it?" persisted Jack. "Dunno. Great Spirit, mebby. Bad sound. Trouble come." "That's all nonsense," said Jack, as he saw that his chums looked worried. "It was probably the wind." "But there isn't any wind," declared Nat. "It's as still as can be." "Maybe there is a wind in the upper currents of air," suggested Jack. "You must remember we're among the mountains, and the air is different here." "It isn't different enough to make a noise like that," was Sam's opinion. "That's right," agreed Bony. "Juthinkitwasacyclone?" asked Budge, all in one word. "A cyclone?" repeated Jack. "They don't have cyclones in the mountains. No, I think it was birds." "No birds," declared Long Gun suddenly. "Birds not got wings go that way." "That's right, it didn't sound like birds' wings," said Nat. They discussed the mysterious happening for some time further, but could arrive at no solution of it. Jack and Nat went out to look and listen, but they could see nothing, of course, and the night seemed very silent. As for Long Gun, he could not be induced to come outside the tent. The boys passed rather an uneasy night, but fatigue finally made them sleep, in spite of their alarm, and they slumbered so soundly toward morning that no one awoke to replenish the camp fire, which went out. "Well, we're all here and alive, at any rate," remarked Jack as he looked around on coming out of the tent for a wash. "Snapping sand-bars! but it's cold!" cried Nat, rubbing his benumbed fingers and threshing his arms about. "Hi! Long Gun, are you so afraid of the mysterious noise that you can't build a fire?" "Hu!" grunted the Indian as he came from the tent, but he speedily had a genial blaze going, and breakfast in preparation. "Well, now for some more hunting," said Jack when the camp had been put in order. "Nat and I want to get that ram we missed yesterday." "And I want to land a big buck mule deer that I think I hit, but not hard enough," said Sam. They started off, and were gone all day, sometimes hunting together, and, again, separating for a few miles. But they had no luck, though Jack got an opportunity for a couple of fine shots, missing both of them. However, they did not much mind, as they had plenty of food in camp. A day or so later, however, when Jack and Sam were out together, Jack got the very chance he wanted. They were walking along a rocky ridge, and, coming to the edge of a deep ravine, were debating whether to cross it or travel back, as they had seen no signs of game, and it looked as if a storm was brewing. "I guess we'll go back," Sam remarked. "There doesn't seem to be any----" He looked around to see what Jack was doing, and beheld his chum down on one knee, aiming at something on a distant rock. Sam looked and saw, outlined in the clear light, a big ram. He did not speak, fearing to disconcert Jack's aim, and the next instant the rifle of his chum cracked. The ram gave a convulsive leap into the air, turned partly around, and then plunged over the rock, and went rolling down the steep side of the mountain. "You got him, Jack! You got him!" cried Sam. "It looks so," admitted Jack with a smile of triumph. "And he's a beaut!" went on Sam. "But how will we get him?" "Oh, he's just where we want him," said Jack. "Come on down." It was no easy task scrambling down the slope, at the bottom of which they had left their horses, but they managed it, and then rode to the spot where the ram had fallen. They found the body in the bushes, and Sam saw that he had not misstated it when he called it a "beaut." The ram's head was graced with a fine pair of horns, which Jack at once announced he would take back East as a trophy. "Put 'em in your room at Washington Hall," suggested Sam. "Sure," replied his chum. It was difficult to get the ram back to camp, but they managed it by constructing a sort of litter from saplings, and having the horses pull it with ropes, dragging it along behind them. They found on their arrival that the others had not yet reached camp, and sat down to wait for them. Presently Long Gun, Nat and Bony came in. "Where's Budge?" asked Jack. "Why, he went off shooting jack-rabbits," explained Nat. "He said he'd be over near the river, down by the tall pine. He seems to like to pop over those rabbits better than going after big game." "I'll take a walk down there and tell him to come in to supper," said Jack. "Come on, Nat. I guess we had all the luck to-day, Sam." This was true, for Long Gun and the others had not been able to shoot anything. As Jack and Nat advanced toward the river, which was about half a mile from camp, Nat suddenly called out: "What's that smell?" "Whew! It isn't very nice," declared Jack as he took a long sniff. "No wonder they used to call this place Stinking Water before they named it the Shoshone." "What makes it smell so?" asked Nat. "Well, I understand there are springs around here, the water of which is impregnated with sulphureted hydrogen." "That's it. Sulphureted hydrogen! Humpty-doodle's hydrangeas! I thought it smelled like the chemical laboratory at Washington Hall. Is it the river?" "No, only some small springs, and some of them give off gases that kill animals. But there's the tree where Budge ought to be. I s'pose he's asleep." As they approached nearer the unpleasant odor became more pronounced. Then, as they topped a little mound, they looked down and saw their friend reclining on the ground near a dead cottonwood tree. "Sure enough, he's asleep," remarked Jack. "Come on, we'll wake him up. Get close, and then we'll yell like wild Indians and scare him." They crept softly closer to the outstretched Budge. He did not stir. Then they united their voices in a terrorizing yell. But instead of Budge sitting up suddenly he remained in the same position, his gun by his side, and a couple of dead rabbits at his feet. "That's queer," remarked Jack. "He's certainly sleeping sound." He tiptoed up to his chum, and bending over looked closely at him. He was struck by the paleness of his face and the fact that Budge did not seem to breathe. "Nat!" called Jack quickly, "he's dead! He's fallen asleep and been killed by those poisonous gases!" Nat ran up. It did seem as if Budge was dead. "We must carry him away from here," said Jack sadly. "I--I begin to feel rather faint myself," said Nat as he sat down on the ground. CHAPTER XXII AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER Jack glanced at Nat. The lad was pale, and Jack himself began to feel the effect of the poisonous gas. But he made up his mind he would not give in. "Brace up, Nat!" he cried. "We must get Budge out of here. Maybe he's only fainted. Brace up! It will only take us a minute, and then we'll get where there is better air." "I will," said Nat faintly. He stood up, and by a strong effort fought off the feeling of faintness. Then he and Jack reached down and took hold of Budge, lifting him by his head and feet. His gun was strapped over his shoulder. "There's what did the mischief," said Jack, and he nodded toward a spring, about five feet in diameter, near which Budge had been sitting when he had been overcome. The poor lad's body was limp, and it was hard to carry him, but Nat and Jack strained and staggered along. As they went on, the effect of the deadly gas became less, and soon they could breathe better. "Do you--do you think he's dead?" faltered Nat. "I hope not," answered Jack, but his voice was serious. "It depends on how long he has breathed that gas. I heard Tanker Ike say he once saw a grizzly bear killed by it, so it must be pretty powerful." "Have we got to carry him back to camp?" "No, we'll take him out of the reach of the vapor, and then one of us can run back and get the medicine chest. I'll try some strong ammonia on him. That may revive him--if he isn't dead." A little later they staggered with the limp body of Budge out on a clear place, where the fumes of the gas could not be noticed. "I'll wait here with him until you run to camp," said Jack, and when Nat, who had recovered from his faintness, had started off, Jack chafed Budge's hands, and running to the river filled his cap with cold water, which he dashed into the face of the unconscious lad. This treatment was effective in a measure, for Budge opened his eyes. Then he exclaimed: "Don't--don't drown me!" "Budge! Budge!" cried Jack. "Do you feel better?" But the lad's eyes closed again, and Jack feared that it was but a momentary reviving. He chafed the lad's hands again, and tried to force some cold water from the river between his set teeth. Then Nat came running back, bearing a medicine box, which Mr. Ranger had insisted that Jack take with him. Long Gun, Sam and Bony followed. Jack took out a bottle of ammonia, and held it beneath the nose of Budge. The powerful liquid fumes made Budge gasp, and he struggled to sit up. "Hi! quit!" he called. "Don't burn me!" For the ammonia stung him. "Oh, he isn't dead!" cried Nat, much relieved. "Pretty soon be all right," said Long Gun, who had been told what had happened. "Plenty much fresh air make um well." And he seemed to be right, for presently Budge sat up, opened his eyes, and began feeling in his pockets. "What do you want?" asked Jack. "Where'smygum?" was what Budge wanted to know, and his companions laughed. "I guess you're all right when you can chew gum," spoke Jack. "But what made you go over by that sulphur spring?" "I was shooting jack-rabbits," explained Budge, "and I thought that would be a good place. I didn't like the smell, but pretty soon I fell asleep, and then----" "Yes, and then if Jack and Nat hadn't come along you'd be sleeping yet," added Sam. "'Sright," admitted Budge. They helped him back to camp, and he was soon feeling better, but he registered a firm resolve not to go too near the deadly gas spring again. Hunting was over for the day, and they were all soon gathered about the camp fire, telling their various experiences. It was the middle of the night when Jack, who was rather restless, was awakened suddenly. At first he thought some one had called him, but as he raised up and looked over at his sleeping companions he realized that none of them were awake. "I wonder what that noise was?" he asked himself. Just then he heard, in the air above the tent, that same sighing, throbbing sound that had so startled them on a previous occasion. It was like the passage of some immense body through the air. Jack, who was partly dressed, hurried to the flap of the tent. He peered upward into the blackness of the night. Was it fancy, or did he see some great, mysterious shape moving over the camp? He could not tell, but the throbbing, swishing noise became fainter. "I wonder what that is?" thought Jack as he went back to bed. In the morning he did not tell his chums nor Long Gun of the affair, fearing to frighten them. They prepared for a big hunt the next day. There was a light fall of snow, which the Indian guide said would serve to enable them to track the game. They were out early in the morning on their horses, and were gone all day, keeping together. Jack shot a big buck, and Bony, to his great delight, brought down a fine mountain sheep, while the others had to be content with jack-rabbits. Budge had entirely recovered from the effects of the deadly gas, but he said he felt too nervous to do any shooting, so he and Long Gun, who, despite his name, was a poor shot, simply trailed along in the rear. "I'd like to get another pair of big horns for my room," said Jack toward the close of the day. "What do you think, Long Gun, have we time to go a little farther and try for a big ram?" "Hu! Mebby," answered the Indian. "Plenty sheep been here," and he pointed to where the animals had scraped away the snow to get at the grass and shrubs beneath. Jack and Nat started off, while the others made a temporary camp and warmed some tea. They were to stay there until Jack and Nat returned, which the lads promised to do within an hour if they saw no signs of sheep. They tramped on, having left their horses in the temporary camp, Jack eagerly watching for a sign of a big pair of horns. "I guess I'm not going to find them this time," he said as he mounted a pinnacle of rock and looked about him. "It looks like a good place, too," he added. "Hark, something's coming," said Nat in a whisper. There was a crackling in the bushes to Jack's right. He turned in that direction, his rifle in readiness. Something was moving there. Was it a mountain sheep? He raised his gun. A dark object could be seen to be moving behind the screen of bushes, and the snow on them was shaken off. Suddenly there stepped into view, not a mountain sheep, but the figure of a lad, all in tatters. For an instant Jack and Nat stared at the youth. He had appeared so unexpectedly that they did not know what to say. On his part, the lad stood there silent, as if he did not know what to do. Then Jack threw down his rifle and sprang forward, at the same time crying out: "Bill! It's Bill Williams! Well, how in the world did you ever get here?" CHAPTER XXIII ANOTHER NIGHT SCARE Will Williams, the strange, new boy, whom Jack had last seen at Washington Hall, now so far away, rushed forward. "Jack Ranger!" he gasped, as if he could not believe it. "That's who I am," responded our hero. "But, Bill, what has happened? You look as if you were suffering." "I am suffering," was the answer. "I'm almost starved!" "Starved!" exclaimed Nat. "Wobble-sided watermelons! And our camp just filled with good things! Come on, Bill. We'll feed you up." The two chums clasped Will successively by the hand. Then Jack asked: "How did you get away out here? The last I heard of you was when I received a letter and a telegram from your guardian, asking me to send you home if I saw you." "You--you're not going to--are you?" faltered Will. "Am I?" Jack clasped his arm about the shrinking form of the unfortunate lad. "Well, I guess not! I'd like to have that guardian of yours here, for about five minutes!" "Petrified pancakes! So would I!" exclaimed Nat. "I'd send him over where that bad-smelling spring is to spend the night. But, Bill, you haven't told us how you got here." "I hardly know myself," was the answer. "I did run away, just as Mr. Gabel told you, Jack. I couldn't stand his mean ways any longer. He refused to let me go camping with you, and said I would have to go to work, while school was closed for repairs, to make up the money he said I stole. I decided I would come out West and try to find my uncle. He's out here somewhere, but where I haven't been able to learn. I had a few dollars saved up, that I had earned, and I came as far as they would bring me. Then I worked my way on from Chicago by jumping freights and by doing odd jobs whenever I got the chance. I heard, in a roundabout way, that my uncle was either in the southern part of Montana, or the northern part of Wyoming, and so I came on. I've been traveling around now for two weeks, trying to find him, and I've been living like a tramp, but I can't seem to locate him. I met some men who said they knew him, but they acted so mysterious that I could get no information from them. They didn't seem to want to tell me where he was. So I decided to keep on until I found him. I've been tramping all day, and when I heard you talking I thought maybe you were a party of hunters who would help me." "And so we will," burst out Jack. "Come along to camp with us, Bill, and we'll fix you up. It's a shame, the way your guardian treats you. And your uncle can't be much better." "Oh, he used to be kind to me," said the unfortunate lad, "but I don't believe he knows how things have gone with me. If I could find him I think he would take care of me." "Well, maybe we can help find him for you," said Nat. Little time was lost in getting back to the temporary camp, and there Will, who was weak and faint from hunger, was given a light meal. Then the whole party went on to the main camp, Will riding behind Jack, for the latter's horse would carry double. "My, but you certainly are doing this up in style," remarked the ragged lad as he saw the fine tents and noted how comfortably Jack and his chums lived, in spite of the fact that they were far from civilization. His arrival created quite a sensation. "Oh, when Jack Ranger does a thing, it's done good and proper," said Bony. "It's the first outing out of the gun club, and he wants to make a record, I guess." "I want you all to have a good time, that's all I want," was Jack's reply. Some better clothes were found for Will, and after a good meal some of the hopelessness faded from his face. He told of his wanderings in the mountains, and how he had worked his way from camp to camp, and from stage station to stage station. "But you're done tramping around now," said Jack. "Have you--have you got room for me here?" faltered Will. "Have we? Well, I guess!" was Jack's hearty answer. "You can stay here as long as you like, or until you find your uncle. You've accepted my invitation to come camping, after all, and I guess your guardian would be surprised if he could see you now." "I guess he would," remarked Will with a smile. There was plenty of room in the big sleeping tent, and a bed was made up for the wanderer. It was the first good night's rest he had had in nearly a week, he said. As they had plenty of fresh meat in camp they did not go hunting for several days, but Jack and his chums could not remain inactive, so they all, including Will, went on short jaunts about the camp. A gun was provided for the newcomer, and he proved that he was a good shot, at least on jack-rabbits, which abounded in that region. About a week after Will had joined his former chums they went on an all-day hunt. The luck fell to Bony and Sam this trip, for each of them killed a fine mountain ram, the horns of which were equal in size to the one slain by Jack. Nat killed a small deer, and Will was delighted when he also brought one down. "Plenty much game," observed Long Gun. "No need hunt right 'way 'gin." "I guess Long Gun is getting tired," observed Jack. "Well, of course we don't want to kill just for the sake of killing, so I think we will take a few days off." The weather continued fine, being clear, and not too cold, while there was no deep snow to hamper the movements of the members of the gun club, though there were several light flurries. The lads went out on short trips, Will riding the horse assigned to Budge, for the latter was not a very enthusiastic sportsman, and would rather remain in camp, stretched on his back, chewing gum, than go after deer or mountain sheep. "Well," remarked Jack one night, about a week after the last hunt, "I think we'll go out again to-morrow and try to fill up the cupboard again. Supplies of fresh meat are running low." "Good idea," commented Nat. "Maybe you can get another ram with horns to match your first pair." Jack was successful in this venture, for after a long day's jaunt he got a fine shot, just at sunset, bowling over a large ram. They took the head and horns back to camp, leaving the carcass to be brought in the next morning, having first taken the precaution, however, of tying the choicest portions high in a tree, out of the reach of marauding animals. As they were all gathered about the camp fire that night, discussing the events of the day, Jack suddenly held up his hand to insure silence. "Hark!" he exclaimed. "There's that queer sound again." In the air over their heads was the rushing of great wings, while there was a throbbing as if some mighty beast was passing over the camp. "Wow!" cried Long Gun, and he made a dive for the tent. "That's it!" said Nat softly. "I wonder if we shall ever solve the mystery?" The boys looked at each other in alarm. Will sprang to his feet. "That sound!" he cried. "I heard it one night when I was camping in the woods." "Where?" asked Jack. "About ten miles from here. It's the same noise." "We must solve this mystery!" exclaimed Jack. "I believe it must be----" But he did not finish the sentence, for from the air above them sounded the call of a voice: "To the left! To the left!" was the cry. "There's the camp fire we saw before." They all sprang to their feet and looked up into the dark sky. Surely that was some vast shape hovering over them! And then the throbbing and the rush of wings died away. CHAPTER XXIV JACK GETS A BEAR "Fellows," spoke Jack, and his voice trembled in spite of his efforts to render it steady, "we've got to get at the bottom of this." "That's right," agreed Bony. "Maybe Bill can tell us something," suggested Sam. "Long Gun ought to know something about it. He's lived around here all his life," said Budge, speaking plainly this time. "Long Gun thinks it's spirits or something like that," remarked Jack. "He's so scared he can't speak. But what about you, Bill? Are you sure you heard it before?" "Yes," replied the newcomer. "I heard that same noise about a week ago. I was in a lumber camp, to which I had worked my way, and one night, just about this time, we all heard that rushing sound in the air. Some of the men were frightened, but others said it was a flight of eagles or other big birds." "That's what we thought it was, first," came from Nat. "But I don't believe it now." "Why not?" asked Bony. "It's the same sound." "But did you hear some men speaking?" demanded Nat. "We didn't hear that before." "No, that's right," agreed Jack. "And the voices were quite plain, as if they were close at hand." "Maybe they were chasing the peculiar creature, whatever it was," suggested Sam. "That might be it," Jack said. "Let's give 'em a hail," put in Bony. The boys thought this a good idea, and united their voices in a loud shout. After that they fired their rifles in a volley, but no answer came back. "Either they don't hear us, or they don't want to answer us," commented Jack. "Or else that big bird or beast, whatever it was they were chasing, has eaten them up," suggested Budge, preparing to stow away a fresh wad of gum. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Nat. "I don't believe it was a big bird." "Waitansee," was all Budge said. Though the boys discussed the matter for some time longer, they could arrive at no satisfactory explanation. As for Long Gun, it was useless to ask him his opinion of the mysterious noise. He cowered under his blankets, murmured something about "bad spirits," and predicted that evil would befall any one who sought to solve the secret. The night was not disturbed by any further alarms, and they were all up bright and early the next morning, with fine appetites. "The big bird, or whatever it was, didn't steal any of us," remarked Jack as he was washing for breakfast. "I hope it didn't steal the ram I shot yesterday. We must go after that meat as soon as we have breakfast." Leaving Budge and Long Gun in camp, the others went to where Jack and Nat had slain the ram. It was quite a long ride, and they took their time. "Look here, Jack," called Nat, as, riding slightly in advance, he was first to arrive at where the carcass had been tied in a tree. "Something's been here at it. There's none of it left." "Do you mean that?" cried Jack, riding up. "Sure. You can see it's gone." The boys dismounted and went closer to the tree. There was no doubt but that the choice portions of the ram were gone. And at the foot of the tree the dirt was trampled down as if whatever it was that had stolen the meat had been put to considerable trouble to get it. "It was a bear that took it!" cried Sam. "How do you know?" asked Jack. "Look where he climbed the tree. The bark's torn off with his claws, and you can see the marks of his paws in the soft dirt." "That's right," agreed Nat. "Lopsided lollypops! but it must have been a big one, too! Look where the first marks of his claws begin," and he pointed to abrasions in the bark a good distance above the ground. "Do bears eat meat?" asked Bony, cracking all his finger knuckles excitedly. "Sometimes, I believe," answered Jack. "Anyway, if the bear that stole my ram didn't get it for himself he must have pulled it down for some friends of his." "What do you mean?" asked Nat. "Here are the marks of footsteps," went on Jack, "and they aren't ours, either. Look, whoever made these had heavy boots with hobnails in them, made in the shape of an arrow." He pointed to the ground. There, in addition to the paw-marks left by the bear, were footprints, clearly to be seen, and it needed but a glance to show that they had not been made by any of the boys or Long Gun. "Some one--some men, that is--have been here since Nat and I were here yesterday," went on Jack. "Either they or the bear took the ram." "Maybe they were the men we heard yelling last night," suggested Nat. "Yes, and maybe they have a trained bear, that goes around stealing meat for them," added Sam with a laugh. "Don't get such crazy ideas," objected Nat. "Well, that might happen," went on Sam. "Almost anything is likely to happen in this queer country. I wonder what we'd better do about it?" "I know what I'm going to do," said Jack. "What?" "I'm going to trail that bear. He's left plenty of marks, and maybe I can get a shot at him. I owe him something for taking my meat, and he'll make a good substitute." "That's the way to talk," cried Bony. "I'm with you, Jack." The marks of the bear's paws were plainly visible for some distance, leading off to the right, and up the sloping side of a mountain. As for the footprints of the man or men, they were soon lost to sight. But the boys decided to trail the bear. They lost the marks after about a mile, but arguing that the beast would make nearly a straight line for his den, after he had the meat, the young hunters laid their course as well as they could by compass and kept on. They had to travel slowly, because the road was not very good for the horses, and at noon they had not come up to bruin. Eating a light lunch, they kept on, and it was mid-afternoon when Jack, who was ahead, noticed that his horse suddenly stopped and began to shiver. "Fellows," he cried, "we're near the bear. That's what ails the horse." The other steeds began to exhibit signs of terror, so it was decided to dismount and lead them back a short distance. "I'll stay with the horses," volunteered Bony. "I--er--I don't exactly feel up to hunting bears to-day." "You're not afraid, are you?" asked Sam. "No, not exactly. You might call it--out of practice," and Bony began cracking his knuckles. They tried to persuade him to go with them, but he would not, so Jack, Will, Nat and Sam went on. It did not take much searching to discover a trail leading farther up the side of the mountain, and following this a little way they smelled the unmistakable odor of wild animals. "His cave's near here," whispered Jack. They came in sight of it a moment later, and then there was no doubt as to who had stolen part of the ram. For in front of a black opening in the side of the big hill was a portion of the carcass. "I wonder if he's in there?" said Jack. "Maybe you'll wish he wasn't," commented Sam. "I will not," was Jack's bold reply. "I'm going to get a shot at him now." "How are you going to get him out?" "I'll show you." Jack quickly made a torch of some dry bark, and lighting it, tossed it into the mouth of the cave. Then he ran quickly back, and with his chums stood waiting with ready rifle. "We'd better separate a bit," said Nat. "If he comes out with a rush, and you miss him, Jack, we can take a crack at him." This was voted good advice, and Sam, Will and Nat moved down the slope a short distance, leaving Jack nearer the cave. "I guess he isn't going to come out," called Jack to his chums. "He's asleep, maybe. I'll try to wake him up." He caught up a large stone, and tossed it into the cave. Hardly had he done so than there sounded a series of angry growls, and with a loud "woof!" bruin appeared at the mouth of the cavern, his little eyes glistening with wrath, and the fur on his back raised in a long ridge. "Shoot him, Jack!" cried Nat. But Jack did not need this advice. Dropping on one knee he took quick aim and pulled the trigger. At the sound of the shot bruin lurched forward, and without the loss of a second Jack pumped in another cartridge and let him have it right in the head. Then the big, tawny brute, with a scream, launched himself forward, and doubling up into a ball, began to roll down the mountain-side, straight toward where Sam and Nat stood. "Look out!" cried Jack, for he saw that the bear was in his death struggle, and might attack his chums. Sam and Nat needed no warning, but as they turned to get out of the way of the infuriated creature, Nat's foot slipped. He fell, and, to save himself, he clutched at Sam. They both went down in a heap, rolling over and over, but a few feet in front of the bear, that came bounding after them, clawing up dirt, stones and little shrubs as it tried to stay its progress. CHAPTER XXV SOME PECULIAR MARKS "Shoot! Shoot!" cried Will Williams, who had remained to one side. "Shoot him again, Jack!" "I can't! I may hit Sam or Nat!" Jack did not know what to do. He and Will had to stand there and watch their chums rolling and slipping down the mountain-side, with the bear, in its death struggle, slowly gaining on them. Suddenly the beast struck a large boulder, bounded up into the air, and came down nearly on top of the two lads. Jack's heart almost stopped beating, and Will turned his head aside. Bear and boys seemed to be in one indistinguishable heap. "They'll be killed!" cried Will. Jack started down the hill on the run. He had not taken a dozen steps, his gaze all the while fixed on that heap, which had now reached a little ledge, where it came to a stop, when he saw Sam and Nat slowly extricate themselves. "They're alive, anyway," he murmured. He heard Will following after him, but did not look back. He wanted to see what the bear would do. Sam and Nat appeared bewildered, but Jack noticed that they moved away from bruin. The brute was quiet. "I wonder if I killed him?" thought Jack. Then he called out: "Is he dead?" "As a door-nail," replied Sam. "Are you hurt?" sung out Will. "Only bruised some," answered Sam, rubbing several places on his body. By this time Jack had reached his chums. Their clothing was disheveled, and their hands and faces were covered with dirt, but the bear had not harmed them. "I thought it was all up with you," said Jack with relief in his voice. "So did I," admitted Nat. "But I guess that bear was dead when he started to roll. It was when it hit us, anyway, for it never made a move. It rolled right on top of us, and Sam yelled----" "So did you," spoke Sam quickly. "You were just as frightened as I was." "I guess that's right," admitted Nat. "But you got your bear, all right, Jack." They looked at the dead animal. It was a large grizzly. "Another trophy for the gun club," remarked Sam. "Say, we're doing all right for amateurs. Jack's new organization is a success. "It's all to the bear steaks!" exclaimed Nat with a grin, as he gently caressed his elbow, where the skin was rubbed off. "How are we going to get this back to camp?" asked Will. "Oh, I guess we can pile it on the horses," said Nat. "Not until it's cut up," remarked Jack. "Did you ever try to lift a dead bear?" None of them had, and when they tried to raise the lifeless bruin they found it beyond their strength. They had keen hunting knives with them, however, and soon had the bear skinned and the choicest portions cut off. Jack took the skin, intending to have a rug made of it. Then the horses were brought up, and the meat tied on the backs of the saddles. Satisfied with their day's hunt thus far, the boys headed for camp, Will getting a shot at a fine ram on the way back, but missing it, much to his regret. "Better luck next time," consoled Jack. Long Gun and Budge had a fine supper ready for the young hunters, and never was a meal better enjoyed. Then, as it grew dark, they all sat about the camp fire, listening to the story of killing the bear. "Oh, this is the kind of life to lead," said Nat with a sigh. "It's simply perfect." "And to think that we'll soon have to go back to Washington Hall," put in Bony. "I know where Jack would rather be than here," said Sam with a grin barely visible in the flickering light of the camp fire. "Where?" asked Nat. "Over at Pryor's Gap, where a certain girl with brown eyes----" Plunk! A wad of dried leaves took Sam squarely in the face. "You dry up!" commanded Jack as he looked around for another missile. "Oh, of course; but I thought you'd like to be reminded of her," went on Sam. "I guess he can think of her without you reminding him," added Nat. "I'm going to turn in," announced Jack suddenly, and the laughs of his chums did not seem to disconcert him. They all retired a few minutes later and slept soundly. "Well, what's the program to-day?" asked Sam as they stepped from the tent the next morning into the cold, crisp air. "Hello," he added, "it's been snowing again." "Plenty good for track sheep," announced Long Gun. "Oh, we don't need any fresh meat. What's the use of going hunting again?" asked Jack. "What will we do, then--go fishing?" demanded Nat. "I have an idea that it would be fun to take a trip back over the mountain," went on Jack. "We've never been in that direction." "It's quite a climb," said Bony as he looked up the immense hill, at the foot of which they were camped. "I know it, but Long Gun says there's a good trail, and we can go on our horses and take it easy. What do you say?" "I say let's go," put in Will. "I heard there was some sort of a camp over there, and maybe I could get a trace of my uncle." "Then we'll go," decided Jack. "What sort of a camp is it?" "I don't know exactly. I met a man during my wanderings who told me he had been delivering supplies at a camp over on the eastern slope of Rattlesnake Mountain. This is Rattlesnake Mountain, isn't it?" "That's the name it goes by," said Jack. "But what sort of supplies did he take?" "That's the queer part of it. He couldn't tell. They were in boxes, and he was never allowed to go very close to the camp. He always had to halt quite a way off, leave his stuff and drive away." "That's queer," commented Jack. "I wonder if that can have anything to do with----" Then he stopped suddenly, without finishing his sentence. "Well, with what?" asked Bony. "Never mind," replied Jack as he began oiling his gun. "Let's get ready to go over the top of the mountain." They found it a hard climb, but they took it by degrees and did not hurry the horses, who were used to mountain trails. They reached the summit at noon, and after a rest and lunch, they started down the slope. The newly-fallen snow made a white mantle over the earth, and it was undisturbed by any marks until they came along. "No signs of game," said Jack, "but I guess we don't need any. Long Gun and Budge will be able to get up a good supper with what's in camp," for the Indian and the gum-chewing lad had remained behind. They traveled on for a few miles farther, admiring the view of a much more wild and desolate country than was visible on the side of the mountain where they were staying. "Well, I guess we'd better turn back," called Sam as he noted that the sun was getting low in the sky. "No; let's ride down to that little level spot and look over," proposed Jack. "Then we'll come back." They were not long in reaching the place. Nat, who had urged his horse ahead, was the first to get to it. Suddenly he pulled his animal back and uttered a cry. "What is it?" called Jack. "Some peculiar tracks," replied Nat. "Look here!" They all rode up. There in the snow were many strange marks. The white crystals were scattered, and in some places the ground was swept bare. In other spots there were many footprints. "See!" cried Jack. "The man with the arrow made in hobnails on the soles of his shoes has been here!" He pointed to the impressions. "Yes, and there's been a fight or a struggle here," added Sam. And, indeed, it did seem so, for in some places the ground was torn up, the dirt being scattered over the snow. CHAPTER XXVI THE SPRING TRAP For several moments the boys gazed in silence at the strange marks they had come across. Then Jack said: "Well, fellows, we seem to be up against some more of that mystery." "Why?" asked Bony. "Do you think this has anything to do with the other?" "I do." "You mean the strange sound we heard at night?" asked Will. "That's it," went on Jack. "I think we are on the track of something queer." "And do you intend to look further?" was Nat's query. "Well, not to-day," answered Jack. "But I will sooner or later. I believe something happened here which has to do with that queer disturbance we have heard several times. What it is I don't know, but I'm going to find out." "Say, I have an idea," came from Bony. "Don't let it get away from you," advised Nat. "No, I'm serious," went on the lanky youth. "I think these men have some strange beast or bird in captivity, and that it gets away from them at times. Maybe that's what happened here, and they had to fight to capture it again." "That's nonsense!" exclaimed Sam. "Not so nonsensical, either," Jack hastened to say. "If it was an immense bird, like a big eagle, it would account for the noises we heard--at least, some of them." "But there is no eagle large enough for men to ride on its back," objected Nat. "How do you know men were on its back?" "Didn't we hear them call and speak about our camp fire? How could they see it unless they were up high in the air, on the back of some big bird?" "They might have been on some point of the mountain above us," said Bony. "They could have the eagle, or whatever it was, tied by a cord." "Yes," admitted Nat; "but I don't believe it's a bird." "Me either," came from Sam. "But what is it?" "Let's look at the marks a little more carefully," proposed Jack. "Several men have been here, struggling with the--the--er--whatever it was," spoke Will. "See the different footprints." That much was evident. In addition to the man with the mark on his shoes of the arrow in hobnails, there were tracks of several other individuals. "And if this isn't the mark of a big bird's wing, I'll eat a pair of snowshoes!" exclaimed Nat suddenly. "Look here, fellows!" They hurried to where he was. There in the snow was the unmistakable print of what seemed to be a wing of a great creature of the air. "And here's another wing," added Sam a little later as he walked slowly over the level place. "But they're some distance apart." "I should say so," agreed Jack. "Sixty feet, if they're an inch." "But the marks are those of two wings, and they were made at the same time," went on Sam. "Look, you can see where the body comes between the wings. The bird was over on its back. That happened when they tried to secure it." "But sixty feet," objected Nat. "There's no bird living with a spread of wings like that. It's out of the question." "Here's the evidence," spoke Sam obstinately. "You can see for yourself." "Sixty feet spread," murmured Jack. "It doesn't seem possible." But there was no doubt but that the marks in the snow were those of wings, and, as Jack paced the distance from tip to tip, they proved to be over sixty feet apart. "Maybe the men have discovered some prehistoric monster," suggested Will, "and are trying to subdue it so they can exhibit it. There used to be monsters as large as the marks left by this thing, whatever it is." "Yes," admitted Jack; "but they disappeared from the earth ages ago. Only their fossil remains are to be found now." "But might one not be alive, by chance, in some big mountain cave?" asked Nat. "I don't know," spoke Jack with a worried look. "It has me puzzled, fellows. I don't know what to think." "Let's go back to camp, tell Long Gun about it, and bring him here to-morrow to see it," suggested Sam. "Long Gun would never come," said Jack. "He's too much afraid of bad spirits. No, boys, we'll have to solve this ourselves, if it's to be solved at all." The boys walked around the little level place, whereon there was the mute evidence of some terrific struggle. "The queer part of it is," said Sam, "that the footsteps of the men don't seem to go anywhere, nor come from anywhere. Look, they begin here, and they end over there, as if they had dropped down from the clouds and had gone up again on the back of the big bird." Jack looked more thoughtful. As Sam had said, there were no marks of the men coming or going, and they could not have reached the level place, nor departed from it, without leaving some marks in the tell-tale snow. "I give it up!" exclaimed Jack. "Let's get back to camp. It's getting late." They started, talking of nothing on the way but the mystery, and becoming more and more tangled the more they discussed it. It was getting dusk when they came in sight of the camp fire, and they saw Budge and the Indian busy at something to one side of the blaze. "I wonder what they're up to now?" said Jack. "Oh, probably Budge is teaching Long Gun how to chew gum," was Nat's opinion. A moment later something happened. Budge seemed to shoot through the air, as if blown up in an explosion. He shot over the top of a small tree, and coming down on the other side, hung suspended by one foot. "Help me down! Help me down!" he cried. "What's the matter?" called Jack, spurring his horse forward. "I'm caught!" answered Budge. "It certainly does look so," spoke Nat, and he could not refrain from laughing at the odd spectacle Budge presented as he hung by one leg in a rope that was fast to the top of a tree, which bent like a bow with his weight. "Take me down!" wailed the unfortunate one. "How did it happen?" asked Sam. "Long Gun made a spring trap," gasped Budge, "and--and----" "And you wanted to try it," finished Jack, as he went to his chum's aid. CHAPTER XXVII ORDERED BACK "Hurry up and get me down!" pleaded Budge, as he tried to grasp the sapling with his hands, to ease the strain on his foot. "I'm coming," replied Jack, who was laughing heartily. "Guess I'll have to cut the tree down, though." "No; I have a better plan than that," spoke Will. "I'll show you." In another moment he was climbing up the thin trunk of the hickory that served to hold Budge Rankin suspended. Then Will's plan was apparent. As he climbed up farther, his weight, added to that of Budge, caused the sapling to sway toward the ground. "Grab me and cut the rope!" cried Budge. "All right," replied Jack, and when his queer chum was near enough to him, Jack seized him around the waist. Nat, with his hunting knife, severed the thongs of deer sinew from which Long Gun had made the loop. Then Budge was released, and he assumed an upright position on the ground, while Will dropped from the bending tree, which straightway sprang back to its place. "Hu!" grunted Long Gun, with just the suspicion of a smile on his copper-colored face. "Boy go up heap fast." "'Sright," admitted Budge, while he began hunting through his pockets for a piece of gum. "What in the world did you ever put your foot in that trap for?" asked Jack, when it was ascertained that Budge had not been injured. "Well," he said, "I'll tell you. You see, I asked Long Gun to show me how to make a spring trap. I thought it might come in handy when I got back home. He showed me, and made one. But it didn't look to me as if it would work. So I just touched the trigger with my foot, and--and----" "We saw the rest," finished Bony. "Cracky! But I thought at first you were giving us an exhibition of a human skyrocket." "Or trying to imitate the gigantic bird that left the marks in the snow," added Sam. "Let's tell Budge about it." Which they did; and as his chum was usually pretty sharp in his conclusions, Jack asked him what he thought it was that had made the mysterious prints in the snow. "It must have been a roc, one of those birds you read about in the 'Arabian Nights,'" declared Budge. "There never were such birds," objected Jack. "Sure there were," declared Budge. "It says so in the book." "No one ever saw one," objected Sam. "No, and you never saw George Washington," spoke Budge quickly. "But you're sure he was here once, ain't you?" "This is different," remarked Bony. "'Sallright. You'll find that's a big bird, like a roc," declared Budge, while he began to help the Indian get supper. They discussed, until quite late that night, the cause of the mysterious noises they had heard, and also what peculiar bird or beast had had the struggle with the men. Then Jack finally declared: "Oh, what's the use of wasting our breath over it? We can't decide what it was. There's only one thing to do." "What's that?" asked Sam. "Try and find out what it was." "How can we?" "Well, I've got two plans. One is to make another trip on the other side of the mountain, and go farther next time. We can search for some sort of a camp." "And the other plan?" asked Will. "Is to keep watch, and see if we hear that thing passing over our camp again. If we do, we'll throw a lot of light wood on the fire, and when it blazes up we may catch sight of it." "That's a good idea," declared Nat. "We'll take turns keeping watch at night, and we'll begin right away." They agreed that this was a good plan, and the night was divided into six watches, one for each of the lads, as Long Gun positively refused to have anything to do with seeking a solution of the mystery. Some light wood was collected and piled near the camp fire, in readiness to throw on, so as to produce a bright blaze the moment the queer noise was heard in the air overhead. But that night passed without incident, and so did the three following. During the day the boys went hunting in the forest, or fishing in the Shoshone River, having fairly good luck both on land and in the water. It was about a week after Jack's plan of keeping night watches had been in effect, that something happened. He had about given up hearing the noise again, and was about ready to propose that the next day they should go on a trip over the mountain. It was Jack's watch, and he was sitting by the camp fire, thinking of his father, his aunts and matters at home, and, it must be confessed, of a certain brown-eyed girl. "I must take a trip over to Pryor's Gap and see her," he said softly to himself. The fire was burning low, and Jack arose to put on some more wood. As he did so he heard a vibration in the air, not far above the camp. Then came what seemed to be a whirr of wings and a throbbing noise. "The mystery! The mystery!" cried Jack, tossing an armful of light wood on the embers. The fire blazed up at once, and Jack looked upward. He saw a great shape hovering over the camp, a shape that was fully sixty feet wide, and he knew he could not be mistaken, for there were the gigantic wings flapping. The object was flying right across the valley. Will, Sam and Nat rushed from the tent. They had heard Jack's cry. "Do you see it?" the watcher demanded. "Right up there!" The fire blazed up more brightly, and in the glare of it could be dimly seen something like a great bird. "That's it!" cried Nat. "Gasolened grasshoppers! but what is it?" No one answered. The throbbing and whirring grew fainter, and the shape passed out of sight. From the tent could be heard the howling of Long Gun, as he prayed in his own tongue. "Quit that!" yelled Bony from the canvas shelter. "Do you want to frighten us all to death?" Then Long Gun's cries were muffled, and it was evident that he had hidden his head under his blankets. "This settles it!" declared Jack positively. "We'll make another trip over the mountain to-morrow and see if we can't solve this." "That's what we will!" added Nat. "First thing you know we'll wake up some night and find ourselves gone." They made preparations to be away all night if necessary, taking plenty of blankets and food. Budge and Long Gun decided to remain in camp to look after things. "S'posin'youdon'tcomeback?" asked Budge, all in one word. "Oh, we'll come back," replied Jack confidently. "If we don't, you and Long Gun will have to come after us." "Where'llyoube?" "You'll have to hunt," was Jack's answer as he flicked his horse with the quirt. They had decided to do some hunting as they proceeded, and were on the lookout for game. The weather continued fine, and the snow had disappeared, though they might expect heavy storms almost any day, Long Gun said. They crossed the mountain ridge, and started down the other side, without having had a chance to shoot anything. They reached the place where they had seen the mysterious marks in the snow, and made a careful examination, but could discover nothing new. "Well, Jack, which way now?" asked Sam as they stood looking about them. "Down the mountain," decided Jack. "I think we may get a shot at some deer, if we don't find anything else in the valley. Long Gun said it was a good hunting ground." They rode on, Jack and Nat in advance. Whether their horses were better than the steeds of their companions, or whether Jack and Nat unconsciously urged them to greater speed, was not apparent, but the fact was that in about an hour the two found themselves alone, having distanced their companions. "Let's wait for them," suggested Nat. "No, let's keep on. It's a good trail, and they can't miss it. They'll catch up to us soon. Maybe we can see something to shoot if we go on a little way, or maybe----" "Maybe we'll see that mysterious bird," finished Nat. "I believe you'd rather find that than kill a big buck." "Oh, I don't know," replied Jack slowly. "I'd like to get a nice buck, but I'd also like to solve that mystery." "Speaking of bucks," whispered Nat quickly, "look there! Two of 'em!" He pointed to a little glade, into which they were turning, and Jack saw two large mule deer feeding on the grass. "A buck and a doe," he said as he raised his rifle. "I think we are close enough to risk a shot. You take the buck, Nat. You haven't had a good pair of horns yet, and that fellow has some beauts. We'll both fire together." Nat nodded to show that he understood. The deer had not scented the young hunters, but were still quietly feeding. Slowly Jack and Nat raised their rifles, having dismounted from their horses. Just as they were about to pull the triggers a curious thing happened. The deer suddenly raised their heads, and gazed at a spot to the left of them. Then they bounded away, so swiftly that it was difficult for the eye to follow them. "Well, did you see that?" asked Nat. "Something scared them." "Yes, and it wasn't us," said Jack. "We're out of sight, and the wind's blowing from them to us. I'm going to see what it was that sent them off." He mounted his horse again, an example that Nat followed, and they rode down the glade to where the deer had been feeding. "I wonder if it could have been a bear?" asked Jack of his chum. "If it was----" He did not get a chance to finish the sentence, for even as he spoke the bushes just in front of the two lads were parted, and three men stepped into view. "What are you lads doing here?" asked one of the strangers sternly. "We--we were hunting," replied Jack. "We saw two deer, but they ran before we could get a shot." "Well, you'd better make back tracks to where you came from," said another man gruffly. "Vamoose, you!" "Are these private grounds?" asked Jack. "We didn't know. We're camped on the other side of the mountain, and we understood we could hunt here." "Well, you can't," said the third man. "These aren't private grounds, but we don't want you around here, so you'd better skedaddle. Move on, now, or it won't be healthy for you." As he spoke he advanced his rifle in a threatening manner. "Oh, we don't want to trespass," spoke Nat. "We'll go." "You'd better," was the grim response of the man who had first spoken. "Clear out, and don't come here again. We don't want any spies around." "We're not spies," said Jack, wondering that the man should use such a term. "Well, we don't care what you are. Clear out! That's all! Clear out!" There was nothing to do but turn back. Slowly Jack and Nat wheeled their horses, meanwhile narrowly eyeing the men. The trio, though roughly dressed, did not appear like hard characters or desperadoes. They looked like miners. "You'll have to move faster than that," said the man who had spoken first. "If you don't we may have to make you." There was a movement in the bushes back of him, and Jack and Nat glanced in that direction to see who was coming. Another figure stepped into view, the figure of a lad well known to Jack and Nat, for it was none other than Jerry Chowden, the former bully of Washington Hall. "Jerry Chowden!" gasped Jack. "Jack--Jack Ranger!" exclaimed the bully, no less surprised than were the two lads on horses. "Do you know him?" asked one of the men quickly of Jerry. "Yes--er--that is----" "Come on, you! Move away from here if you don't want to get into trouble!" fairly shouted one of the men. He advanced toward Jack and Nat, who, deeming discretion the better part of valor, clapped spurs to their horses, and raced along the trail to rejoin their companions. As they galloped on Jack gave one glance over his shoulder. He saw Jerry Chowden in earnest conversation with the three men, and that our hero and Nat was the subject of the talk was evident from the manner in which the bully was pointing toward them. CHAPTER XXVIII WILL SAVES JACK'S LIFE "What do you think of that, Jack?" asked Nat. "Bullyragging bean-poles! but who would have expected to meet Jerry Chowden out here? What do you make of it?" "I don't know," Jack replied. "I'm as much surprised as you are. Not only at seeing him, but at meeting those men, and at being ordered back." "Do you think Jerry had anything to do with them making us move away?" "How do you mean?" "I mean do you think he told those men lies about us? Such as saying we were dangerous characters, and not safe to have around?" "No, I hardly think that. I believe those men have something to conceal, and would order back any one who they thought would discover their secret. They ordered us back before Jerry appeared and recognized us." "That's so. But how do you suppose he came to get in with them?" "I don't know. It's all part of the same puzzle, I think--the mysterious sounds, the queer marks in the snow, and all that. Of course, Jerry may have met them by accident, and they might have hired him. We knew he came out West, you know, after the part he played in kidnapping us, and very likely he was willing to do any kind of rascally work these men wanted." "Yes, that's probable. But what do you s'pose it is?" "I give it up; that is, for the time being. But I'm going to solve this mystery, Nat, if it takes all winter. We've got something to do now besides hunt. We'll see what these men are up to. Maybe it's something criminal, such as Jonas Lavine and his gang were mixed up in." "I hardly think that." "What do you think, then?" "I believe they have some rare kind of animal or bird, or, maybe, several of them, and they are going to place them on exhibition. For I'm sure the noise we heard, and the marks in the snow, were made by some gigantic bird." "Oh, you're away off," declared Jack. "It isn't possible." "That's all right. 'Most anything is possible nowadays," answered Nat. They soon rejoined their comrades, and told them what had happened. Sam was for going on, defying the men, and administering a sound drubbing to Jerry. "Then we'll find out what's up," he said, "and end all this suspense." "Yes, and maybe get into trouble," objected Jack. "There must be several men in that camp, if it was a camp, and those we saw seemed ready to use their guns on us. No, I think we'll have to prospect around a bit first, until we see how the land lays. I'm not going to run into danger. We made a mistake by moving too suddenly in the bogus stock certificate case, and only because of good luck were the rascals caught. I'm going a little slower this time." "Jerry Chowden is certainly going to the bad fast," declared Bony. "We don't know that he is in anything bad this time," said Jack. "It may be all right, and those men may be engaged in some regular business. But I admit it looks suspicious." A sharp snowstorm kept the boys in camp the next two days, but on the third, as fresh meat was getting low, they started off again after game, leaving Budge and Long Gun, as usual, in charge of the place. "Boys, we've got to get something this time," said Jack. "The place is like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, almost bare, so don't despise even jack-rabbits, though, of course, a nice deer or a sheep would go better." They had been directed by Long Gun to take a trail that led obliquely up the side of the mountain, as the Indian said it was a likely place for game, and at noon they camped in a little clearing for lunch, having had no sight of anything bigger than squirrels, which they would not shoot. "I tell you what it is," said Jack, after thinking the matter over, "I believe we're too closely bunched. We ought to divide up, some go one way, and some the other. We'd be more likely to see something then. We can make a circle, and work our way around back to camp by nightfall." "All right," agreed Sam. "Bony and I will take the trail to the left, and you can go to the right with Nat and Will. I'll wager we beat you, too." "That's a go," agreed Jack. "Come on." A little later the two parties of young hunters separated, and were soon lost to sight of each other. For an hour or more Jack, Nat and Will slowly urged their horses through the light snow. They kept a sharp lookout for signs of game, but were beginning to despair of seeing any, when Jack uttered a cry. "There's been a deer along here," he said. "And not long ago, either, if I'm any judge of the signs Long Gun taught us." "It does look so," admitted Nat. "Easy, now, and maybe we can trail him." "We'd better leave our horses, though," Jack went on. "It's bad going, and they make quite a bit of noise." "I'll stay with them," volunteered Nat. "I've had my share of good shots lately. Let Will have a show. You and he go ahead, Jack." Jack did not want to leave Nat, but his chum insisted that some one had to stay with the animals, and he wanted to do it. So Will and Jack started off alone to trail the deer. They went on about a mile, the trail becoming fresher at every step, until Will, who was close behind Jack, gently touched his companion on the arm and pointed to the left. There, framed in a little opening of the trees, pawing the snow off the grass in a little glade, stood a noble buck mule deer, the largest Jack had ever seen. The animal had not heard nor scented them. "Take the shot, Will," urged Jack. "You may never get another like that." "No, I'd rather you would." "Nonsense. I've shot several of 'em. You take it." "I'd rather you would." "Go on," urged Jack in a whisper. "Wait, though, we'll move forward a bit, and you work off to the left. You'll get a better shot then. The wind's just right." They went forward a few feet cautiously, until they stood just on the edge of the clearing. Then Will, stepping a few paces to the left, raised his rifle. No sooner had he done so than, to his surprise and regret, his arms began to shake violently. He had a severe touch of "buck fever." "I--I can't do it. I'm too nervous," he said in a whisper to Jack. "Nonsense. Wait a minute and aim again. You'll be all right in a second. Take a long breath and count five." Will did as directed, but it was no use. The muzzle of his rifle wobbled more than ever when he tried to aim. "I--I can't," he whispered again. "You shoot, Jack." Then, realizing that Will was too nervous to do it, and not wanting to see the buck escape, as they needed fresh meat in camp, Jack took aim and pulled the trigger. At the instant the report rang out, the buck raised his head, wheeled around, and catching sight of Jack standing on the edge of the clearing, came at him almost as fast as an express train. He had been only slightly wounded, and, full of rage, he had only one desire--to annihilate the person responsible for the stinging pain he felt. Jack saw him coming, and threw down the lever of his rifle to pump another cartridge into the chamber. But, to his horror, the lever refused to work. It had become jammed in some way, and the exploded shell could not be ejected. He pulled and tugged at it, the buck coming nearer by leaps and bounds. "Jump--jump!" Jack heard Will cry, and realizing that he could not get in another shot, he leaped to one side, hoping to get out of the way of the infuriated animal. But his foot caught in the entangled branch of a bush, and he fell backward, full length, right in the path of the advancing buck, that was snorting with rage. Jack tried to roll over, but the bush held him fast. He felt that it was all up with him, and he closed his eyes, expecting the next instant to feel the buck leap on him, to pierce him with its keen hoofs. Jack could hear the thundering approach of the big creature, and he could feel the tremor of the ground as the brute came nearer. He fancied he could see the big bulk in the air over him. Then there sounded a sharp crack, followed by a thud, and the black shape seemed to pass to one side. There was a shock as a big body hit the ground, a great crashing among the bushes, and Jack opened his eyes to see the buck lying dead a few feet away from him. Then he saw something else. It was Will, running toward him, a smoking rifle in his hands. "Are you--are you all right?" asked Will, his voice trembling. "Yes," said Jack, hardly able to speak, because of the reaction of the shock through which he had just passed. "I'm all right. Did you shoot the buck?" "I--I guess so," replied Will with a nervous laugh. "I aimed my rifle at him and pulled the trigger, anyhow." Jack went over to the big body, that had not ceased quivering. "Right through the heart," he said, as he saw where the bullet had gone in. "Bill, you saved my life!" CHAPTER XXIX THE BLIZZARD Jack extended his hand, and clasped that of Will's in a firm grip. "This would have ended my hunting days if you hadn't fired," he said. "Maybe he would have leaped over you," said Will. "He was coming very fast." "I saw he was. He'd have jumped right on me, too, and that would have been the finish of yours truly. My, but that was a crack shot of yours." "I didn't seem to take any aim. As soon as I saw him coming for you, I seemed to get steady all at once, and I didn't tremble a bit." "Lucky for me you didn't. My rifle went back on me just at the wrong minute." "What's the matter with it?" "I don't know. I must take a look. It's risky to be hunting with such a rifle." Jack looked for the cause of the trouble, and found that in taking the gun apart to clean it he had not screwed in far enough a certain bolt, which projected and prevented the breech mechanism from working. The trouble was soon remedied, and the rifle was ready for use again. "Well, you can shoot the next buck," remarked Will as the two looked at the carcass of the big animal. "Not to-day. I'd shake worse than you did if I tried to aim. We'll do no more hunting to-day. We'll go back and get Nat, and take this to camp. There's enough for a week." It was with no little difficulty that the three boys loaded the best parts of the buck on their horses and started back to camp. They found that Sam and Bony had arrived ahead of them, Sam having killed a fine ram. "Well, I know what I'm going to do to-day," remarked Jack the next morning. "What?" inquired Nat. "I'm going to have another try at that mystery." "Do you think it'll be safe?" "I don't see why. I'm going to try to get to that camp from another trail, and if they see me the worst they can do will be to order me away again." "I'm with you," declared Nat, and the others agreed to accompany the senior member of the gun club. They started directly after breakfast, Jack, Nat, Sam, Bony and Will. Jack, making inquiries of Long Gun, learned of another trail that could be taken. They rode along this for several miles, and then proceeded cautiously, as they judged they were near where the hostile men had their camp. Suddenly Nat, who was riding along beside Jack, stopped his horse and began sniffing the air. "Smell anything?" he asked his chum. Jack took several long breaths. Then he nodded. "Gasolene, eh?" questioned Nat. "Cæsar's pancakes! but I believe we're on the track of those same bogus certificate printers again!" "It can't be," declared Jack. "But smell the gasolene." "I know it, but it might be from an automobile." "An automobile out here? Nonsense! Listen, you can hear the pounding of the engine." Certainly there was an odd throbbing noise, but just as Jack was beginning to locate it again the sound ceased. "Never mind, fellows," he said. "We'll follow the smell of the gasolene. I don't believe it's the same gang that we were on the trail of before, but we'll soon find out. Keep together, now." They went on for perhaps half a mile farther, when there was a sudden motion among the bushes on the trail ahead of them, and a man's voice called out: "Halt!" It was one of the three men who had, a few days previous, warned Jack and Nat away. "Where are you going?" the man demanded. "We were looking for your camp," said Jack boldly. "Our camp?" The man seemed much surprised. "Yes. We wanted to see what sort of a place you had. We smelled the gasolene, and heard the engine, and----" "Now look here!" exclaimed the man angrily. "You've been told once to keep away from here, and this is the second time. The next time you won't hear us tell you. We'll shoot without warning. And we won't shoot you, either, for we think you're here more out of curiosity than anything else, but we'll shoot your horses, and you know what it means to be without a horse out here. So if you know what's good for you, keep away." "Yes," added another voice. "You'd better keep away from here, Jack Ranger, if you don't want to get into trouble." "Oh, it's you, is it, Jerry Chowden?" spoke our hero. "I wonder if your new friends know as much about you as we do?" "Never you mind!" exclaimed Jerry quickly. "You mind your own business, and let me alone." "That's what I've often wished you to do for me," spoke Jack. "Do you know that there is a warrant out for your arrest if you ever come back in the neighborhood of Denton?" Jerry gave a frightened look over his shoulder. The man who had halted the lads had stepped back into the bushes. "You clear out of here, Jack Ranger. And you, too, Nat Anderson and the rest of the bunch!" snapped Jerry, and then he drew from his pocket a revolver. "Look out, Jerry, that might go off," remarked Jack with a laugh. "Don't you make fun of me!" ordered the bully. "I'm working here, and I've got authority to order you away." "That's right, Jerry, tell 'em to vamoose," added the man who had first spoken, as he again came into view. "We don't want any spies around here." Another man joined the first, and the two looked angrily at the intruders. They were armed with shotguns. "What do you want?" asked the second man. "Oh," said Nat lightly, "we just came to call on an acquaintance of ours--Jerry Chowden. The police back East would like to see him, and we've just told him." "That's not so!" cried Jerry angrily. "You're afraid to go back," added Jack. "I am not! You mind your own business and clear out!" "Yes, move on," ordered the first man, but Jack noted that he looked closely at Jerry, as if to determine the effect of the charges made against the bully. There seemed to be nothing else to do, and the boys turned back. "Beaten again," remarked Jack, as they headed for camp. "Well, there's just one other way of discovering their secret." "What is it?" asked Nat. "Go down the mountain, directly back of their camp, only it's dangerous because it's so steep. We can't take the horses. I'll try that way, however, before I'll let Jerry Chowden laugh at us." "So will I," answered Nat, and Sam and Bony said the same thing. "I think we're in for a storm," remarked Will as they jogged along. "It's beginning to snow." A few flakes were sifting lazily down, and they increased by the time the boys reached camp, where they found Budge and Long Gun busy tightening the tent ropes and piling the wood and provisions within the smaller supply tent. "What's the matter?" asked Jack. "Storm comin'," replied the Indian. "Plenty much bad. Git ready." Early the next morning Jack and his chums were awakened by the wind howling about their tent. It was cold, in spite of heavy blankets and thick clothing. "B-r-r-r!" exclaimed Jack as he crawled out and went to the flap of the tent. Then he gave a startled cry. "Boys, it's a regular blizzard!" he said. Nothing could be seen but a white wall of fiercely swirling snowflakes, while the wind was howling through the trees, threatening every minute to collapse the tent. But Long Gun had done his work well, and the canvas shelter stood. CHAPTER XXX JACK'S HAZARDOUS PLAN The boys crowded up around Jack and peered through an opening in the tent flap. "Blizzard! I should say so!" exclaimed Nat. "It's fierce! How are we going to cook any breakfast?" "Me show," answered Long Gun with a grin. Then he pointed to where he and Budge, the day before, had constructed, inside the living tent, a small fireplace of stones and earth. There was a piece of pipe that extended outside the canvas wall, and in the improvised stove a blaze was soon started, over which coffee was made, and some bacon fried. "Let's go out and see what it's like," proposed Sam, as he wrapped himself up warmly. "No go far," cautioned Long Gun. "No git back if yo' do. Heap bad storm." "There's no danger of Sam going too far," said Jack. "He's too fond of the warm stove." "Get out!" replied Sam. "I can stand as much cold as you can." But none of the boys cared to be long in that biting cold, for the wind sent the snowflakes into their faces with stinging force, and the white crystals came down so thickly that had they gone far from the tent it is doubtful if they could have found their way back again. The horses were sheltered in a shack that had been built of saplings, with leaves and earth banked around it and on the roof, and the animals, huddled closely together, were warm and comfortable. Inside the big tent, where the members of the gun club stayed, it was not cold, for Long Gun and Budge kept the fire going in the stone stove, and as the tent was well banked around the bottom, but little of the biting wind entered. Nothing could be done, as it was not safe to venture out, so the boys put in the day cleaning their guns, polishing some of the horn trophies they had secured, and talking of what had happened so far on their camping trip. Toward evening Long Gun went out to the supply tent to get some meat to cook. He came back in a hurry, his face showing much surprise. "What's the matter?" asked Jack quickly. "Meat gone!" exclaimed the Indian. "Something take him from tent." The boys rushed out into the storm toward the smaller canvas shelter where their food and supplies were kept. One side had been torn down, and within there was a scene of confusion. In the fierceness of the storm, while the campers had been in the big tent, some wild beast, or, perhaps, several of them, had stolen up and carried away most of the food on which Jack and his chums depended. Nor could it be said what beasts had robbed them, for their tracks were obliterated by the snow that had fallen since. "Well, this is tough luck!" exclaimed Jack. "What are we going to do now?" "There's some bacon left from breakfast," said Budge. "Have to eat that, I guess." "Yes; and, thank goodness, the thieves didn't care for coffee," added Nat. "We sha'n't starve, at least, to-night." "There's some canned stuff left, too," went on Will. "But it won't last long, if this storm keeps up," spoke Jack seriously. "I guess we're going to be up against it, fellows." "Like fish?" asked Long Gun suddenly. "What have fish got to do with it?" inquired Bony. "Catch fish through ice soon. Storm stop," replied the Indian. "River plenty full fish." "That's a good idea," commented Jack. "But when will the blizzard stop?" It kept up all that night and part of the next day. The campers were on short rations, as regards meat, though there was plenty of canned baked beans, and enough hardtack for some time yet, while there was flour that could be made into biscuits. But they needed meat, or something like it, in that cold climate. It was late the next afternoon when Jack, looking from the tent, announced: "Hurrah, fellows! It's stopped snowing, and the wind has gone down. Now for some fish through the ice. Long Gun, come on and show us how." The Indian got some lines and hooks ready, using salt pork for bait. Then the whole party went down to the river, traveling on snowshoes, for there was a great depth to the snow, and it was quite soft. It was no easy task to scrape away the white blanket and get down to the ice that covered the river, but they managed it. Holes were chopped in the frozen surface of the stream, and then they all began to fish. They had good luck, and soon had caught enough of the finny residents of the Shoshone to make a good meal. "Um-um!" exclaimed Bony, as they sat down to supper a little later. "Maybe this doesn't taste fine!" and he extended his plate for some more of the fish, fried brown in corn meal, with bacon as a flavoring. The next day Jack, Nat and Sam went out and killed some jack-rabbits, and this served them until two days later, when Jack killed a fat ram and Will a small deer. All danger of a short food supply was thus obviated, and, the damaged tent having been repaired, the boys prepared to resume their hunt. "We've only about three weeks more," announced Jack one night. "If we stay much longer we may get snowed in and have to stay until spring." "Well, that wouldn't be so bad," spoke Bony. "I know why Jack wants to start back," spoke Sam. "He is going to stop at Pryor's Gap and see a certain party with brown eyes, who----" Then Sam dodged to avoid the snowshoe which his chum threw across the tent at him. "When are we going to make another try to discover the secret of the strange camp?" asked Nat when quiet was restored. "That's so. When?" asked Will. "We haven't heard that queer noise lately." "We'll see what we can do to-morrow," answered Jack. That night the lads were startled by again hearing that strange sound in the air over their camp. But this time it seemed farther away, and only lasted a short time, while Jack, who rushed out the moment he heard it, could discover nothing. Jack, Nat, Sam, Bony and Will started off early the next morning on snowshoes for the top of the mountain, in accordance with a plan Jack had formed of trying to reach the camp of the men from a point directly back of the place whence they had been ordered away. They reached the summit of the mountain and found, as Long Gun had said they would, a trail leading directly down. But it was so steep and so covered with snow that it seemed risky to attempt it. "We can never get down there," said Nat. "Sure we can," declared Jack. "We might if we had some of those long, wooden snowshoes, like barrel-staves, which the Norwegians use," spoke Sam. "Otherwise I don't see how we're going to do it." Jack did not reply. Instead he was walking slowly along what seemed to be an abandoned trail. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. "The very thing!" he cried. "What?" asked Bony. "That old sled," answered Jack, pointing to a sort of bobsled, that had evidently been made by lumbermen. It consisted of a platform of slabs, on long, broad, wooden runners, and stood near an abandoned camp. "How can we use that?" asked Nat. "Get on it and slide down the mountain," daringly proposed Jack. "There's plenty of snow. The old sled will hold us all, and maybe we can ride right into their camp lickity-split. Then they can't put us out until we've seen what's going on. Will you go?" The boys hesitated a moment. It was a hazardous plan, one fraught with danger, but they were not the lads to draw back for that. It seemed the only feasible way of getting down the mountain. CHAPTER XXXI A PERILOUS RIDE "Well," asked Jack again, "will you go, or do I have to take the trip alone?" "I'll go!" cried Nat suddenly. "And I!" "And I!" "And I!" added Bony, Sam and Will. "Then let's get the sled out and look it over," said Jack. The old sled seemed to be in fairly good condition. It was roughly but strongly made, as it had to be to stand dragging over the mountain trails. The boys hauled it to the edge of the slope. "Get on," called Jack as he began piling upon the flat top his gun and a package of food he had brought along. "Wait a minute," proposed Nat. "What's the matter now?" inquired Jack. "You're not going to back out, are you?" "No, but it just occurred to me that we'd better have some sort of a brake on this thing. If we get going down that mountain we might not be able to stop." "We don't want to, until we get to the camp." "But s'pose we get to a ravine, or something like that?" "Well, I guess it would be better to have a brake or drag," admitted Jack. "I'll tell you how we can make one. Get a long sapling, sharpen one end, and put it down through a hole in the back of the sled. When you want to stop, just jab it into the ground, and it will scrape along." "Better have two, while you're at it," said Sam. "Then we can steer with them by jabbing first one, then the other down. They will slew us around whichever way we want to go." "Fine!" cried Jack, always willing to give any of his chums the credit for a good invention. "We'll do it." With a small hatchet, which they had brought with them, two stout saplings were cut, trimmed of their branches and sharpened to points. Then they were thrust down holes in the rear of the sled, near where the wooden runners came to an end. "Now I guess we're all ready," remarked Jack as he surveyed the work. "Get aboard, fellows, for the Snow Sled Limited. No stops this side of Chicago." "And maybe not there, if we get going too fast," spoke Bony grimly. They had taken off their snowshoes, and piled them on the bob, with their guns and packages of food. Then the boys took their places. "All ready?" asked Jack as he took his seat in front. "As ready as we ever shall be," replied Will, who was a trifle nervous. "Then push off, Sam," called Jack, for Sam and Nat had taken their places at the two brake poles. They used them to shove the sled nearer the edge of the hill, and then, as the sled began to move, they slipped the sharpened saplings into the holes again. Slowly the sled began to go down the hill. At first the slope was gradual, and the speed was not great. Then, as the side of the mountain became more steep, the bob gathered headway, until it was moving along swiftly. "Hold on, everybody!" cried Jack. "There's a bump just ahead of us!" The warning came only just in time, for the sled reached a sort of ridge in the slope, and bounded up in the air. The boys went with it, and as they stayed up a little longer than the sled did, when they came down they did so with considerable force, so that the breath was nearly shaken out of them. "Ouch!" cried Nat. "I bit my tongue." "Lucky it's no worse," spoke Jack. "Did we lose anything off the sled, Will?" "No, but your gun came near going," for the food and other objects had slid around when the jolt came. "I held on to them," went on the strange lad, who, from the association of Jack and his chums, was fast losing his odd manner. "That's the idea! Well, we certainly are moving now." And indeed they were. The sled was increasing its speed every moment, and was now whizzing along over the snow like some racing automobile, but with none of the noise. The snow, by reason of thawing and freezing, had acquired a hard, slippery surface, and the sled, the broad runners of which did not sink in, was fairly skimming along over it. "Try the brakes!" Jack called back to Sam and Nat. "Let's see if they work." "Put on brakes!" called Nat, giving vent to a couple of screeches in imitation of a whistle. "That means let off brakes," said Sam. "One whistle is to put 'em on." "What's the odds?" inquired Nat. "Put your pole down." He was already shoving on his, and Sam did likewise. There was a shower of white flakes behind the sled as the sharp points of the poles bit into the snow. There followed a scratching sound, and two long depressions appeared to mark the wake of the bob. Then the speed began to slacken. "They work all right," Jack announced. "We'll try how they steer, now." "Off brakes!" shouted Sam, and he and Nat pulled up the poles. Once more the sled shot forward, coasting down the side of the mountain. Bony sat beside Jack, in front, while Will was in the centre, surrounded by the guns and packages. "Wow!" exclaimed Bony suddenly. "There's a bad place just ahead." "I see," remarked Jack. "We must go to one side of it." The place was a little hollow in the face of the mountain, and if the sled, which was headed directly for it, dipped down into it, there might be a serious accident. "Jab your pole down, Nat!" cried Jack, as he calculated to which side of the hollow it was best to pass. "Jab it hard." "Hard it is!" repeated Nat, as he bore down on his pole with all his force. The result was more than they bargained for. The sled slewed suddenly around, and only by clinging desperately to it did the boys manage to save themselves from being spilled off. "Let go!" yelled Jack quickly. "Let go it is!" Nat managed to repeat, as he pulled up his pole. The sled slung around straight again, and continued to slide, but the steering had been successful, for they passed well to one side of the hole. "I guess a light jab will be all we'll need to change the course of this schooner," remarked Bony. "No more of those 'hard 'a port' orders, Jack." "That's right. We had a narrow escape." On and on they went, Jack watching carefully for holes or rocks, that he might call orders to steer to one side or the other of them. The sled answered her "helm" readily, and, when there was need to slacken speed, the same poles served as brakes. There was still a long snowy stretch before them, though they had come a mile or more. It was fully five miles to the bottom of the slope, where the valley began and where they knew the mysterious men were encamped. The course they were on led almost straight down, and, by some curious freak of nature, it was quite like a cleared road down the side of the mountain. There were few trees in the path the sled was taking, and it seemed as if, in ages gone by, a great snowslide or avalanche had gone crashing down the declivity, preparing a path upon which, however, few would have ventured. Now the speed, which had slackened on a place where the slope was not so great, became faster. The wind whistled in the ears of the boys, and the broad runners were throwing up a fine shower of frozen snow. Faster and faster the bob went. It was skimming along like a great bird now, and the course was so clear that there was no need of steering. Suddenly Jack spied, just ahead of them, a great boulder, partly covered with snow. To strike it meant a disaster, and the sled was headed right for it. "Sam! Sam!" cried Jack. "Put your pole down." This would slew the sled to one side. Sam, bearing in mind what had happened when Nat put his sapling down too suddenly, gently dug his point into the snow. But, so great was the speed, that the sled was slewed around almost as badly as before. But it cleared the rock, and then righted itself. "Say, but we're going some," remarked Bony. Jack nodded. "Too fast," he called. "Put on the brakes, fellows." Nat and Sam prepared to obey this order. They bore down on the saplings, but the sled seemed only to go the faster. "Put on brakes! Hard!" yelled Jack. "We're trying to," called Sam. He and Nat bore down with all their force. They could hear the ends of the saplings scraping over the frozen snow, but they did not seem to take hold. There was no shower of frozen crystals--no depressions behind the runners. [Illustration: "THE SLED WENT FASTER AND FASTER."] The sled went faster and faster. Then Nat understood. "The points of the brakes are worn off!" he cried. "They won't take hold!" "Take 'em up and sharpen 'em!" shouted Jack. "We've got to slacken up or we'll be hurt! Sharpen the stakes." It was the only thing to do. The points of the poles, dragging over the hard snow, had been worn flat and smooth. It was hard work, putting points on them, aboard the swaying bob, but Sam and Nat, aided by Bony and Will, managed to do it with the hatchet. All the while the sled was skimming along, faster and faster. "Jab 'em in! Jab 'em in!" yelled Jack desperately. Nat and Sam did so. There was a scraping sound, as the sharp points bit into the snow, but the speed of the sled did not seem to slacken. "The snow's frozen too hard!" cried Nat. "We can't stop it now!" "You've got to!" yelled Jack. "We're going like greased lightning!" But, try as Nat and Sam did, they could not force the newly-sharpened stakes into the ground. Jack, Bony and Will added their strength, but it was of no use. Faster and faster the sled leaped down the slope. The wind cut the faces of the boys, and the flying particles of snow, freed by the edges of the runners, stung them like needles. "We can't stop!" said Nat, hopelessly. Straight as an arrow flew the sled. "Look! Look!" cried Will, and he pointed ahead. There, right in the path, and not a quarter of a mile away, at the foot of the hill down which they were shooting like a rocket, was a patch of blackness. "It's a lake! A lake of open water!" cried Jack. "Get ready to jump!" CHAPTER XXXII INTO A STRANGE CAMP It seemed that this was the only thing to do. To remain on the sled, as it plunged into the black water, might mean that they would be drawn down into the depths, never to come up. So the lads prepared to leap from the swiftly-moving sled. Yet they would not jump without their guns, and they hesitated a moment while they secured them. Then they moved to the edge of the bob. But to leap from it, while it was traveling almost with the speed of a railroad train, meant no little risk. No wonder they hesitated, especially as there was no place to land but on the hard, frozen surface of the snow, down which they were sliding. Still, it was a choice of two desperate expedients, and, as they supposed, they were choosing the lesser evil. "Here we go!" cried Nat, as he crouched for a spring. "No! Wait! Wait!" almost screamed Jack. "That's not water! It's ice! It's ice! We're all right! Stay on!" He had called only just in time, for, as the sled came nearer to the black patch, he had seen, from the glint of light upon its surface, that it was hard, black, thick ice. A moment later the sled, striking a little hollow place bounded into the air. It came down with a thump, and in another second was skimming over the frozen surface of a little pond. Straight across it flew, into a snow bank on the other side, where it came to an abrupt stop. So sudden, in fact, was the halting, that Will, who was near the front end, was shot from the bob, and came down in the bank of snow, head first. "Pull him out!" cried Jack, as he leaped off. "Maybe he's hurt." The others hastened to the aid of their chum, and he was soon hauled out. He seemed dazed, and there was blood coming from a cut on his head. "Hurt much?" asked Jack anxiously. "No--not much--hit my head on a stone under that pile of snow, I guess. But where are we?" "Where we started for, I think," replied Jack. "My, but that was a trip!" "Petrified pole-cats! I should say so!" ejaculated Nat. "I thought we were goners!" "Same here," remarked Sam. "But we don't seem to have arrived at any place." "We're at the foot of the hill," spoke Bony. "That's something," and he tried to crack his knuckle joints, forgetting that he had thick mittens on. "Let's see what's beyond those trees," proposed Jack, after they had rested, and he pointed to some dark pines that fringed one shore of the pond. "Bring your guns, fellows, and come on." "What about the grub?" asked Nat. "Leave it on the sled," replied Jack. "We'll probably come back here." He led the way to the trees, and passed beyond the natural screen they formed, followed by his chums. No sooner had he penetrated the thick branches, than he uttered a cry of surprise. And well he might. For in front of the young hunters was a strange camp, a large one, consisting of a big shed-like structure, with several small log cabins grouped around it. And the place smelled of gasolene, while from one of the cabins came a noise of machinery in operation. "Boys!" exclaimed Jack, "we've found the place." "Yes, and there doesn't seem to be anybody here to stop us," remarked Nat. They stood for a few moments on the edge of the camp, the secret of which they had tried to solve several times before. "Come on," said Jack. "Might as well take it all in." As he spoke the doors of the big shed swung slowly open. The boys saw a man pushing the portals, but something else they saw attracted their attention, and held them spellbound. For the "something" was a great bird-like creature in the shed, a creature with an immense spread of wings, and from the big structure there came a peculiar throbbing noise, such as that they had heard in the air over their camp several nights. "There it is!" exclaimed Nat. "There's the monster that's been flying in the air over our heads! They've got it captive, and they're trying to tame it!" The doors opened wider, the man pushing them with his back to the boys, so that at first he did not see them. "Wow! Aunt Jerusha's Johnnie cake!" exclaimed Nat. "See that bird." Inside the shed the great creature appeared to be fluttering its wings. The boys were peering forward eagerly. Suddenly there sounded a shout, and from one of the cabins a figure ran. "Jerry Chowden!" cried Jack. Jerry had seen the boys. Pointing one hand at them, he yelled something to the man opening the shed doors. In an instant the man turned, went back into the shed, and the doors swung shut. Then, from other cabins came several men, running toward Jack and his chums. Jerry joined them. "We're in for it, now," remarked Nat. "Keep cool," advised Jack. "They can't hurt us." "That's them! They're the same fellows!" exclaimed Jerry, as he ran up. "Glad to see that you recognize us," remarked Jack calmly. "I was afraid you'd forgotten us, Jerry." "Hu! Think you're smart, don't you?" sneered the former bully of Washington Hall. "None of this chinning!" exclaimed one of the men sullenly. "How did you chaps get here, this time?" "Slid," replied Jack laconically. "Don't get fresh. It might not be healthy." "That's a fact," went on Jack. "We slid down the side of the mountain on a sled, and landed on your little lake back of the trees." "You never did it!" exclaimed the man incredulously. "Well," said Jack slowly, "if you don't believe it you can go back there and look at the lake." "Yes," added Nat, "and if that doesn't convince you, you can go look at the mountain, and see the sled." The man turned, and spoke a few words in a low voice to one of his companions. The latter set off toward the fringe of trees. "Now, what did you chaps come here for?" went on the spokesman. "To see your big bird fly," replied Jack. The man started. "We haven't any big bird," he said. "Looks mighty like one, in that shed," went on Jack. The man scowled. Then he resumed. "Weren't you warned to keep away from here before? Weren't you told that your horses would be shot if you came?" "Yes," answered Jack, smiling a bit, "but you see we haven't any horses with us now." "Hu! That's a mighty poor joke," sneered the man. "I don't think much of it myself, but it was the best I could make under the circumstances." Jack was as cool as a cucumber, while the man was visibly losing his temper. "Lock 'em up!" burst out Jerry Chowden. "That Ranger fellow and Nat Anderson are always making trouble." "Say, when I want your advice I'll ask for it," said the man curtly. Just then the individual he had sent off to report about the sled came back. "It's there," he said. "Hum!" murmured the other. Then, turning to the group of men about him he said: "Better take 'em, and put 'em in one of the vacant cabins for the time being. Then I'll decide what to do with them." "You haven't any right to touch us, or detain us!" exclaimed Jack. "We haven't, eh? Well we're going to take the right, just the same. You put your head in the lion's mouth, and now you are going to be lucky if he doesn't bite it off. Lock 'em up, men." Several of the roughly-dressed men advanced toward the group of boys. Jack's chums looked to him for advice. He had gotten them into the difficulty, and it was up to him to get them out. "See here!" exclaimed our hero boldly. "Don't you lay hands on us. We are camping on this mountain, and I happen to know that it's government land, and that any one has a right to travel all around it. We have just as much right here as you have, and if you annoy us I'll appeal to the law." "There ain't no law out here, sonny," said one man. "You are suspicious characters, anyhow. Better not make a fuss now. We're too many for you. Next time mind your own affairs and you'll not get into trouble." The men had seized Nat, Bony, Sam and were advancing toward Will and Jack, who stood a little to one side of their chums. One man laid hold of Jack, and our hero tried to wrench himself free. But the man was too strong for him. Suddenly Will looked across the camp. He saw the man again coming from the big shed. For a moment it seemed as if the lad had seen a ghost, his eyes stared so. Then, with a cry he sprang forward, and ran toward the person near the big shed. "Catch him!" shouted the man who had directed that the boys be made prisoners. "He's locoed--crazy!" "Andy will look after him! He's running right into his arms," said some one, and sure enough, the man did catch Will in his arms. The next moment the two disappeared inside the big shed. Jack and his chums looked at one another. "He must have gone suddenly out of his head," said Jack. "That blow he got when he landed in the snow bank has crazed him." CHAPTER XXXIII HELD CAPTIVES "Now then, you chaps; are you going to come along quietly, or will we have to use force?" demanded the man who had hold of Jack. "It depends on what you're going to do with us," replied the captain of the gun club. "Well, I don't know what we are going to do with you," answered the man. "It will depend on what Andy says." "Who's Andy?" "That man who just captured your friend--the lad that tried to get away." "Look here!" burst out Nat. "If you hurt Will, or any of us, we'll have you arrested. Hoptoads and hornets! but you haven't any right to treat us this way." "Say, sonny, don't use such big words, or you might break an arm or leg," spoke the man sarcastically. "I've told you once that you hadn't any right to come here, but now that you're here, you'll have to put up with the consequences. You'll have to stay here, until Andy decides what to do with you." "Well, you'd better go ask him to decide at once," suggested Sam. "We've got a long way to go back to camp, and we want to start." "Now just take your time," advised the man. "You're not running this." He took off his cap, and scratched his head in perplexity. He had a shock of thick, red hair, and for want of a better name, since he had not announced it, the lads dubbed him Sandy. "Was that Andy, as you call him, who went in the big shed with Will?" asked Jack. "That's him. He'll have to decide what to do with you, for I'm blessed if I know. He's the boss." "Then go ask him," demanded Jack, backing up Sam's suggestion. "I can't," was the reply. "Why not?" "Because Andy has given orders that no one but himself is allowed inside that shed, except on certain occasions." "Is he afraid the big bird will get away?" asked Nat. "What big bird?" inquired Sandy quickly. He took a tighter grip of Jack's arm, and the other men in the group, each of whom held one of the young captives, seemed waiting for Nat's reply. "Oh, we know you've got some kind of a monster bird in that shed," went on Nat. "We heard it flying over our camp, and we came out here to see it." "Is that all you came for?" asked Sandy. "That's all," put in Jack. "We wanted to solve the mystery of the strange noises, and the queer marks in the snow." "What queer marks in the snow?" Jack told Sandy what he and his chums had seen, relating in detail how they had tried, on several occasions, to penetrate to the camp, and how, at length, they had made the trip on the sled. "Now why don't you go tell Andy, who seems to be the head of this crowd, what I say, and ask him to let us go?" went on Jack. "We meant no harm, but we'd like to see the bird." "So you think it's a bird; eh?" "Yes, or perhaps some prehistoric monster." Sandy laughed. "You're right in thinking Andy is the head of this camp," he said. "We're all working for him, but, as I said, he won't let one of us go inside that shed without his orders. Since your friend went in there he'll have to stay until Andy brings him out. Then you can make your own plea. Until then I'm going----" "If you're going to hold us prisoners, you'd better think twice about it," went on Jack. "My father has friends out West here, and I shall telegraph him of this outrage as soon as I get away." "Now go easy," advised the red-haired man. "I'm not going to harm any of you, but I'm not going to let you get away until Andy has seen you. You'll have to stay here, but we'll make you as comfortable as possible. I guess you can stay in one of the cabins. There are some of them empty, as a number of the men have left." "Then we're captives?" asked Jack. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call it that," spoke Sandy with a grin. "Just consider yourselves our guests. We'll treat you well, and give you plenty of grub, such as it is." "We have some of our own," Bony said. "You haven't any right to detain us," declared Sam. "We won't discuss that again," said Sandy. "Now be reasonable. S'pose I did let you go. You couldn't get back to your camp to-night, over the mountain, and without horses. You'd have to camp in the open. Isn't it better to stay in one of our cabins, where it's nice and warm? Besides, it looks like a storm." Jack could not but admit that this reasoning was good. They had not counted on getting back, after their trip on the sled, but it was obvious that they could not coast back to camp, and if they had started to return, they would have had to pass the night in an open camp, no very pleasant prospect. "Well," said Jack at length, "I guess we'll have to stay. But I don't like the idea of being considered prisoners." "Well, don't think of it then," advised Sandy with another grin. "Now, you're free. I let you go. Where will you head for?" He released Jack's arm, and motioned for his companions to do likewise for the other lads. Jack looked about him. Clearly there was no place to escape to. Besides, it would never do to go off and leave Will in the hands of the enemy. There was nothing to do but to stay. "Now, then," went on Sandy, "you can go to that cabin over there," and he pointed to a large one. "You'll find some bunks there, a good fireplace, and some grub. Or you can use your own provisions, just as you like. All I ask is that you give me your word of honor that you'll not leave without telling me first. It may be that Andy won't want you detained at all, but I'm taking no chances. Will you promise?" "Will any harm come to Will?" asked Jack. "You mean the lad who ran into the shed? I can't say. I know Andy will be very much put out at his going there, but I don't believe he'll harm him. Now, will you give me your parole, or will I have to lock you up?" Jack hesitated a moment. "I haven't any right to speak for my chums," he said. "Then take a few minutes to talk with them. We'll leave you alone for five minutes, and you can give me your answer then." Sandy and his men withdrew a short distance, leaving the boys in a group by themselves. "Well?" questioned Jack. "What shall we do?" "I don't see what we can do but give him our promise," replied Sam. "It will be better to be by ourselves, and comparatively free, than to be locked up somewhere. Besides, we haven't discovered the secret yet." "That's so," agreed Nat. "I want to see what's in that shed." "And we may be better able to help Will, by being somewhat free," added Bony. "I'm for giving our parole." "All right," agreed Jack. "I think, myself, that will be the best plan. I wonder what in the world can be in that shed?" "And I wonder what's happening to Will in there?" added Nat. "We must find out, if possible." "We'll give our parole," called Jack to Sandy, and the red-haired man approached the group of boys alone, having motioned to his companions, on hearing this, that they could resume their occupations. "That's good," answered the red-haired man, apparently much relieved. "Now you can go over there and make yourselves at home. You say you have some grub of your own. Fetch it, and get busy. Nobody will disturb you." "And you'll speak to Andy about us, as soon as you can; won't you?" asked Nat. "Sure thing. You're only in the way here, if you'll excuse my saying so, and the sooner you're off, the sooner we can go on with our work." The boys went to where they had left the sled, got the packages of food, and, with their guns, which had first been taken from them, and then restored, as they gave their parole, they went to the cabin Sandy indicated. The red-haired man seemed to pay no further attention to them, but entered another cabin, near the big shed, while none of the other men were now in sight. Jerry Chowden had also disappeared. "They've left us to ourselves," remarked Jack. "Yes," added Sam. "I wonder what their 'work' can be?" "It's got something to do with that gigantic bird, I'm sure," said Nat. "Queer, though, it doesn't make some sound." "Maybe it's dead," suggested Bony, absently cracking his finger knuckles. "No, for we saw the wings moving when the doors were open," said Jack. "They were evidently just going to let it out, when they saw us." "But what puzzles me," went on Nat, "is why Will ran off in that queer fashion." "And why they're keeping him in that shed," added Bony. "Why don't they let him come here with us? We're all in the same boat, as far as coming here is concerned." "Maybe they're going to make an example of him," suggested Nat. "An example? What do you mean?" asked Jack. "Well, you know they've got a terrible big bird, or some monster in there. Maybe they're going to feed Will to it--offer him up as a sort of human sacrifice, you know. Maybe these men worship that strange bird." "Say, you've been reading too many dime novels," cried Jack. "Offer Will for a sacrifice! You're crazy to think of such a thing, Nat!" "I don't care. Didn't the old Aztecs make human sacrifices?" "Yes, but these men aren't Aztecs." "How do you know?" "How do I know? Of course they aren't! They're Americans, all right." "But they've got some queer secret in that shed," declared Nat obstinately. "True enough," admitted Jack, "and we're going to discover what it is, if possible. But now let's get something to eat. I'm hungry." They found a good fireplace in the log cabin, and plenty of dry wood, and soon had a roaring blaze going. They prepared a simple meal, finding a sufficient supply of dishes in the place, and after eating heartily of the food they had brought along, they felt better. It was getting late in the afternoon, and they prepared to spend the night in the hut. "I wonder if Budge and Long Gun will worry about our not coming back?" asked Sam. "No," replied Jack, "for I told Budge I didn't see how we could return, in case we were successful in getting to the mysterious camp." "Well, we got here all right," remarked Nat, with an uneasy laugh. "The question is, how to get away." "And rescue Will," added Bony. "Yes," continued Jack, "I don't like the way he acted. I'm afraid his brain was affected by the blow on the head, following the fright at coming down on the sled. He isn't very strong, and it wouldn't take much to upset him. Besides, he's been worrying about finding his uncle, and about the mean way his guardian has treated him. I certainly hope nothing has happened to him in that shed, but I can't understand why that man Andy should keep him there." The boys passed rather an uneasy night, not only because of their strange surroundings, but on account of worrying over the fate of Will. Nor were they altogether easy regarding themselves. "Well, we're still alive, at any rate," observed Jack, as he arose the next morning, and helped to get a simple breakfast. "Did any of you fellows hear anything in the night?" "It seems to me that I heard people sneaking around the cabin," said Bony. "Same here," added Sam. "Guess they didn't altogether trust us," came from Nat. "They looked in on us every once in a while. I wonder how Will slept?" "Guess we'll have to wait to have that answered," remarked Jack. "If I see Sandy I'll ask him----" He stopped suddenly, and looked from a window. "Here comes Will now," he added. "And that man Andy is with him!" exclaimed Sam. "Maybe now we'll solve the mystery." CHAPTER XXXIV THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED Jack opened the cabin door, and stood in it, prepared to greet Will. The other captives gathered back of their chum. "How are you, Will?" asked Jack, as soon as his friend came within speaking distance. "We were quite worried about you." "I'm all right," answered the strange lad. "Why did you run away?" inquired Sam, while Nat looked closely at Andy. The man had a good-natured, smiling face, and Nat's spirits began to rise. He did not think they had much to fear from such a man. "It's a strange story," said Will, as he entered the cabin, followed by the man. The boys crowded around the two, and waited anxiously for Will's next words. "First," began the lad, who had acted so strangely, "let me introduce to you my uncle, Mr. Andrew Swaim." "Your uncle!" exclaimed Jack. "Your uncle!" echoed Sam, Bony and Nat. "That's right. My uncle, whom I ran away from home to seek," went on Will. "I never expected to find him here." "Nor I to see my nephew," explained Mr. Swaim. "I was never more surprised in my life than when he ran to me in the shed. After he had called me by name, he fainted dead away. He has been unconscious all night, and only a few minutes ago did he come to his senses. I remained at his bedside all the while. As soon as he roused, and felt better, he told me about coming here with you boys, and insisted that I come out to look for you. That was the first I knew you were still in my camp. I hope you haven't suffered any inconvenience. I saw you as I was about to open the shed doors, but I supposed my men warned you away. I hope you are not angry." "Not much," replied Jack with a smile. "And so Will fainted as soon as he greeted you?" "Yes. He explained later that he got a blow on the head, and that, together with the thrilling ride down the mountain, on top of the worry he had sustained in searching for me, and other hardships he had undergone, made him go temporarily out of his mind. But he is all right now, he says." "Yes, that's what I am," said Will. "All my troubles are over, now that I've found my uncle. What did you think, when I ran away?" "We didn't know what to think," replied Jack. "Especially when you didn't come back." "This is how it was," explained Will. "I saw my uncle as soon as he began opening the big doors the second time. Before I knew what I was doing I had run toward him, and when I was near enough I called his name, and told him who I was. He recognized me at once, and----" "Yes, and I saw that he was about to keel over," interrupted Mr. Swaim. "I caught him in my arms, carried him inside the shed, and I had my hands full all night with him. I had given orders to my men never to enter that shed except on certain occasions. They did not disobey my instructions to tell me you boys were still here, and, of course, Will could tell me nothing until this morning. Then he insisted that we come out and find you. I called in Stephen----" "Is that the red-haired man?" asked Jack. "He is. I called him in, and he explained about you being in this cabin. And now here we are--Will and I, and I can't thank you enough, Jack Ranger, for what you did for him. He has told me a little about it, and how kind you were to him in school. I shall have a score to settle with that rascally guardian of his. I never suspected Gabel could be so mean. But his charge of my nephew is ended. I will make other provisions for Will. Are you boys all right now? Did you have some breakfast?" "Oh, yes," replied Jack. "If we had known that Will's uncle was in charge of this camp, we wouldn't have----" "Now don't make any apologies," interrupted Mr. Swaim. "It's all right. I want you to make yourselves right to home here. My regulations were only intended for men who might try to spy on my work. For I am perfecting a means----" "Fellows, you'll never guess what the mystery is," burst out Will. "Excuse me, Uncle Andy," he went on, "but let me tell them. You see we've puzzled over it so long, and none of us could guess. Jack, Nat, Sam, Bony--what do you think it is that my uncle has in the big shed--the thing that flew over our camp and scared Long Gun so? See if you can guess." "A great bird--like the roc of the Arabian Nights," said Nat. "No." "Some sort of eagle, larger than any ever seen in these parts," ventured Sam. "No, that's as far off as Nat was." "A kite, carrying an engine, working a camera, for taking moving pictures at night," was Bony's guess. "No," said Will. "It's your turn, Jack." Jack thought for a minute. He glanced at the big shed, and then started, as a sudden idea came to him. "A balloon?" he asked. "No, but you're nearest to it. Shall I tell them, Uncle Andy?" Mr. Swaim nodded. "It's a great aeroplane!" exclaimed Will. "An aeroplane!" exclaimed all the other lads in a breath. "A new form of aeroplane, with propellers built like the great wings of a bird," explained Mr. Swaim. "It's an invention of mine, but is not perfected yet, though it flies fairly well. There are certain parts, on which I have not yet got my patents, and that is why I do not admit any of the men to the shed when the '_Eagle_' as I call her, is there. But Will got in before I could stop him, though I guess he'll not try to get ahead of his uncle." "No, indeed, Uncle Andy!" "And did you fly it over our camp?" asked Jack. "I did, and that was the sound you heard. It makes quite a whirring noise, when the wings are working fast, and the engine has a peculiar throbbing sound. I don't wonder you and the Indian guide were frightened." "Oh, Long Gun was more scared than we were," explained Nat. "Probably. You see I only flew it at night, because I did not want any one to see it." "And it really works?" asked Bony. "Yes, but not as well as I would like it to. I have only been able to take up myself and one other man, so far. I want it to carry at least five passengers, but I shall have to alter my engine, or change the shape of the wings, or else increase their size, before it will lift that much. But Stephen and I often flew over the mountain. We used to judge of our position by your camp-fire. At least I suppose, from what Will tells me, that it was your fire." "Yes," said Jack. "We heard you calling to one another one night, and that kept us guessing more than ever." "What about those queer marks in the snow?" asked Bony. Mr. Swaim looked puzzled until Jack explained. "Oh," said the inventor, "that was when we had an accident. The _Eagle_ came down unexpectedly, and turned turtle. Neither I nor Stephen was hurt, but we had quite a time righting the machine. The marks you saw must have been the impressions of the wings in the snow." "We thought it was a great bird," explained Nat. "And I wasn't so far out, calling it an eagle," spoke Bony, cracking a couple of finger knuckles, and ending up with both thumbs. "I have been out here in this secluded place for several months," went on Mr. Swaim. "That is why I left no address for my nephew's guardian, as I did not want to be disturbed. I never supposed my nephew would try to find me, and he probably would not have done so, except by accident. But I will soon go back East, for my invention is almost perfected, and I want to give some exhibitions, and try for some government prizes. Would you boys like to see it tried?" "You bet!" exclaimed Jack fervently, and the others nodded assent. "We were going to give it a trial when you boys arrived here," went on Mr. Swaim. "Now that Will is all right, I think I will take the _Eagle_ out for a flight. I was considerably worried," he continued, "when my men brought me reports of strangers trying to enter the camp, and I gave strict orders to keep them out. That is why my men were rather brusk with you." "That's all right," answered Jack. "We had no right to come around, but we were very curious." "I don't blame you. Well, I'll go and get the machine ready for a trial spin." "Excuse me for mentioning it," said Jack, as Mr. Swaim prepared to leave the cabin, "but you have a chap here named Jerry Chowden? My friends and I used to know him." "Is that so?" asked Mr. Swaim in some surprise. "I know little about him. He came to me one day, and asked for work, saying he needed money. As I was short of help I took him on, but I am sorry I did so, for my foreman tells me he is not worth his salt, and is lazy in the bargain. He never said anything to me about meeting you. I shall get rid of him, I think. Is he a friend of yours?" "Well, I guess not!" exclaimed Jack heartily. "I'm glad of it, for I don't like his manners. Now I'll go and see about taking the ship out. Will may remain with you." The boys had plenty to talk about now. Their exchange of experiences of the incidents of the last few hours was interrupted by the appearance of the great aeroplane, as the men wheeled it out of the shed. "Wow! Petrified pancakes!" exclaimed Nat. "That's a dandy, though!" Indeed the _Eagle_, in spite of the fact that Mr. Swaim had said it was not completed, was a fine example of an aeroplane. The boys crowded up close to it, examining the different parts, while Will's uncle and some of his men got it ready for a flight. As they started the motor, which worked the great wings, Nat said: "That accounts for the gasolene smell. I guess the mystery is all explained now." "It seems so," spoke Jack. The aeroplane was taken to the ice-covered pond, over which the sled had slid on the finish of its perilous trip. "Is that what this is for?" asked Jack. "Yes," replied Mr. Swaim. "We cleared the snow off it on purpose to use for our trials. An aeroplane, you know, as at present constructed, has to get a start on the ground, in order to acquire enough momentum to rise. I find it much easier to skim along on the slippery ice, than over the ground. Well, are we all ready, Stephen?" The red-haired man, who was the chief mechanic, nodded an assent. He and Mr. Swaim got into a seat, adjusted some levers and wheels, and then another man cranked up the motor. The great propellers, built like the wings of a bird, began to work, with a sound that was exactly like that heard over the camp. The aeroplane slid forward, and after going for some distance over the frozen pond, rose into the air, as Mr. Swaim shifted the elevation rudders. Up, up, up it went, until it was higher than the mountain down which the boys had slid. Then it began to circle about. "My! But that's fine!" exclaimed Jack. "Jupiter's Johnnie cake! But it certainly is!" exclaimed Nat fervently. For half an hour or more Mr. Swaim circled about in the air overhead; then he and Stephen came down, landing on the pond with scarcely a jolt. "What do you think of it?" asked the inventor proudly. "It's great!" exclaimed Jack enthusiastically, and his chums echoed this sentiment. "Would you like to try a ride in it?" asked Will's uncle. "Well--er--not just now," stammered Jack, and Mr. Swaim laughed. "No, I wouldn't want you to risk it, until I have perfected it a little more, though Stephen and I have gone twenty miles in it." One of the workmen ran up, and whispered something to Mr. Swaim. "Is that so?" he asked, in some surprise. "Well, that simplifies matters. I have just been told," he went on, turning to the boys, "that Jerry Chowden has disappeared. I guess he did not want to meet you lads." "I guess not," said Jack significantly. The boys spent some time further, examining the aeroplane, and visiting the machine shop, whence came the throbbing of a gasolene engine--the same sound they had heard when on their second visit to the camp. Jack asked Will's uncle if on any occasion he and Stephen had not landed near the camp, for Jack had in mind the occasion when the meat was stolen from the tree by the bear. "Oh, was that your meat?" asked Mr. Swaim with a laugh, when Jack had explained. "We always wondered whom we had robbed. Stephen and I were out for a flight that night, and we had to descend because of an accident to the motor. We came down near the tree where the meat was, and surprised a bear at work getting it. Bruin scrambled down and ran away, and we concluded to take some of the meat, as we were short. Then we started the machine off again, and came here. I hope we didn't put you to any inconvenience." "Oh, no," replied Jack. "It only puzzled us some, that was all. But have you an arrow in hobnails, on the soles of your boots?" Mr. Swaim lifted his foot and showed the arrow. "That explains everything," remarked Nat. "Yes, the mystery is ended," added Jack. CHAPTER XXXV JACK MEETS MABEL--CONCLUSION. "Well," remarked Mr. Swaim, when the aeroplane had been put back in the shed, "I'd like to have you boys come to dinner with me. We don't have anything very elaborate in camp----" "We don't care for elaborate things," interrupted Jack. "We're camping on our own hook, and I was just thinking we had better begin to think of going back, or Budge and Long Gun may get worried, and start out after us." "I'd take you back in the aeroplane, only I can't carry you all," said Mr. Swaim. "However, let's have dinner, and then you can decide what to do." The meal was much enjoyed, and at its conclusion, Will remarked: "Have you decided what to do with me, Uncle Andy?" "Well--no--not exactly," replied Mr. Swaim. "Do you want to stay with me, or go back with your friends for a while? One thing is certain, you'll not go back to that rascal of a Lewis Gabel. I'll take you from his charge." "I'd like to go with Jack and his chums," said Will, "only they'll be going back East soon, I expect, and they haven't got an extra horse for me to ride." "We can easily manage that," said Jack. "I've got to send word to Tanker Ike to come and get our camp stuff, and he can just as well bring along an extra horse with him. So don't let that worry you." "I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of trouble," said Will. "Not a bit of it. Come, and welcome." "If you can manage it, I think it will be the best plan," said Mr. Swaim. "My camp isn't much of a place for a boy, but I will soon be coming East, Will, and then I'll look after you. In the meanwhile take this to use for the spending money that Mr. Gabel wrongfully kept from you," and he handed his nephew a substantial sum. The boys took a last look at the aeroplane, and bidding Mr. Swaim good-by, set off on a long tramp over the mountain for their camp. Fortunately the weather was fine, and they were not hampered by any storm, so they reached their tent late that afternoon. "Jugitback?" asked Budge, as calmly as if they had been gone only an hour or so, and he pulled out a long string of gum, and began to work it back into his mouth again. "Yes, we're here," said Jack. "Did you and Long Gun get along all right?" "Sure'syou'reafoothigh." "Well, we'll soon begin packing for home----" "Home? You mean Pryor's Gap, I guess," exclaimed Nat. "You're not going without seeing Mabel; are you?" "That's none of your affair," retorted Jack, his face reddening under his tan. "We ought to have one more hunt before we go," said Sam. "That's what," put in Bony, and Jack agreed. They spent two days more tramping over the mountains after game. Will killed a fair-sized bear, Nat got a large deer, and Jack bowled over a great ram, that had a fine pair of horns, which our hero declared he was perfectly satisfied with, as they would appropriately fill a certain space on the wall of his room. "And now," he said, as they were gathered around the camp fire that night, "I think the outing of our gun club is almost at an end." "Got to go to Pryor's Gap yet!" murmured Nat from the shadows, and the rest of them laughed. The next day Long Gun started on his horse to take word to Tanker Ike that the boys were ready to come back. He was gone two days, which the lads put in by packing up, and taking little trips, not far from their camp. The third day the Indian returned with the freight wagon, driven by Ike, who also brought along an extra horse for Will. "Well!" he exclaimed, "you certainly had great luck," and he looked at the collection of skins and horns. "But it's about time to go back. There's a big storm coming, and it'll be here soon." "We must take plenty of water this time, so if a tank springs a leak on the desert we won't get thirsty," said Sam. "We're not going to cross the desert," spoke Jack. "Why not?" "Because we're going back by way of Pryor's Gap," explained Jack boldly, and he did not heed the shouts of laughter that greeted his announcement. "We promised to call on Mr. Pierce, you know," he added. "Oh, yes, Mr. Pierce, with the accent on the _Mister_," shouted Nat, and then he dodged behind the wagon to get out of Jack's reach. Two days later they were at Pryor's Gap, and Mr. Pierce was glad to see them. He insisted that they stay several days at his house, to which Jack agreed. But his host did not see much of our hero, for, somehow, there were many sights of interest about the Gap, and no one seemed able to point them out to Jack, save a certain brown-eyed maiden--but there, what's the use of rubbing it in? "Well, I hope you lads will come camping out here again, soon," said Mr. Pierce, as the members of the gun club prepared to take their leave. "I hope we can," said Jack. "We have enjoyed the hospitality of you and your daughter very much." "Especially the daughter," put in Nat, in a voice intended only for Jack's ear. "You old duffer, you monopolized her." "Humph!" exclaimed Jack. "Who had a better right?" "Good-by, boys!" called Mr. Pierce. "Good-by," chorused the members of Jack Ranger's gun club. "Good-by," spoke Mabel, with a blush, but she only looked at Jack. "Come again." "We will," said our hero decidedly, as he held her hand at parting a little longer than perhaps was strictly necessary. But, as we asked before, what's the use of rubbing it in? "We certainly had a great time," observed Will, as they started off from Pryor's Gap. "The best ever," agreed the others. "I wonder what we'll do next year," spoke Sam. But what they did will be told in the next volume of this series, to be entitled "Jack Ranger's Treasure Box; or, The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen." In that story we shall meet all our old friends again and learn the particulars of a most unusual mystery, and how it was solved. A few days later the boys were in a train that was swiftly taking them back East, and to Washington Hall, which institution, as Jack learned in a letter from his father, that was waiting for him at Denver, had been repaired, and was ready for the students. "Oh, dear, to think of going back to studies again," sighed Nat, as he thought of the fun they had had. "Never mind, we'll have some sport yet," consoled Jack. "Professors Socrat and Garlach are still available." "Yes, and think of the experience we have had," said Will. "Oh, well, we always have some sort of queer experience when we go out with Jack Ranger," added Nat. "All out for Pryor's Gap," he shouted, as the train pulled into a station. Then he ducked down behind a seat to escape a wad of paper that Jack threw at him. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and particularly to pitch. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ Joe goes to Yale University. In his second year he becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ In this volume the scene of action is shifted from Yale college to a baseball league of our Central States. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ From the Central League Joe is drafted into the St. Louis Nationals. A corking baseball story all fans will enjoy. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ How Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay in the box makes an interesting baseball story. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ The rivalry was of course of the keenest, and what Joe did to win the series is told in a manner to thrill the most jaded reader. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world, playing in many foreign countries. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ Joe cultivates his handling of the bat until he becomes the greatest batter in the game. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ The Motor Boys _or Chums Through Thick and Thin_ The Motor Boys Overland _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ The Motor Boys in Mexico _or The Secret of The Buried City_ The Motor Boys Across the Plains _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ The Motor Boys Afloat _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ The Motor Boys on the Atlantic _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ The Motor Boys in Strange Waters _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ The Motor Boys on the Pacific _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ The Motor Boys in the Clouds _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ The Motor Boys Over the Rockies _or A Mystery of the Air_ The Motor Boys Over the Ocean _or a Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ The Motor Boys on the Wing _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ The Motor Boys After a Fortune _or The Hut on Snake Island_ The Motor Boys on the Border _or Sixty Nuggets of Gold_ The Motor Boys Under the Sea _or From Airship to Submarine_ The Motor Boys on Road and River _or Racing to Save a Life_ THE MOTOR BOYS SECOND SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG Ned, Bob and Jerry at Boxwood Hall _or The Motor Boys as Freshmen_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on a Ranch _or The Motor Boys Among the Cowboys_ Ned, Bob and Jerry in the Army _or The Motor Boys as Volunteers_ Ned, Bob and Jerry on the Firing Line _or The Motor Boys Fighting for Uncle Sam_ Ned, Bob and Jerry Bound for Home _or The Motor Boys on the Wrecked Troopship_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA _Or, The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE KHAKI BOYS SERIES By CAPT. GORDON BATES _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full color._ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _True-to-life stories of the camp and field in the great war._ 1. THE KHAKI BOYS AT CAMP STERLING _or Training for the Big Fight in France_ Two zealous young patriots volunteer and begin their military training. Together they get into a baffling camp mystery. 2. THE KHAKI BOYS ON THE WAY _or Doing Their Bit on Sea and Land._ Our soldier boys having completed their training at Camp Sterling are transferred to a Southern cantonment from which they are finally sent aboard a troopship for France. 3. THE KHAKI BOYS AT THE FRONT _or Shoulder to Shoulder in the Trenches_ The Khaki Boys reach France, and, after some intensive training in sound of the battle front, are sent into the trenches. 4. THE KHAKI BOYS OVER THE TOP _or Doing and Daring for Uncle Sam_ A spirited tale, telling how the brave soldier boys went over the top in the face of a fierce fire from the enemy. 5. THE KHAKI BOYS FIGHTING TO WIN _or Smashing the German Lines_ Another great war story, showing how the Khaki Boys did their duty as fighters for Uncle Sam under tremendous difficulties. 6. THE KHAKI BOYS ALONG THE RHINE _or Winning the Honors of War_ Telling of the march to the Rhine, crossing into Germany and of various troubles the doughboys had with the Boches. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES By ALLEN CHAPMAN Author of "The Tom Fairfield Series," "The Boys of Pluck Series" and "The Darewell Chums Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. A line of tales embracing school athletics. Fred is a true type of the American schoolboy of to-day. FRED FENTON THE PITCHER _or The Rivals of Riverport School_ When Fred came to Riverport none of the school lads knew him, but he speedily proved his worth in the baseball box. A true picture of school baseball. FRED FENTON IN THE LINE _or The Football Boys of Riverport School_ When Fall came in the thoughts of the boys turned to football. Fred went in the line, and again proved his worth, making a run that helped to win a great game. FRED FENTON ON THE CREW _or The Young Oarsmen of Riverport School_ In this volume the scene is shifted to the river, and Fred and his chums show how they can handle the oars. There are many other adventures, all dear to the hearts of boys. FRED FENTON ON THE TRACK _or The Athletes of Riverport School_ Track athletics form a subject of vast interest to many boys, and here is a tale telling of great running races, high jumping, and the like. Fred again proves himself a hero in the best sense of that term. FRED FENTON: MARATHON RUNNER _or The Great Race at Riverport School_ Fred is taking a post-graduate course at the school when the subject of Marathon running came up. A race is arranged, and Fred shows both his friends and his enemies what he can do. An athletic story of special merit. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES By ALLEN CHAPMAN Author of the "Fred Fenton Athletic Series," "The Boys of Pluck Series," and "The Darewell Chums Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Tom Fairfield is a typical American lad, full of life and energy, a boy who believes in doing things. To know Tom is to love him. TOM FAIRFIELD'S SCHOOLDAYS _or The Chums of Elmwood Hall_ Tells of how Tom started for school, of the mystery surrounding one of the Hall seniors, and of how the hero went to the rescue. The first book in a line that is bound to become decidedly popular. TOM FAIRFIELD AT SEA _or The Wreck of the Silver Star_ Tom's parents had gone to Australia and then been cast away somewhere in the Pacific. Tom set out to find them and was himself cast away. A thrilling picture of the perils of the deep. TOM FAIRFIELD IN CAMP _or The Secret of the Old Mill_ The boys decided to go camping, and located near an old mill. A wild man resided there and he made it decidedly lively for Tom and his chums. The secret of the old mill adds to the interest of the volume. TOM FAIRFIELD'S PLUCK AND LUCK _or Working to Clear His Name_ While Tom was back at school some of his enemies tried to get him into trouble. Something unusual occurred and Tom was suspected of a crime. How he set to work to clear his name is told in a manner to interest all young readers. TOM FAIRFIELD'S HUNTING TRIP _or Lost in the Wilderness_ Tom was only a schoolboy, but he loved to use a shotgun or a rifle. In this volume we meet him on a hunting trip full of outdoor life and good times around the camp-fire. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES By CAPTAIN JAMES CARSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. Captain Carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. THE SADDLE BOYS OF THE ROCKIES _or Lost on Thunder Mountain_ Telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. THE SADDLE BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON _or The Hermit of the Cave_ A weird and wonderful story of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. THE SADDLE BOYS ON THE PLAINS _or After a Treasure of Gold_ In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. THE SADDLE BOYS AT CIRCLE RANCH _or In at the Grand Round-up_ Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. THE SADDLE BOYS ON MEXICAN TRAILS _or In the Hands of the Enemy_ The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, New York THE DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES By ROY ROCKWOOD Author of the "Speedwell Boys Series" and the "Great Marvel Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Never was there a more clever young aviator than Dave Dashaway. All up-to-date lads will surely wish to read about him. DAVE DASHAWAY THE YOUNG AVIATOR _or In the Clouds for Fame and Fortune_ This initial volume tells how the hero ran away from his miserly guardian, fell in with a successful airman, and became a young aviator of note. DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS HYDROPLANE _or Daring Adventures Over the Great Lakes_ Showing how Dave continued his career as a birdman and had many adventures over the Great Lakes, and how he foiled the plans of some Canadian smugglers. DAVE DASHAWAY AND HIS GIANT AIRSHIP _or A Marvellous Trip Across the Atlantic_ How the giant airship was constructed and how the daring young aviator and his friends made the hazardous journey through the clouds from the new world to the old, is told in a way to hold the reader spellbound. DAVE DASHAWAY AROUND THE WORLD _or A Young Yankee Aviator Among Many Nations_ An absorbing tale of a great air flight around the world, of adventures in Alaska, Siberia and elsewhere. A true to life picture of what may be accomplished in the near future. DAVE DASHAWAY: AIR CHAMPION _or Wizard Work in the Clouds_ Dave makes several daring trips, and then enters a contest for a big prize. An aviation tale thrilling in the extreme. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES By ROY ROCKWOOD Author of "The Dave Dashaway Series," "Great Marvel Series," etc. 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All boys who love to be on the go will welcome the Speedwell boys. They are clean cut and loyal lads. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES _or The Mystery of a Great Conflagration_ The lads were poor, but they did a rich man a great service and he presented them with their motor cycles. What a great fire led to is exceedingly well told. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO _or A Run for the Golden Cup_ A tale of automobiling and of intense rivalry on the road. There was an endurance run and the boys entered the contest. On the run they rounded up some men who were wanted by the law. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH _or To the Rescue of the Castaways_ Here is an unusual story. There was a wreck, and the lads, in their power launch, set out to the rescue. A vivid picture of a great storm adds to the interest of the tale. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE _or The Lost Treasure of Rocky Cove_ An old sailor knows of a treasure lost under water because of a cliff falling into the sea. The boys get a chance to go out in a submarine and they make a hunt for the treasure. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER _or The Perils of a Great Blizzard_ The boys had an idea for a new sort of iceboat, to be run by combined wind and motor power. How they built the craft, and what fine times they had on board of it, is well related. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES By WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _Stories of the great west, with cattle ranches as a setting, related in such a style as to captivate the hearts of all boys. In each volume there is, as a background, some definite historical or scientific fact about which the tales hinge._ 1. THE BOY RANCHERS _or Solving the Mystery at Diamond X_ Two eastern boys visit their cousin, whose father owns several cattle ranches in the far West. One of these is the Diamond X. From the moment of their arrival they are involved in a mystery with their western cousin. 2. THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP _or The Water Fight at Diamond X_ Returning for a summer visit to their western cousin's ranch, the two eastern lads learn, with delight, that they are to be allowed to become boy ranchers in earnest. The three lads decide to go into the venture together. 3. THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL _or The Diamond X After Cattle Rustlers_ This volume relates how our boy heroes took the trail after Del Pinzo and his outlaws and, with the help of the loyal cowpunchers from Diamond X, finally rounded up the cattle thieves. 4. THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS _or Trailing the Yaquis_ Rosemary and Floyd visiting their cousins Bud, Nort and Dick, are captured by the Yaqui Indians. The boy ranchers trail the savages into the mountains and eventually effect the rescue. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers, New York Changes from the original book: Table of contents, "A Snow Storm" changed to "A Snowstorm" to match the chapter heading. Page 3, "same a splash" changed to "came a splash". Page 4, "as ist was called" changed to "as it was called". Page 13, "order Sam Chalmers" changed to "ordered Sam Chalmers". Page 24, quote added before "and the first verse". Page 26, "advisd Jack" changed to "advised Jack". Page 38, "fist shot out" illustration moved from after page 36. Page 57, "suddeness with which" changed to "suddenness with which". Page 98, question mark added after "in Wyoming, without money". Page 153, "took quick aim" illustration moved from after page 156. Page 161, question mark added after "how are we to get down". Page 166, apostrophe added before "Stoomuchwork". Page 176, "At Jack and Nat" changed to "As Jack and Nat". Page 199, "bear" illustration moved from first page. Page 242, "Jack want's to" changed to "Jack wants to". Page 252, "sled" illustration moved from next page. Page 284, quote removed after "a substantial sum." 
35637	----	The Secret Glory By Arthur Machen New York Alfred A Knopf Mcmxxii COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. _Published August, 1922_ _Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y._ _Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y._ _Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y._ MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO VINCENT STARRETT Note _One of the schoolmasters in "The Secret Glory" has views on the subject of football similar to those entertained by a well-known schoolmaster whose Biography appeared many years ago. That is the only link between the villain of invention and the good man of real life._ PREFACE _Some years ago I met my old master, Sir Frank Benson--he was Mr. F. R. Benson then--and he asked me in his friendly way what I had been doing lately._ _"I am just finishing a book," I replied, "a book that everybody will hate."_ _"As usual," said the Don Quixote of our English stage--if I knew any nobler title to bestow upon him, I would, bestow it--"as usual; running your head against a stone wall!"_ _Well, I don't know about "as usual"; there may be something to be said for the personal criticism or there may not; but it has struck me that Sir Frank's remark is a very good description of "The Secret Glory," the book I had in mind as I talked to him. It is emphatically the history of an unfortunate fellow who ran his head against stone walls from the beginning to the end. He could think nothing and do nothing after the common fashion of the world; even when he "went wrong," he did so in a highly unusual and eccentric manner. It will be for the reader to determine whether he were a saint who had lost his way in the centuries or merely an undeveloped lunatic; I hold no passionate view on either side. In every age, there are people great and small for whom the times are out of joint, for whom everything is, somehow, wrong and askew. Consider Hamlet; an amiable man and an intelligent man. But what a mess he made of it! Fortunately, my hero--or idiot, which you will--was not called upon to intermeddle with affairs of State, and so only brought himself to grief: if it were grief; for the least chink of the door should be kept open, I am inclined to hold, for the other point of view. I have just been rereading Kipling's "The Miracle of Purun Bhagat," the tale of the Brahmin Prime Minister of the Native State in India, who saw all the world and the glory of it, in the West as well as in the East, and suddenly abjured all to become a hermit in the wood. Was he mad, or was he supremely wise? It is just a matter of opinion._ _The origin and genesis of "The Secret Glory" were odd enough. Once on a time, I read the life of a famous schoolmaster, one of the most notable schoolmasters of these later days. I believe he was an excellent man in every way; but, somehow, that "Life" got on my nerves. I thought that the School Songs--for which, amongst other things, this master was famous--were drivel; I thought his views about football, regarded, not as a good game, but as the discipline and guide of life, were rot, and poisonous rot at that. In a word, the "Life" of this excellent man got my back up._ _Very good. The year after, schoolmasters and football had ceased to engage my attention. I was deeply interested in a curious and minute investigation of the wonderful legend of the Holy Grail; or rather, in one aspect of that extraordinary complex. My researches led me to the connection of the Grail Legend with the vanished Celtic Church which held the field in Britain in the fifth and sixth and seventh centuries; I undertook an extraordinary and fascinating journey into a misty and uncertain region of Christian history. I must not say more here, lest--as Nurse says to the troublesome and persistent child--I "begin all over again"; but, indeed, it was a voyage on perilous seas, a journey to faery lands forlorn--and I would declare, by the way, my conviction that if there had been no Celtic Church, Keats could never have written those lines of tremendous evocation and incantation._ _Again; very good. The year after, it came upon me to write a book. And I hit upon an original plan; or so I thought. I took my dislike of the good schoolmaster's "Life," I took my knowledge of Celtic mysteries--and combined my information._ _Original, this plan! It was all thought of years before I was born. Do you remember the critic of the "Eatanswill Gazette"? He had to review for that admirable journal a work on Chinese Metaphysics. Mr. Pott tells the story of the article._ _"He read up for the subject, at my desire, in the Encyclopædia Britannica ... he read for metaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his information!"_ The Secret Glory I A heavy cloud passed swiftly away before the wind that came with the night, and far in a clear sky the evening star shone with pure brightness, a gleaming world set high above the dark earth and the black shadows in the lane. In the ending of October a great storm had blown from the west, and it was through the bare boughs of a twisted oak that Ambrose Meyrick saw the silver light of the star. As the last faint flash died in the sky he leaned against a gate and gazed upward; and then his eyes fell on the dull and weary undulations of the land, the vast circle of dun ploughland and grey meadow bounded by a dim horizon, dreary as a prison wall. He remembered with a start how late it must be; he should have been back an hour before, and he was still in the open country, a mile away at least from the outskirts of Lupton. He turned from the star and began to walk as quickly as he could along the lane through the puddles and the sticky clay, soaked with three weeks' heavy rain. He saw at last the faint lamps of the nearest streets where the shoemakers lived and he tramped hurriedly through this wretched quarter, past its penny shops, its raw public-house, its rawer chapel, with twelve foundation-stones on which are written the names of the twelve leading Congregationalists of Lupton, past the squalling children whose mothers were raiding and harrying them to bed. Then came the Free Library, an admirable instance, as the _Lupton Mercury_ declared, of the adaptation of Gothic to modern requirements. From a sort of tower of this building a great arm shot out and hung a round clock-face over the street, and Meyrick experienced another shock when he saw that it was even later than he had feared. He had to get to the other side of the town, and it was past seven already! He began to run, wondering what his fate would be at his uncle's hands, and he went by "our grand old parish church" (completely "restored" in the early 'forties), past the remains of the market-cross, converted most successfully, according to local opinion, into a drinking fountain for dogs and cattle, dodging his way among the late shoppers and the early loafers who lounged to and fro along the High Street. He shuddered as he rang the bell at the Old Grange. He tried to put a bold face on it when the servant opened the door, and he would have gone straight down the hall into the schoolroom, but the girl stopped him. "Master said you're to go to the study at once, Master Meyrick, as soon as ever you come in." She was looking strangely at him, and the boy grew sick with dread. He was a "funk" through and through, and was frightened out of his wits about twelve times a day every day of his life. His uncle had said a few years before: "Lupton will make a man of you," and Lupton was doing its best. The face of the miserable wretch whitened and grew wet; there was a choking sensation in his throat, and he felt very cold. Nelly Foran, the maid, still looked at him with strange, eager eyes, then whispered suddenly: "You must go directly, Master Meyrick, Master heard the bell, I know; but I'll make it up to you." Ambrose understood nothing except the approach of doom. He drew a long breath and knocked at the study door, and entered on his uncle's command. It was an extremely comfortable room. The red curtains were drawn close, shutting out the dreary night, and there was a great fire of coal that bubbled unctuously and shot out great jets of flame--in the schoolroom they used coke. The carpet was soft to the feet, and the chairs promised softness to the body, and the walls were well furnished with books. There were Thackeray, Dickens, Lord Lytton, uniform in red morocco, gilt extra; the Cambridge Bible for Students in many volumes, Stanley's _Life of Arnold_, Coplestone's _Prælectiones Academicæ_, commentaries, dictionaries, first editions of Tennyson, school and college prizes in calf, and, of course, a great brigade of Latin and Greek classics. Three of the wonderful and terrible pictures of Piranesi hung in the room; these Mr. Horbury admired more for the subject-matter than for the treatment, in which he found, as he said, a certain lack of the _aurea mediocritas_--almost, indeed, a touch of morbidity. The gas was turned low, for the High Usher was writing at his desk, and a shaded lamp cast a bright circle of light on a mass of papers. He turned round as Ambrose Meyrick came in. He had a high, bald forehead, and his fresh-coloured face was edged with reddish "mutton-chop" whiskers. There was a dangerous glint in his grey-green eyes, and his opening sentence was unpromising. "Now, Ambrose, you must understand quite definitely that this sort of thing is not going to be tolerated any longer." Perhaps it would not have fared quite so badly with the unhappy lad if only his uncle had not lunched with the Head. There was a concatenation accordingly, every link in which had helped to make Ambrose Meyrick's position hopeless. In the first place there was boiled mutton for luncheon, and this was a dish hateful to Mr. Horbury's palate. Secondly, the wine was sherry. Of this Mr. Horbury was very fond, but unfortunately the Head's sherry, though making a specious appeal to the taste, was in reality far from good and teemed with those fiery and irritating spirits which make the liver to burn and rage. Then Chesson had practically found fault with his chief assistant's work. He had not, of course, told him in so many words that he was unable to teach; he had merely remarked: "I don't know whether you've noticed it, Horbury, but it struck me the other day that there was a certain lack of grip about those fellows of yours in the fifth. Some of them struck me as _muddlers_, if you know what I mean: there was a sort of _vagueness_, for example, about their construing in that chorus. Have you remarked anything of the kind yourself?" And then, again, the Head had gone on: "And, by the way, Horbury, I don't quite know what to make of your nephew, Meyrick. He was your wife's nephew, wasn't he? Yes. Well, I hardly know whether I can explain what I feel about the boy; but I can't help saying that there is something wrong about him. His work strikes me as good enough--in fact, quite above the form average--but, to use the musical term, he seems to be in the wrong key. Of course, it may be my fancy; but the lad reminds me of those very objectionable persons who are said to have a joke up their sleeve. I doubt whether he is taking the Lupton stamp; and when he gets up in the school I shall be afraid of his influence on the other boys." Here, again, the master detected a note of blame; and by the time he reached the Old Grange he was in an evil humour. He hardly knew which he found the more offensive--Chesson's dish or his discourse. He was a dainty man in his feeding, and the thought of the great fat gigot pouring out a thin red stream from the gaping wound dealt to it by the Head mingled with his resentment of the indirect scolding which he considered that he had received, and on the fire just kindled every drop of that corrosive sherry was oil. He drank his tea in black silence, his rage growing fiercer for want of vent, and it is doubtful whether in his inmost heart he was altogether displeased when report was made at six o'clock that Meyrick had not come in. He saw a prospect--more than a prospect--of satisfactory relief. Some philosophers have affirmed that lunatic doctors (or mental specialists) grow in time to a certain resemblance to their patients, or, in more direct language, become half mad themselves. There seems a good deal to be said for the position; indeed, it is probably a more noxious madness to swear a man into perpetual imprisonment in the company of maniacs and imbeciles because he sings in his bath and will wear a purple dressing-gown at dinner than to fancy oneself Emperor of China. However this may be, it is very certain that in many cases the schoolmaster is nothing more or less than a bloated schoolboy: the beasts are, radically, the same, but morbid conditions have increased the venom of the former's sting. Indeed, it is not uncommon for well-wishers to the great Public School System to praise their favourite masters in terms which admit, nay, glory in, this identity. Read the memorial tributes to departed Heads in a well-known and most respectable Church paper. "To the last he was a big boy at heart," writes Canon Diver of his friend, that illiterate old sycophant who brought up the numbers of the school to such a pitch by means of his conciliator policy to Jews, Turks, heretics and infidels that there was nothing for it but to make him a bishop. "I always thought he seemed more at home in the playing fields than in the sixth-form room.... He had all the English boy's healthy horror of anything approaching pose or eccentricity.... He could be a severe disciplinarian when severity seemed necessary, but everybody in the school knew that a well-placed 'boundary,' a difficult catch or a goal well won or well averted would atone for all but the most serious offences." There are many other points of resemblance between the average master and the average boy: each, for example, is intensely cruel, and experiences a quite abnormal joy in the infliction of pain. The baser boy tortures those animals which are not _méchants_. Tales have been told (they are hushed up by all true friends of the "System") of wonderful and exquisite orgies in lonely hollows of the moors, in obscure and hidden thickets: tales of a boy or two, a lizard or a toad, and the slow simmering heat of a bonfire. But these are the exceptional pleasures of the _virtuosi_; for the average lad there is plenty of fun to be got out of his feebler fellows, of whom there are generally a few even in the healthiest community. After all, the weakest must go to the wall, and if the bones of the weakest are ground in the process, that is their fault. When some miserable little wretch, after a year or two of prolonged and exquisite torture of body and mind, seeks the last escape of suicide, one knows how the Old Boys will come forward, how gallantly they will declare that the days at the "dear old school" were the happiest in their lives; how "the Doctor" was their father and the Sixth their nursing-mother; how the delights of the Mahomedans' fabled Paradise are but grey and weary sport compared with the joys of the happy fag, whose heart, as the inspired bard of Harrow tells us, will thrill in future years at the thought of the Hill. They write from all quarters, these brave Old Boys: from the hard-won Deanery, result of many years of indefatigable attack on the fundamental doctrines of the Christian faith; from the comfortable villa, the reward of commercial activity and acuteness on the Stock Exchange; from the courts and from the camps; from all the high seats of the successful; and common to them all is the convincing argument of praise. And we all agree, and say there is nothing like our great Public Schools, and perhaps the only dissentient voices are those of the father and mother who bury the body of a little child about whose neck is the black sign of the rope. But let them be comforted: the boy was no good at games, though his torments were not bad sport while he lasted. Mr. Horbury was an old Luptonian; he was, in the words of Canon Diver, but "a big boy at heart," and so he gave orders that Meyrick was to be sent in the study directly he came in, and he looked at the clock on the desk before him with satisfaction and yet with impatience. A hungry man may long for his delayed dinner almost with a sense of fury, and yet at the back of his mind he cannot help being consoled by the thought of how wonderfully he will enjoy the soup when it appears at last. When seven struck, Mr. Horbury moistened his lips slightly. He got up and felt cautiously behind one of the bookshelves. The object was there, and he sat down again. He listened; there were footfalls on the drive. Ah! there was the expected ring. There was a brief interval, and then a knock. The fire was glowing with red flashes, and the wretched toad was secured. "Now, Ambrose, you must understand quite definitely that this sort of thing isn't going to be tolerated any longer. This is the third time during this term that you have been late for lockup. You know the rules: six o'clock at latest. It is now twenty minutes past seven. What excuse have you to make? What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been in the Fields?" "No, Sir." "Why not? You must have seen the Resolution of the Sixth on the notice-board of the High School? You know what it promised any boy who shirked rocker? 'A good sound thrashing with tuds before the First Thirty.' I am afraid you will have a very bad time of it on Monday, after Graham has sent up your name to the Room." There was a pause. Mr. Horbury looked quietly and lengthily at the boy, who stood white and sick before him. He was a rather sallow, ugly lad of fifteen. There was something of intelligence in his expression, and it was this glance that Chesson, the Headmaster, had resented. His heart beat against his breast, his breath came in gasps and the sweat of terror poured down his body. The master gazed at him, and at last spoke again. "But what have you been doing? Where have you been all this time?" "If you please, Sir, I walked over to Selden Abbey." "To Selden Abbey? Why, it's at least six miles away! What on earth did you want to go to Selden Abbey for? Are you fond of old stones?" "If you please, Sir, I wanted to see the Norman arches. There is a picture of them in _Parker's Glossary_." "Oh, I see! You are a budding antiquarian, are you, Ambrose, with an interest in Norman arches--eh? I suppose we are to look forward to the time when your researches will have made Lupton famous? Perhaps you would like to lecture to the school on St. Paul's Cathedral? Pray, what are your views as to the age of Stonehenge?" The wit was heavy enough, but the speaker's position gave a bitter sting to his lash. Mr. Horbury saw that every cut had told, and, without prejudice to more immediate and acuter pleasures, he resolved that such biting satire must have a larger audience. Indeed, it was a long time before Ambrose Meyrick heard the last of those wretched Norman arches. The method was absurdly easy. "Openings" presented themselves every day. For example, if the boy made a mistake in construing, the retort was obvious: "Thank you, Meyrick, for your most original ideas on the force of the aorist. Perhaps if you studied your Greek Grammar a little more and your favourite _Glossary of Architecture_ a little less, it would be the better. Write out 'Aorist means indefinite' five hundred times." Or, again, perhaps the Classic Orders were referred to. Mr. Horbury would begin to instruct the form as to the difference between Ionic and Doric. The form listened with poor imitation of interest. Suddenly the master would break off: "I beg your pardon. I was forgetting that we have a great architectural authority amongst us. Be so kind as to instruct us, Meyrick. What does Parker say? Or perhaps you have excogitated some theories of your own? I know you have an original mind, from the extraordinary quantities of your last copy of verse. By the way, I must ask you to write out 'The _e_ in _venio_ is short' five hundred times. I am sorry to interfere with your more important architectural studies, but I am afraid there is no help for it." And so on; while the form howled with amusement. But Mr. Horbury kept these gems for future and public use. For the moment he had more exciting work on hand. He burst out suddenly: "The fact is, Ambrose Meyrick, you're a miserable little humbug! You haven't the honesty to say, fair and square, that you funked rocker and went loafing about the country, looking for any mischief you could lay your hands on. Instead of that you make up this cock-and-bull story of Selden Abbey and Norman arches--as if any boy in his senses ever knew or cared twopence about such things! I hope you haven't been spending the afternoon in some low public-house? There, don't speak! I don't want to hear any more lies. But, whatever you have been doing, you have broken the rules, and you must be taught that the rules have to be kept. Stand still!" Mr. Horbury went to the bookshelf and drew out the object. He stood at a little distance behind Meyrick and opened proceedings with a savage cut at his right arm, well above the elbow. Then it was the turn of the left arm, and the master felt the cane bite so pleasantly into the flesh that he distributed some dozen cuts between the two arms. Then he turned his attention to the lad's thighs and finished up in the orthodox manner, Meyrick bending over a chair. The boy's whole body was one mass of burning, stinging torture; and, though he had not uttered a sound during the process, the tears were streaming down his cheeks. It was not the bodily anguish, though that was extreme enough, so much as a far-off recollection. He was quite a little boy, and his father, dead long since, was showing him the western doorway of a grey church on a high hill and carefully instructing him in the difference between "billetty" and "chevronny." "It's no good snivelling, you know, Ambrose. I daresay you think me severe, but, though you won't believe me now, the day will come when you will thank me from your heart for what I have just done. Let this day be a turning-point in your life. Now go to your work." II It was strange, but Meyrick never came in the after days and thanked his uncle for that sharp dose of physical and mental pain. Even when he was a man he dreamed of Mr. Horbury and woke up in a cold sweat, and then would fall asleep again with a great sigh of relief and gladness as he realised that he was no longer in the power of that "infernal old swine," "that filthy, canting, cruel brute," as he roughly called his old master. The fact was, as some old Luptonians remarked, the two had never understood one another. With the majority of the boys the High Usher passed for a popular master enough. He had been a distinguished athlete in his time, and up to his last days at the school was a football enthusiast. Indeed, he organised a variety of the Lupton game which met with immense popularity till the Head was reluctantly compelled to stop it; some said because he always liked to drop bitter into Horbury's cup when possible; others--and with more probability on their side--maintained that it was in consequence of a report received from the school doctor to the effect that this new species of football was rapidly setting up an old species of heart disease in the weaker players. However that might be, there could be no doubt as to Horbury's intense and deep-rooted devotion to the school. His father had been a Luptonian before him. He himself had gone from the school to the University, and within a year or two of taking his degree he had returned to Lupton to serve it as a master. It was the general opinion in Public School circles that the High Usher had counted for as much as Chesson, the Headmaster, if not for more, in the immense advance in prestige and popularity that the school had made; and everybody thought that when Chesson received the episcopal order Horbury's succession was a certainty. Unfortunately, however, there were wheels within wheels, and a total stranger was appointed, a man who knew nothing of the famous Lupton traditions, who (it was whispered) had been heard to say that "this athletic business" was getting a bit overdone. Mr. Horbury's friends were furious, and Horbury himself, it was supposed, was bitterly disappointed. He retreated to one of the few decent canonries which have survived the wave of agricultural depression; but those who knew him best doubted whether his ecclesiastical duties were an adequate consolation for the loss of that coveted Headmastership of Lupton. To quote the memoir which appeared in the _Guardian_ soon after his death, over some well-known initials: "His friends were shocked when they saw him at the Residence. He seemed no longer the same man, he had aged more in six months, as some of them expressed themselves, than in the dozen years before. The old joyous Horbury, full of mirth, an apt master of word-play and logic-fence, was somehow 'dimmed,' to use the happy phrase of a former colleague, the Dean of Dorchester. Old Boys who remembered the sparkle of his wit, the zest which he threw into everything, making the most ordinary form-work better fun than the games at other schools, as one of them observed, missed something indefinable from the man whom they had loved so long and so well. One of them, who had perhaps penetrated as closely as any into the _arcana_ of Horbury's friendship (a privilege which he will ever esteem as one of the greatest blessings of his life), tried to rouse him with an extravagant rumour which was then going the round of the popular Press, to the effect that considerable modifications were about to be introduced into the compulsory system of games at X., one of the greatest of our great Public Schools. Horbury flushed; the old light came into his eyes; his friend was reminded of the ancient war-horse who hears once more the inspiring notes of the trumpet. 'I can't believe it,' he said, and there was a tremor in his voice. 'They wouldn't dare. Not even Y. (the Headmaster of X.) would do such a scoundrelly thing as that. I _won't_ believe it.' But the flush soon faded and his apathy returned. 'After all,' he said, 'I shouldn't wonder if it were so. Our day is past, I suppose, and for all I know they may be construing the Breviary and playing dominoes at X. in a few years' time.' "I am afraid that those last years at Wareham were far from happy. He felt, I think, out of tune with his surroundings, and, _pace_ the readers of the _Guardian_, I doubt whether he was ever quite at home in his stall. He confessed to one of his old associates that he doubted the wisdom of the whole Cathedral system. 'What,' he said, in his old characteristic manner, 'would St. Peter say if he could enter this building and see that gorgeous window in which he is represented with mitre, cope and keys?' And I do not think that he was ever quite reconciled to the daily recitation of the Liturgy, accompanied as it is in such establishments by elaborate music and all the pomp of the surpliced choir. 'Rome and water, Rome and water!' he has been heard to mutter under his breath as the procession swept up the nave, and before he died I think that he had the satisfaction of feeling that many in high places were coming round to his views. "But to the very last he never forgot Lupton. A year or two before he died he wrote the great school song, 'Follow, follow, follow!' He was pleased, I know, when it appeared in the _Luptonian_, and a famous Old Boy informs me that he will never forget Horbury's delight when he was told that the song was already a great favourite in 'Chantry.' To many of your readers the words will be familiar; but I cannot resist quoting the first verse: "I am getting old and grey and the hills seem far away, And I cannot hear the horn that once proclaimed the morn When we sallied forth upon the chase together; For the years are gone--alack!--when we hastened on the track, And the huntsman's whip went crack! as a signal to our pack Riding in the sunshine and fair weather. And yet across the ground I seem to hear a sound, A sound that comes up floating from the hollow; And its note is very clear As it echoes in my ear, And the words are: 'Lupton, follow, follow, follow!' _Chorus._ "Lupton, follow away! The darkness lies behind us, and before us is the day. Follow, follow the sun, The whole world's to be won, So, Lupton, follow, follow, follow, follow away! "An old pupil sang this verse to him on his death-bed, and I think, perhaps, that some at least of the readers of the _Guardian_ will allow that George Horbury died 'fortified,' in the truest sense, 'with the rites of the Church'--the Church of a Great Aspiration." Such was the impression that Mr. Horbury had evidently made upon some of his oldest friends; but Meyrick was, to the last, an infidel. He read the verses in the _Guardian_ (he would never subscribe to the _Luptonian_) and jeered savagely at the whole sentiment of the memoir, and at the poetry, too. "Isn't it incredible?" he would say. "Let's allow that the main purpose of the great Public Schools is to breed brave average boobies by means of rocker, sticker and mucker and the rest of it. Still, they do acknowledge that they have a sort of _parergon_--the teaching of two great literatures, two literatures that have moulded the whole of Western thought for more than two thousand years. And they pay an animal like this to teach these literatures--a swine that has not enough literature of any kind in him to save the soul of a louse! Look at those verses! Why, a decent fourth form boy would be ashamed to put his name to them!" He was foolish to talk in this fashion. People merely said that it was evident he was one of the failures of the great Public School system; and the song was much admired in the right circles. A very well-turned _idem Latine_ appeared in the _Guardian_ shortly after the publication of the memoir, and the initials at the foot of the version were recognised as those of a literary dean. And on that autumn evening, far away in the 'seventies, Meyrick, the boy, left Mr. Horbury's study in a white fury of grief and pain and rage. He would have murdered his master without the faintest compunction, nay, with huge delight. Psychologically, his frame of mind was quite interesting, though he was only a schoolboy who had just had a sound thrashing for breaking rules. For the fact, of course, was that Horbury, the irritating influence of the Head's conversation and sherry apart, was by no means a bad fellow. He was for the moment savagely cruel, but then, most men are apt to be savagely cruel when they suffer from an inflamed liver and offensive superiors, more especially when there is an inferior, warranted defenceless, in their power. But, in the main, Horbury was a very decent specimen of his class--English schoolmaster--and Meyrick would never allow that. In all his reasoning about schools and schoolmasters there was a fatal flaw--he blamed both for not being what they never pretended to be. To use a figure that would have appealed to him, it was if one quarrelled with a plain, old-fashioned meeting-house because it was not in the least like Lincoln Cathedral. A chimney may not be a decorative object, but then it does not profess to be a spire or a pinnacle far in the spiritual city. But Meyrick was always scolding meeting-houses because they were not cathedrals. He has been heard to rave for hours against useful, unpretentious chimney-pots because they bore no resemblance to celestial spires. Somehow or other, possibly by inheritance, possibly by the influence of his father's companionship, he had unconsciously acquired a theory of life which bore no relation whatever to the facts of it. The theory was manifest in his later years; but it must have been stubbornly, if vaguely, present in him all through his boyhood. Take, for instance, his comment on poor Canon Horbury's verses. He judged those, as we have seen, by the rules of the fine art of literature, and found them rubbish. Yet any old Luptonian would have told him that to hear the whole six hundred boys join in the chorus, "Lupton, follow away!" was one of the great experiences of life; from which it appears that the song, whatever its demerits from a literary point of view, fully satisfied the purpose for which is was written. In other words, it was an excellent chimney, but Meyrick still persisted in his easy and futile task of proving that it was not a bit like a spire. Then, again, one finds a fallacy of still huger extent in that major premiss of his: that the great Public Schools purpose to themselves as a secondary and minor object the imparting of the spirit and beauty of the Greek and Latin literatures. Now, it is very possible that at some distant period in the past this was an object, or even, perhaps, _the_ object of the institutions in question. The Humanists, it may be conjectured, thought of school and University as places where Latin and Greek were to be learned, and to be learned with the object of enjoying the great thought and the great style of an antique world. One sees the spirit of this in Rabelais, for example. The Classics are a wonderful adventure; to learn to understand them is to be a spiritual Columbus, a discoverer of new seas and unknown continents, a drinker of new-old wine in a new-old land. To the student of those days a mysterious drowned Atlantis again rose splendid from the waves of the great deep. It was these things that Meyrick (unconsciously, doubtless) expected to find in his school life; it was for the absence of these things that he continued to scold the system in his later years; wherein, like Jim in _Huckleberry Finn_, he missed the point by a thousand miles. The Latin and Greek of modern instruction are, of course, most curious and interesting survivals; no longer taught with any view of enabling students to enjoy and understand either the thought or beauty of the originals; taught rather in such a manner as to nauseate the learner for the rest of his days with the very notion of these lessons. Still, the study of the Classics survives, a curious and elaborate ritual, from which all sense and spirit have departed. One has only to recollect the form master's lessons in the _Odyssey_ or the _Bacchæ_, and then to view modern Free-masons celebrating the Mystic Death and Resurrection of Hiram Abiff; the analogy is complete, for neither the master nor the Masons have the remotest notion of what they are doing. Both persevere in strange and mysterious actions from inveterate conservatism. Meyrick was a lover of antiquity and a special lover of survivals, but he could never see that the round of Greek syntax, and Latin prose, of Elegiacs and verbs in [Greek: mi], with the mystery of the Oratio obliqua and the Optative, was one of the most strange and picturesque survivals of modern life. It is to be noted, by the way, that the very meaning of the word "scholar" has been radically changed. Thus a well-known authority points out that "Melancholy" Burton had no "scholarship" in the real sense of the word; he merely used his vast knowledge of ancient and modern literature to make one of the most entertaining and curious books that the world possesses. True "scholarship," in the modern sense, is to be sought for not in the Jacobean translators of the Bible, but in the Victorian revisers. The former made the greatest of English books out of their Hebrew and Greek originals; but the latter understood the force of the aorist. It is curious to reflect that "scholar" once meant a man of literary taste and knowledge. Meyrick never mastered these distinctions, or, if he did so in later years, he never confessed to his enlightment, but went on railing at the meeting-house, which, he still maintained, _did_ pretend to be a cathedral. He has been heard to wonder why a certain Dean, who had pointed out the vast improvements that had been effected by the Revisers, did not employ a few young art students from Kensington to correct the infamous drawing of the fourteenth-century glass in his cathedral. He was incorrigible; he was always incorrigible, and thus, in his boyhood, on the dark November evening, he meditated the murder of his good master and uncle--for at least a quarter of an hour. His father, he remembered, had always spoken of Gothic architecture as the most wonderful and beautiful thing in the world: a thing to be studied and loved and reverenced. His father had never so much as mentioned rocker, much less had he preached it as the one way by which an English boy must be saved. Hence, Ambrose maintained inwardly that his visit to Selden Abbey was deserving of reward rather than punishment, and he resented bitterly, the savage injustice (as he thought it) of his caning. III Yet Mr. Horbury had been right in one matter, if not in all. That evening was a turning-point in Meyrick's life. He had felt the utmost rage of the enemy, as it were, and he determined that he would be a funk no longer. He would not degenerate into the state of little Phipps, who had been bullied and "rockered" and beaten into such a deplorable condition that he fainted dead away while the Headmaster was operating on him for "systematic and deliberate lying." Phipps not only fainted, but, being fundamentally sensible, as Dr. Johnson expressed it, showed a strong disinclination to return to consciousness and the precious balms of the "dear old Head." Chesson was rather frightened, and the school doctor, who had his living to get, said, somewhat dryly, that he thought the lad had better go home for a week or two. So Phipps went home in a state which made his mother cry bitterly and his father wonder whether the Public School system was not over-praised. But the old family doctor went about raging and swearing at the "scoundrels" who had reduced a child of twelve to a nervous wreck, with "neurasthenia cerebralis" well on its way. But Dr. Walford had got his education in some trumpery little academy, and did not understand or value the _ethos_ of the great Public Schools. Now, Ambrose Meyrick had marked the career of wretched Phipps with concern and pity. The miserable little creature had been brought by careful handling from masters and boys to such a pitch of neurotic perfection that it was only necessary to tap him smartly on the back or on the arm, and he would instantly burst into tears. Whenever anyone asked him the simplest question he suspected a cruel trap of some sort, and lied and equivocated and shuffled with a pitiable lack of skill. Though he was pitched by the heels into mucker about three times a week, that he might acquire the useful art of natation, he still seemed to grow dirtier and dirtier. His school books were torn to bits, his exercises made into darts; he had impositions for losing books and canings for not doing his work, and he lied and cried all the more. Meyrick had never got to this depth. He was a sturdy boy, and Phipps had always been a weakly little animal; but, as he walked from the study to the schoolroom after his thrashing, he felt that he had been in some danger of descending on that sad way. He finally resolved that he would never tread it, and so he walked past the baize-lined doors into the room where the other boys were at work on prep, with an air of unconcern which was not in the least assumed. Mr. Horbury was a man of considerable private means and did not care to be bothered with the troubles and responsibilities of a big House. But there was room and to spare in the Old Grange, so he took three boys besides his nephew. These three were waiting with a grin of anticipation, since the nature of Meyrick's interview with "old Horbury" was not dubious. But Ambrose strolled in with a "Hallo, you fellows!" and sat down in his place as if nothing had happened. This was intolerable. "I say, Meyrick," began Pelly, a beefy boy with a red face, "you _have_ been blubbing! Feel like writing home about it? Oh! I forgot. This is your home, isn't it? How many cuts? I didn't hear you howl." The boy took no notice. He was getting out his books as if no one had spoken. "Can't you answer?" went on the beefy one. "How many cuts, you young sneak?" "Go to hell!" The whole three stared aghast for a moment; they thought Meyrick must have gone mad. Only one, Bates the observant, began to chuckle quietly to himself, for he did not like Pelly. He who was always beefy became beefier; his eyes bulged out with fury. "I'll give it you," he said and made for Ambrose, who was turning over the leaves of the Latin dictionary. Ambrose did not wait for the assault; he rose also and met Pelly half-way with a furious blow, well planted on the nose. Pelly took a back somersault and fell with a crash to the floor, where he lay for a moment half stunned. He rose staggering and looked about him with a pathetic, bewildered air; for, indeed, a great part of his little world had crumbled about his ears. He stood in the middle of the room, wondering what it meant, whether it was true indeed that Meyrick was no longer of any use for a little quiet fun. A horrible and incredible transmutation had, apparently, been effected in the funk of old. Pelly gazed wildly about him as he tried to staunch the blood that poured over his mouth. "Foul blow!" ventured Rawson, a lean lad who liked to twist the arms of very little boys till they shrieked for mercy. The full inwardness of the incident had not penetrated to his brain; he saw without believing, in the manner of the materialist who denies the marvellous even when it is before his eyes. "Foul blow, young Meyrick!" The quiet student had gone back to his place and was again handling his dictionary. It was a hard, compact volume, rebound in strong boards, and the edge of these boards caught the unfortunate Rawson full across the eyes with extraordinary force. He put his face in his hands and blubbered quietly and dismally, rocking to and fro in his seat, hardly hearing the fluent stream of curses with which the quiet student inquired whether the blow he had just had was good enough for him. Meyrick picked up his dictionary with a volley of remarks which would have done credit to an old-fashioned stage-manager at the last dress rehearsal before production. "Hark at him," said Pelly feebly, almost reverently. "Hark at him." But poor Rawson, rocking to and fro, his head between his hands, went on blubbering softly and spoke no word. Meyrick had never been an unobservant lad; he had simply made a discovery that evening that in Rome certain Roman customs must be adopted. The wise Bates went on doing his copy of Latin verse, chuckling gently to himself. Bates was a cynic. He despised all the customs and manners of the place most heartily and took the most curious care to observe them. He might have been the inventor and patentee of rocker, if one judged him by the fervour with which he played it. He entered his name for every possible event at the sports, and jumped the jumps and threw the hammer and ran the races as if his life depended on it. Once Mr. Horbury had accidentally over-head Bates saying something about "the honour of the House" which went to his heart. As for cricket, Bates played as if his sole ambition was to become a first-class professional. And he chuckled as he did his Latin verses, which he wrote (to the awe of other boys) "as if he were writing a letter"--that is, without making a rough copy. For Bates had got the "hang" of the whole system from rocker to Latin verse, and his copies were much admired. He grinned that evening, partly at the transmutation of Meyrick and partly at the line he was jotting down: "_Mira loquor, coelo resonans vox funditur alto._" In after life he jotted down a couple of novels which sold, as the journalists said, "like hot cakes." Meyrick went to see him soon after the first novel had gone into its thirtieth thousand, and Bates was reading "appreciations" and fingering a cheque and chuckling. "Mira loquor, populo, resonans, _cheque_ funditur alto," he said. "I know what schoolmasters and boys and the public want, and I take care they get it--_sale espèce de sacrés cochons de N. de D._!" The rest of prep. went off quite quietly. Pelly was slowly recovering from the shock that he had received and began to meditate revenge. Meyrick had got him unawares, he reflected. It was merely an accident, and he resolved to challenge Meyrick to fight and give him back the worst licking he had ever had in his life. He was beefy, but a bold fellow. Rawson, who was really a cruel coward and a sneak, had made up his mind that he wanted no more, and from time to time cast meek and propitiatory glances in Meyrick's direction. At half-past nine they all went into their dining-room for bread and cheese and beer. At a quarter to ten Mr. Horbury appeared in cap and gown and read a chapter from St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, with one or two singularly maundering and unhappy prayers. He stopped the boys as they were going up to their rooms. "What's this, Pelly?" he said. "Your nose is all swollen. It's been bleeding, too, I see. What have you been doing to yourself? And you, Rawson, how do you account for your eyes being black? What's the meaning of all this?" "Please, Sir, there was a very stiff bully down at rocker this afternoon, and Rawson and I got tokered badly." "Were you in the bully, Bates?" "No, Sir; I've been outside since the beginning of the term. But all the fellows were playing up tremendously, and I saw Rawson and Pelly had been touched when we were changing." "Ah! I see. I'm very glad to find the House plays up so well. As for you, Bates, I hear you're the best outside for your age that we've ever had. Good night." The three said "Thank you, Sir," as if their dearest wish had been gratified, and the master could have sworn that Bates flushed with pleasure at his word of praise. But the fact was that Bates had "suggested" the flush by a cunning arrangement of his features. The boys vanished and Mr. Horbury returned to his desk. He was editing a selection called "English Literature for Lower Forms." He began to read from the slips that he had prepared: "_So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse----_" He stopped and set a figure by the last word, and then, on a blank slip, with a corresponding letter, he repeated the figure and wrote the note: Lyonnesse--the Sicilly Isles. Then he took a third slip and wrote the question: Give the ancient name of the Sicilly Isles. These serious labours employed him till twelve o'clock. He put the materials of his book away as the clock struck, and solemnly mixed himself his nightly glass of whisky and soda--in the daytime he never touched spirits--and bit the one cigar which he smoked in the twenty-four hours. The stings of the Head's sherry and of his conversation no longer burned within him; time and work and the bite of the cane in Meyrick's flesh had soothed his soul, and he set himself to dream, leaning back in his arm-chair, watching the cheerful fire. He was thinking of what he would do when he succeeded to the Headmastership. Already there were rumours that Chesson had refused the Bishopric of St. Dubric's in order that he might be free to accept Dorchester, which, in the nature of things, must soon be vacant. Horbury had no doubt that the Headmastership would be his; he had influential friends who assured him that the trustees would not hesitate for an instant. Then he would show the world what an English Public School could be made. In five years, he calculated, he would double the numbers. He saw the coming importance of the modern side, and especially of science. Personally, he detested "stinks," but he knew what an effect he would produce with a great laboratory fitted with the very best appliances and directed by a highly qualified master. Then, again, an elaborate gymnasium must be built; there must be an engineer's shop, too, and a carpenter's as well. And people were beginning to complain that a Public School Education was of no use in the City. There must be a business master, an expert from the Stock Exchange who would see that this reproach was removed. Then he considered that a large number of the boys belonged to the land-owning class. Why should a country gentleman be at the mercy of his agent, forced for lack of technical knowledge to accept statements which he could not check? It was clear that the management of land and great estates must have its part in the scheme; and, again, the best-known of the Crammers must be bought on his own terms, so that the boys who wished to get into the Army or the Civil Service would be practically compelled to come to Lupton. Already he saw paragraphs in the _Guardian_ and _The Times_--in all the papers--paragraphs which mentioned the fact that ninety-five per cent of the successful candidates for the Indian Civil Service had received their education at the foundation of "stout old Martin Rolle." Meanwhile, in all this flood of novelty, the old traditions should be maintained with more vigour than ever. The classics should be taught as they never had been taught. Every one of the masters on this side should be in the highest honours and, if possible, he would get famous men for the work--they should not merely be good, but also notorious scholars. Gee, the famous explorer in Crete, who had made an enormous mark in regions widely removed from the scholastic world by his wonderful book, _Dædalus; or, The Secret of the Labyrinth_, must come to Lupton at any price; and Maynard, who had discovered some most important Greek manuscripts in Egypt, he must have a form, too. Then there was Rendell, who had done so well with his _Thucydides_, and Davies, author of _The Olive of Athene_, a daring but most brilliant book which promised to upset the whole established theory of mythology--he would have such a staff as no school had ever dreamed of. "We shall have no difficulty about paying them," thought Horbury; "our numbers will go up by leaps and bounds, and the fees shall be five hundred pounds a year--and such terms will do us more good than anything." He went into minute detail. He must take expert advice as to the advisability of the school farming on its own account, and so supplying the boys with meat, milk, bread, butter and vegetables at first cost. He believed it could be done; he would get a Scotch farmer from the Lowlands and make him superintendent at a handsome salary and with a share in the profits. There would be the splendid advertisement of "the whole dietary of the school supplied from the School Farms, under the supervision of Mr. David Anderson, formerly of Haddanneuk, the largest tenancy in the Duke of Ayr's estates." The food would be better and cheaper, too; but there would be no luxury. The "Spartan" card was always worth playing; one must strike the note of plain living in a luxurious age; there must be no losing of the old Public School severity. On the other hand, the boy's hands should be free to go into their own pockets; there should be no restraint here. If a boy chose to bring in _Dindonneau aux truffes_ or _Pieds de mouton à la Ste Menehould_ to help out his tea, that was his look-out. Why should not the school grant a concession to some big London firm, who would pay handsomely for the privilege of supplying the hungry lads with every kind of expensive dainty? The sum could be justly made a large one, as any competing shop could be promptly put out of bounds with reason or without it. On one side, _confiserie_; at the other counter, _charcuterie_; enormous prices could be charged to the wealthy boys of whom the school would be composed. Yet, on the other hand, the distinguished visitor--judge, bishop, peer or what not--would lunch at the Headmaster's house and eat the boys' dinner and go away saying it was quite the plainest and very many times the best meal he had ever tasted. There would be well-hung saddle of mutton, roasted and not baked; floury potatoes and cauliflower; apple pudding with real English cheese, with an excellent glass of the school beer, an honest and delicious beverage made of malt and hops in the well-found school brewery. Horbury knew enough of modern eating and drinking to understand that such a meal would be a choice rarity to nine rich people out of ten; and yet it was "Spartan," utterly devoid of luxury and ostentation. Again, he passed from detail and minutiæ into great Napoleonic regions. A thousand boys at £500 a year; that would be an income for the school of five hundred thousand pounds! The profits would be gigantic, immense. After paying large, even extravagant, prices to the staff, after all building expenses had been deducted, he hardly dared to think how vast a sum would accrue year by year to the Trustees. The vision began to assume such magnificence that it became oppressive; it put on the splendours and delights of the hashish dream, which are too great and too piercing for mortal hearts to bear. And yet it was no mirage; there was not a step that could not be demonstrated, shown to be based on hard; matter-of-fact business considerations. He tried to keep back his growing excitement, to argue with himself that he was dealing in visions, but the facts were too obstinate. He saw that it would be his part to work the same miracle in the scholastic world as the great American storekeepers had operated in the world of retail trade. The principle was precisely the same: instead of a hundred small shops making comparatively modest and humdrum profits you had the vast emporium doing business on the gigantic scale with vastly diminished expenses and vastly increased rewards. Here again was a hint. He had thought of America, and he knew that here was an inexhaustible gold mine, that no other scholastic prospector had even dreamed of. The rich American was notoriously hungry for everything that was English, from frock-coats to pedigrees. He had never thought of sending his son to an English Public School because he considered the system hopelessly behind the times. But the new translated Lupton would be to other Public Schools as a New York hotel of the latest fashion is to a village beer-shop. And yet the young millionaire would grow up in the company of the sons of the English gentlemen, imbibing the unique culture of English life, while at the same time he enjoyed all the advantages of modern ideas, modern science and modern business training. Land was still comparatively cheap at Lupton; the school must buy it quietly, indirectly, by degrees, and then pile after pile of vast buildings rose before his eyes. He saw the sons of the rich drawn from all the ends of the world to the Great School, there to learn the secret of the Anglo-Saxons. Chesson was mistaken in that idea of his, which he thought daring and original, of establishing a distinct Jewish House where the food should be "Kosher." The rich Jew who desired to send his son to an English Public School was, in nine cases out of ten, anxious to do so precisely because he wanted to sink his son's connection with Jewry in oblivion. He had heard Chesson talk of "our Christian duty to the seed of Israel" in this connection. The man was clearly a fool. No, the more Jews the better, but no Jewish House. And no Puseyism either: broad, earnest religious teaching, with a leaning to moderate Anglicanism, should be the faith of Lupton. As to this Chesson was, certainly, sound enough. He had always made a firm stand against ecclesiasticism in any form. Horbury knew the average English parent of the wealthier classes thoroughly; he knew that, though he generally called himself a Churchman, he was quite content to have his sons prepared for confirmation by a confessed Agnostic. Certainly this liberty must not be narrowed when Lupton became cosmopolitan. "We will retain all the dignified associations which belong to the Established Church," he said to himself, "and at the same time we shall be utterly free from the taint of over-emphasising dogmatic teaching." He had a sudden brilliant idea. Everybody in Church circles was saying that the English bishops were terribly overworked, that it was impossible for the most strenuous men with the best intentions to supervise effectually the huge dioceses that had descended from the sparsely populated England of the Middle Ages. Everywhere there was a demand for suffragans and more suffragans. In the last week's _Guardian_ there were three letters on the subject, one from a clergyman in their own diocese. The Bishop had been attacked by some rabid ritualistic person, who had pointed out that nine out of every ten parishes had not so much as seen the colour of his hood ever since his appointment ten years before. The Archdeacon of Melby had replied in a capital letter, scathing and yet humorous. Horbury turned to the paper on the table beside his chair and looked up the letter. "In the first place," wrote the Archdeacon, "your correspondent does not seem to have realised that the _ethoes_ of the Diocese of Melby is not identical with that of sacerdotalism. The sturdy folk of the Midlands have not yet, I am thankful to say, forgotten the lessons of our great Reformation. They have no wish to see a revival of the purely mechanical religion of the Middle Ages--of the system of a sacrificing priesthood and of sacraments efficacious _ex opere operato_. Hence they do not regard the episcopate quite in the same light as your correspondent 'Senex,' who, it seems to me, looks upon a bishop as a sort of Christianised 'medicine-man,' endowed with certain mysterious thaumaturgic powers which have descended to him by an (imaginary) spiritual succession. This was not the view of Hooker, nor, I venture to say, has it ever been the view of the really representative divines of the Established Church of England. "Still," the Archdeacon went on, "it must be admitted that the present diocese of Melby is unwieldy and, it may be fairly said, unworkable." Then there followed the humorous anecdote of Sir Boyle Roche and the Bird, and finally the Archdeacon emitted the prayer that God in His own good time would put it into the hearts of our rulers in Church and State to give their good Bishop an episcopal curate. Horbury got up from his chair and paced up and down the study; his excitement was so great that he could keep quiet no longer. His cigar had gone out long ago, and he had barely sipped the whisky and soda. His eyes glittered with excitement. Circumstances seemed positively to be playing into his hands; the dice of the world were being loaded in his favour. He was like Bel Ami at his wedding. He almost began to believe in Providence. For he was sure it could be managed. Here was a general feeling that no one man could do the work of the diocese. There must be a suffragan, and Lupton must give the new Bishop his title. No other town was possible. Dunham had certainly been a see in the eighth century, but it was now little more than a village and a village served by a miserable little branch line; whereas Lupton was on the great main track of the Midland system, with easy connections to every part of the country. The Archdeacon, who was also a peer, would undoubtedly become the first Bishop of Lupton, and he should be the titular chaplain of the Great School! "Chaplain! The Right Reverend Lord Selwyn, Lord Bishop of Lupton." Horbury gasped; it was too magnificent, too splendid. He knew Lord Selwyn quite well and had no doubt as to his acceptance. He was a poor man, and there would be no difficulty whatever in establishing a _modus_. The Archdeacon was just the man for the place. He was no pedantic theologian, but a broad, liberal-minded man of the world. Horbury remembered, almost with ecstasy, that he had lectured all over the United States with immense success. The American Press had been enthusiastic, and the First Congregational Church of Chicago had implored Selwyn to accept its call, preach what he liked and pocket an honorarium of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. And, on the other hand, what could the most orthodox desire safer than a chaplain who was not only a bishop, but a peer of the realm? Wonderful! Here were the three birds--Liberalism, Orthodoxy and Reverence for the House of Lords--caught safe and secure in this one net. The games? They should be maintained in all their glory, rather on an infinitely more splendid scale. Cricket and sticker (the Lupton hockey), rackets and fives, should be all encouraged; and more, Lupton should be the only school to possess a tennis court. The noble _jeu de paume_, the game of kings, the most aristocratic of all sports, should have a worthy home at Lupton. They would train champions; they would have both French and English markers skilled in the latest developments of the _chemin de fer_ service. "Better than half a yard, I think," said Horbury to himself; "they will have to do their best to beat that." But he placed most reliance on rocker. This was the Lupton football, a variant as distinctive in its way as the Eton Wall Game. People have thought that the name is a sort of portmanteau word, a combination of Rugger and Soccer; but in reality the title was derived from the field where the game used to be played in old days by the townsfolk. As in many other places, football at Lupton had been originally an excuse for a faction-fight between two parishes in the town--St. Michael's and St. Paul's-in-the-Fields. Every year, on Shrove Tuesday, the townsfolk, young and old, had proceeded to the Town Field and had fought out their differences with considerable violence. The field was broken land: a deep, sluggish stream crossed one angle of it, and in the middle there were quarries and jagged limestone rocks. Hence football was called in the town "playing rocks," for, indeed, it was considered an excellent point of play to hurl a man over the edge of the quarry on to the rocks beneath, and so late as 1830 a certain Jonas Simpson of St. Michael's had had his spine broken in this way. However, as a boy from St. Paul's was drowned in the Wand the same day, the game was always reckoned a draw. It was from the peculiarities of this old English sport that the school had constructed its game. The Town Field had, of course, long been stolen from the townsfolk and built over; but the boys had, curiously enough, perpetuated the tradition of its peculiarities in a kind of football ritual. For, besides the two goals, one part of the field was marked by a line of low white posts: these indicated the course of a non-existent Wand brook, and in the line of these posts it was lawful to catch an opponent by the throat and choke him till he turned black in the face--the best substitute for drowning that the revisers of the game could imagine. Again: about the centre of the field two taller posts indicated the position of the quarries, and between these you might be hit or kicked full in the stomach without the smallest ground of complaint: the stroke being a milder version of the old fall on the rocks. There were many other like amenities in rocker; and Horbury maintained it was by far the manliest variant of the game. For this pleasing sport he now designed a world-wide fame. Rocker should be played wherever the English flag floated: east and west, north and south; from Hong Kong to British Columbia; in Canada and New Zealand there should be the _Temenoi_ of this great rite; and the traveller seeing the mystic enclosure--the two goals, the line of little posts marking "brooks" and the two poles indicating "quarries"--should know English soil as surely as by the Union Jack. The technical terms of rocker should become a part of the great Anglo-Saxon inheritance; the whole world should hear of "bully-downs" and "tokering," of "outsides" and "rammers." It would require working, but it was to be done: articles in the magazines and in the Press; perhaps a story of school life, a new _Tom Brown_ must be written. The Midlands and the North must be shown that there was money in it, and the rest would be easy. One thing troubled Horbury. His mind was full of the new and splendid buildings that were to be erected, but he was aware that antiquity still counted for something, and unfortunately Lupton could show very little that was really antique. Forty years before, Stanley, the first reforming Headmaster, had pulled down the old High School. There were prints of it: it was a half-timbered, fifteenth-century building, with a wavering roof-line and an overhanging upper story; there were dim, leaded windows and a grey arched porch--an ugly old barn, Stanley called it. Scott was called in and built the present High School, a splendid hall in red brick: French thirteenth-century, with Venetian detail; it was much admired. But Horbury was sorry that the old school had been destroyed; he saw for the first time that it might have been made a valuable attraction. Then again, Dowsing, who succeeded Stanley, had knocked the cloisters all to bits; there was only one side of the quadrangle left, and this had been boarded up and used as a gardeners' shed. Horbury did not know what to say of the destruction of the Cross that used to stand in the centre of the quad. No doubt Dowsing was right in thinking it superstitious; still, it might have been left as a curiosity and shown to visitors, just as the instruments of bygone cruelty--the rack and the Iron Maid--are preserved and exhibited to wondering sightseers. There was no real danger of any superstitious adoration of the Cross; it was, as a matter of fact, as harmless as the axe and block at the Tower of London; Dowsing had ruined what might have been an important asset in the exploitation of the school. Still, perhaps the loss was not altogether irreparable. High School was gone and could not be recovered; but the cloisters might be restored and the Cross, too. Horbury knew that the monument in front of Charing Cross Railway Station was considered by many to be a genuine antique: why not get a good man to build them a Cross? Not like the old one, of course; that "Fair Roode with our Deare Ladie Saint Marie and Saint John," and, below, the stories of the blissful Saints and Angels--that would never do. But a vague, Gothic erection, with plenty of kings and queens, imaginary benefactors of the school, and a small cast-iron cross at the top: that could give no offence to anybody, and might pass with nine people out of ten as a genuine remnant of the Middle Ages. It could be made of soft stone and allowed to weather for a few years; then a coat of invisible anti-corrosive fluid would preserve carvings and imagery that would already appear venerable in decay. There was no need to make any precise statements: parents and the public might be allowed to draw their own conclusions. Horbury was neglecting nothing. He was building up a great scheme in his mind, and to him it seemed that every detail was worth attending to, while at the same time he did not lose sight of the whole effect. He believed in finish: there must be no rough edges. It seemed to him that a school legend must be invented. The real history was not quite what he wanted, though it might work in with a more decorative account of Lupton's origins. One might use the _Textus Receptus_ of Martin Rolle's Foundation--the bequest of land _c._ 1430 to build and maintain a school where a hundred boys should be taught grammar, and ten poor scholars and six priests should pray for the Founder's soul. This was well enough, but one might hint that Martin Rolle really refounded and re-endowed a school of Saxon origin, probably established by King Alfred himself in Luppa's Tun. Then, again, who could show that Shakespeare had not visited Lupton? His famous schoolboy, "creeping like snail unwillingly to school," might very possibly have been observed by the poet as he strolled by the banks of the Wand. Many famous men might have received their education at Lupton; it would not be difficult to make a plausible list of such. It must be done carefully and cautiously, with such phrases as "it has always been a tradition at Lupton that Sir Walter Raleigh received part of his education at the school"; or, again, "an earlier generation of Luptonians remembered the initials 'W. S. S. on A.' cut deeply in the mantel of old High School, now, unfortunately, demolished." Antiquarians would laugh? Possibly; but who cared about antiquarians? For the average man "Charing" was derived from "_chère reine_," and he loved to have it so, and Horbury intended to appeal to the average man. Though he was a schoolmaster he was no recluse, and he had marked the ways of the world from his quiet study in Lupton; hence he understood the immense value of a grain of quackery in all schemes which are meant to appeal to mortals. It was a deadly mistake to suppose that anything which was all quackery would be a success--a permanent success, at all events; it was a deadlier mistake still to suppose that anything quite devoid of quackery could pay handsomely. The average English palate would shudder at the flavour of _aioli_, but it would be charmed by the insertion of that _petit point d'ail_ which turned mere goodness into triumph and laurelled perfection. And there was no need to mention the word "garlic" before the guests. Lupton was not going to be all garlic: it was to be infinitely the best scholastic dish that had ever been served--the ingredients should be unsurpassed and unsurpassable. But--King Alfred's foundation of a school at Luppa's Tun, and that "W. S. S. on A." cut deeply on the mantel of the vanished High School--these and legends like unto them, these would be the last touch, _le petit point d'ail_. It was a great scheme, wonderful and glorious; and the most amazing thing about it was that it was certain to be realised. There was not a flaw from start to finish. The Trustees were certain to appoint him--he had that from a sure quarter--and it was but a question of a year or two, perhaps only of a month or two, before all this great and golden vision should be converted into hard and tangible fact. He drank off his glass of whisky and soda; it had become flat and brackish, but to him it was nectar, since it was flavoured with ecstasy. He frowned suddenly as he went upstairs to his room. An unpleasant recollection had intruded for a moment on his amazing fantasy; but he dismissed the thought as soon as it arose. That was all over, there could be no possibility of trouble from that direction; and so, his mind filled with images, he fell asleep and saw Lupton as the centre of the whole world, like Jerusalem in the ancient maps. A student of the deep things of mysticism has detected a curious element of comedy in the management of human concerns; and there certainly seems a touch of humour in the fact that on this very night, while Horbury was building the splendid Lupton of the future, the palace of his thought and his life was shattered for ever into bitter dust and nothingness. But so it was. The Dread Arrest had been solemnly recognised, and that wretched canonry at Wareham was irrevocably pronounced for doom. Fantastic were the elements of forces that had gone to the ordering of this great sentence: raw corn spirit in the guise of sherry, the impertinence (or what seemed such) of an elderly clergyman, a boiled leg of mutton, a troublesome and disobedient boy, and--another person. II I He was standing in a wild, bare country. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar: the land rose and fell in dull and weary undulations, in a vast circle of dun ploughland and grey meadow, bounded by a dim horizon without promise or hope, dreary as a prison wall. The infinite melancholy of an autumn evening brooded heavily over all the world, and the sky was hidden by livid clouds. It all brought back to him some far-off memory, and yet he knew that he gazed on that sad plain for the first time. There was a deep and heavy silence over all; a silence unbroken by so much as the fluttering of a leaf. The trees seemed of a strange shape, and strange were the stunted thorns dotted about the broken field in which he stood. A little path at his feet, bordered by the thorn bushes, wandered away to the left into the dim twilight; it had about it some indefinable air of mystery, as if it must lead one down into a mystic region where all earthly things are forgotten and lost for ever. He sat down beneath the bare, twisted boughs of a great tree and watched the dreary land grow darker and yet darker; he wondered, half-consciously, where he was and how he had come to that place, remembering, faintly, tales of like adventure. A man passed by a familiar wall one day, and opening a door before unnoticed, found himself in a new world of unsurmised and marvellous experiences. Another man shot an arrow farther than any of his friends and became the husband of the fairy. Yet--this was not fairyland; these were rather the sad fields and unhappy graves of the underworld than the abode of endless pleasures and undying delights. And yet in all that he saw there was the promise of great wonder. Only one thing was clear to him. He knew that he was Ambrose, that he had been driven from great and unspeakable joys into miserable exile and banishment. He had come from a far, far place by a hidden way, and darkness had closed about him, and bitter drink and deadly meat were given him, and all gladness was hidden from him. This was all he could remember; and now he was astray, he knew not how or why, in this wild, sad land, and the night descended dark upon him. Suddenly there was, as it were, a cry far away in the shadowy silence, and the thorn bushes began to rustle before a shrilling wind that rose as the night came down. At this summons the heavy clouds broke up and dispersed, fleeting across the sky, and the pure heaven appeared with the last rose flush of the sunset dying from it, and there shone the silver light of the evening star. Ambrose's heart was drawn up to this light as he gazed: he saw that the star grew greater and greater; it advanced towards him through the air; its beams pierced to his soul as if they were the sound of a silver trumpet. An ocean of white splendour flowed over him: he dwelt within the star. It was but for a moment; he was still sitting beneath the tree of the twisted branches. But the sky was now clear and filled with a great peace; the wind had fallen and a more happy light shone on the great plain. Ambrose was thirsty, and then he saw that beside the tree there was a well, half hidden by the arching roots that rose above it. The water was still and shining, as though it were a mirror of black marble, and marking the brim was a great stone on which were cut the letters: "FONS VITAE IMMORTALIS." He rose and, bending over the well, put down his lips to drink, and his soul and body were filled as with a flood of joy. Now he knew that all his days of exile he had borne with pain and grief a heavy, weary body. There had been dolours in every limb and achings in every bone; his feet had dragged upon the ground, slowly, wearily, as the feet of those who go in chains. But dim, broken spectres, miserable shapes and crooked images of the world had his eyes seen; for they were eyes bleared with sickness, darkened by the approach of death. Now, indeed, he clearly beheld the shining vision of things immortal. He drank great draughts of the dark, glittering water, drinking, it seemed, the light of the reflected stars; and he was filled with life. Every sinew, every muscle, every particle of the deadly flesh shuddered and quickened in the communion of that well-water. The nerves and veins rejoiced together; all his being leapt with gladness, and as one finger touched another, as he still bent over the well, a spasm of exquisite pleasure quivered and thrilled through his body. His heart throbbed with bliss that was unendurable; sense and intellect and soul and spirit were, as it were, sublimed into one white flame of delight. And all the while it was known to him that these were but the least of the least of the pleasures of the kingdom, but the overrunnings and base tricklings of the great supernal cup. He saw, without amazement, that, though the sun had set, the sky now began to flush and redden as if with the northern light. It was no longer the evening, no longer the time of the procession of the dusky night. The darkness doubtless had passed away in mortal hours while for an infinite moment he tasted immortal drink; and perhaps one drop of that water was endless life. But now it was the preparation for the day. He heard the words: "_Dies venit, dies Tua In qua reflorent omnia._" They were uttered within his heart, and he saw that all was being made ready for a great festival. Over everything there was a hush of expectation; and as he gazed he knew that he was no longer in that weary land of dun ploughland and grey meadow, of the wild, bare trees and strange stunted thorn bushes. He was on a hillside, lying on the verge of a great wood; beneath, in the valley, a brook sang faintly under the leaves of the silvery willows; and beyond, far in the east, a vast wall of rounded mountain rose serene towards the sky. All about him was the green world of the leaves: odours of the summer night, deep in the mystic heart of the wood, odours of many flowers, and the cool breath rising from the singing stream mingled in his nostrils. The world whitened to the dawn, and then, as the light grew clear, the rose clouds blossomed in the sky and, answering, the earth seemed to glitter with rose-red sparks and glints of flame. All the east became as a garden of roses, red flowers of living light shone over the mountain, and as the beams of the sun lit up the circle of the earth a bird's song began from a tree within the wood. Then were heard the modulations of a final and exultant ecstasy, the chant of liberation, a magistral _In Exitu_; there was the melody of rejoicing trills, of unwearied, glad reiterations of choirs ever aspiring, prophesying the coming of the great feast, singing the eternal antiphon. As the song aspired into the heights, so there aspired suddenly before him the walls and pinnacles of a great church set upon a high hill. It was far off, and yet as though it were close at hand he saw all the delicate and wonderful imagery cut in its stones. The great door in the west was a miracle: every flower and leaf, every reed and fern, were clustered in the work of the capitals, and in the round arch above moulding within moulding showed all the beasts that God has made. He saw the rose-window, a maze of fretted tracery, the high lancets of the fair hall, the marvellous buttresses, set like angels about this holy house, whose pinnacles were as a place of many springing trees. And high above the vast, far-lifted vault of the roof rose up the spire, golden in the light. The bells were ringing for the feast; he heard from within the walls the roll and swell and triumph of the organ: _O pius o bonus o placidus sonus hymnus eorum._ He knew not how he had taken his place in this great procession, how, surrounded by ministrants in white, he too bore his part in endless litanies. He knew not through what strange land they passed in their fervent, admirable order, following their banners and their symbols that glanced on high before them. But that land stood ever, it seemed, in a clear, still air, crowned with golden sunlight; and so there were those who bore great torches of wax, strangely and beautifully adorned with golden and vermilion ornaments. The delicate flame of these tapers burned steadily in the still sunlight, and the glittering silver censers as they rose and fell tossed a pale cloud into the air. They delayed, now and again, by wayside shrines, giving thanks for unutterable compassions, and, advancing anew, the blessed company surged onward, moving to its unknown goal in the far blue mountains that rose beyond the plain. There were faces and shapes of awful beauty about him; he saw those in whose eyes were the undying lamps of heaven, about whose heads the golden hair was as an aureole; and there were they that above the girded vesture of white wore dyed garments, and as they advanced around their feet there was the likeness of dim flames. The great white array had vanished and he was alone. He was tracking a secret path that wound in and out through the thickets of a great forest. By solitary pools of still water, by great oaks, worlds of green leaves, by fountains and streams of water, by the bubbling, mossy sources of the brooks he followed this hidden way, now climbing and now descending, but still mounting upward, still passing, as he knew, farther and farther from all the habitations of men. Through the green boughs now he saw the shining sea-water; he saw the land of the old saints, all the divisions of the land that men had given to them for God; he saw their churches, and it seemed as if he could hear, very faintly, the noise of the ringing of their holy bells. Then, at last, when he had crossed the Old Road, and had gone by the Lightning-struck Land and the Fisherman's Well, he found, between the forest and the mountain, a very ancient and little chapel; and now he heard the bell of the saint ringing clearly and so sweetly that it was as it were the singing of the angels. Within it was very dark and there was silence. He knelt and saw scarcely that the chapel was divided into two parts by a screen that rose up to the round roof. There was a glinting of shapes as if golden figures were painted on this screen, and through the joinings of its beams there streamed out thin needles of white splendour as if within there was a light greater than that of the sun at noonday. And the flesh began to tremble, for all the place was filled with the odours of Paradise, and he heard the ringing of the Holy Bell and the voices of the choir that out-sang the Fairy Birds of Rhiannon, crying and proclaiming: "_Glory and praise to the Conqueror of Death: to the Fountain of Life Unending._" Nine times they sang this anthem, and then the whole place was filled with blinding light. For a door in the screen had been opened, and there came forth an old man, all in shining white, on whose head was a gold crown. Before him went one who rang the bell; on each side there were young men with torches; and in his hands he bore the _Mystery of Mysteries_ wrapped about in veils of gold and of all colours, so that it might not be discerned; and so he passed before the screen, and the light of heaven burst forth from that which he held. Then he entered in again by a door that was on the other side, and the Holy Things were hidden. And Ambrose heard from within an awful voice and the words: _Woe and great sorrow are on him, for he hath looked unworthily into the Tremendous Mysteries, and on the Secret Glory which is hidden from the Holy Angels._ II "Poetry is the only possible way of saying anything that is worth saying at all." This was an axiom that, in later years, Ambrose Meyrick's friends were forced to hear at frequent intervals. He would go on to say that he used the term poetry in its most liberal sense, including in it all mystic or symbolic prose, all painting and statuary that was worthy to be called art, all great architecture, and all true music. He meant, it is to be presumed, that the mysteries can only be conveyed by symbols; unfortunately, however, he did not always make it quite clear that this was the proposition that he intended to utter, and thus offence was sometimes given--as, for example, to the scientific gentleman who had been brought to Meyrick's rooms and went away early, wondering audibly and sarcastically whether "your clever friend" wanted to metrify biology and set Euclid to Bach's Organ Fugues. However, the Great Axiom (as he called it) was the justification that he put forward in defence of the notes on which the previous section is based. "Of course," he would say, "the symbolism is inadequate; but that is the defect of speech of any kind when you have once ventured beyond the multiplication table and the jargon of the Stock Exchange. Inadequacy of expression is merely a minor part of the great tragedy of humanity. Only an ass thinks that he has succeeded in uttering the perfect content of his thought without either excess or defect." "Then, again," he might go on, "the symbolism would very likely be misleading to a great many people; but what is one to do? I believe many good people find Turner mad and Dickens tiresome. And if the great sometimes fail, what hope is there for the little? We cannot all be--well--popular novelists of the day." Of course, the notes in question were made many years after the event they commemorate; they were the man's translation of all the wonderful and inexpressible emotions of the boy; and, as Meyrick puts it, many "words" (or symbols) are used in them which were unknown to the lad of fifteen. "Nevertheless," he said, "they are the best words that I can find." As has been said, the Old Grange was a large, roomy house; a space could easily have been found for half a dozen more boys if the High Usher had cared to be bothered with them. As it was, it was a favour to be at Horbury's, and there was usually some personal reason for admission. Pelly, for example, was the son of an old friend; Bates was a distant cousin; and Rawson's father was the master of a small Grammar School in the north with which certain ancestral Horburys were somehow connected. The Old Grange was a fine large Caroline house; it had a grave front of red brick, mellowed with age, tier upon tier of tall, narrow windows, flush with the walls, and a high-pitched, red-tiled roof. Above the front door was a rich and curious wooden pent-house, deeply carven; and within there was plenty of excellent panelling, and some good mantelpieces, added, it would seem, somewhere about the Adam period. Horbury had seen its solid and comfortable merits and had bought the freehold years before at a great bargain. The school was increasing rapidly even in those days, and he knew that before long more houses would be required. If he left Lupton he would be able to let the Old Grange easily--he might almost put it up for auction--and the rent would represent a return of fifty per cent on his investment. Many of the rooms were large; of a size out of all proportion to the boys' needs, and at a very trifling expense partitions might be made and the nine or ten available rooms be subdivided into studies for twenty or even twenty-five boys. Nature had gifted the High Usher with a careful, provident mind in all things, both great and small; and it is but fair to add that on his leaving Lupton for Wareham he found his anticipations more than justified. To this day Charles Horbury, his nephew, a high Government official, draws a comfortable income from his uncle's most prudent investment, and the house easily holds its twenty-five boys. Rainy, who took the place from Horbury, was an ingenious fellow and hit upon a capital plan for avoiding the expense of making new windows for some of the subdivided studies. After thoughtful consideration he caused the wooden partitions which were put up to stop short of the ceiling by four inches, and by this device the study with a window lighted the study that had none; and, as Rainy explained to some of the parents, a diffused light was really better for the eyes than a direct one. In the old days, when Ambrose Meyrick was being made a man of, the four boys "rattled," as it were, in the big house. They were scattered about in odd corners, remote from each other, and it seemed from everybody else. Meyrick's room was the most isolated of any, but it was also the most comfortable in winter, since it was over the kitchen, to the extreme left of the house. This part, which was hidden from the road by the boughs of a great cedar, was an after-thought, a Georgian addition in grey brick, and rose only to two stories, and in the one furnished room out of the three or four over the kitchen and offices slept Ambrose. He wished his days could be as quiet and retired as his nights. He loved the shadows that were about his bed even on the brightest mornings in summer; for the cedar boughs were dense, and ivy had been allowed to creep about the panes of the window; so the light entered dim and green, filtered through the dark boughs and the ivy tendrils. Here, then, after the hour of ten each night, he dwelt secure. Now and again Mr. Horbury would pay nocturnal surprise visits to see that all lights were out; but, happily, the stairs at the end of the passage, being old and badly fitted, gave out a succession of cracks like pistol shots if the softest foot was set on them. It was simple, therefore, on hearing the first of these reports, to extinguish the candle in the small secret lantern (held warily so that no gleam of light should appear from under the door) and to conceal the lantern under the bed-clothes. One wetted one's finger and pinched at the flame, so there was no smell of the expiring snuff, and the lantern slide was carefully drawn to guard against the possibility of suspicious grease-marks on the linen. It was perfect; and old Horbury's visits, which were rare enough, had no terrors for Ambrose. So that night, while the venom of the cane still rankled in his body, though it had ceased to disturb his mind, instead of going to bed at once, according to the regulations, he sat for a while on his box seeking a clue in a maze of odd fancies and conceits. He took off his clothes and wrapped his aching body in the rug from the bed, and presently, blowing out the official paraffin lamp, he lit his candle, ready at the first warning creak on the stairs to douse the glim and leap between the sheets. Odd enough were his first cogitations. He was thinking how very sorry he was to have hit Pelly that savage blow and to have endangered Rawson's eyesight by the hard boards of the dictionary! This was eccentric, for he had endured from those two young Apaches every extremity of unpleasantness for upwards of a couple of years. Pelly was not by any means an evil lad: he was stupid and beefy within and without, and the great Public School system was transmuting him, in the proper course and by the proper steps, into one of those Brave Average Boobies whom Meyrick used to rail against afterwards. Pelly, in all probability (his fortunes have not been traced), went into the Army and led the milder and more serious subalterns the devil's own life. In India he "lay doggo" with great success against some hill tribe armed with seventeenth-century muskets and rather barbarous knives; he seems to have been present at that "Conference of the Powers" described so brightly by Mr. Kipling. Promoted to a captaincy, he fought with conspicuous bravery in South Africa, winning the Victoria Cross for his rescue of a wounded private at the instant risk of his own life, and he finally led his troop into a snare set by an old farmer; a rabbit of average intelligence would have smelt and evaded it. For Rawson one is sorry, but one cannot, in conscience, say much that is good, though he has been praised for his tact. He became domestic chaplain to the Bishop of Dorchester, whose daughter Emily he married. But in those old days there was very little to choose between them, from Meyrick's point of view. Each had displayed a quite devilish ingenuity in the art of annoyance, in the whole cycle of jeers and sneers and "scores," as known to the schoolboy, and they were just proceeding to more active measures. Meyrick had borne it all meekly; he had returned kindly and sometimes quaint answers to the unceasing stream of remarks that were meant to wound his feelings, to make him look a fool before any boys that happened to be about. He had only countered with a mild: "What do you do that for, Pelly?" when the brave one smacked his head. "Because I hate sneaks and funks," Pelly had replied and Meyrick said no more. Rawson took a smaller size in victims when it was a question of physical torments; but he had invented a most offensive tale about Meyrick and had told it all over the school, where it was universally believed. In a word, the two had done their utmost to reduce him to a state of utter misery; and now he was sorry that he had punched the nose of one and bombarded the other with a dictionary! The fact was that his forebearance had not been all cowardice; it is, indeed, doubtful whether he was in the real sense a coward at all. He went in fear, it is true, all his days, but what he feared was not the insult, but the intention, the malignancy of which the insult, or the blow, was the outward sign. The fear of a mad bull is quite distinct from the horror with which most people look upon a viper; it was the latter feeling which made Meyrick's life a burden to him. And again there was a more curious shade of feeling; and that was the intense hatred that he felt to the mere thought of "scoring" off an antagonist, of beating down the enemy. He was a much sharper lad than either Rawson or Pelly; he could have retorted again and again with crushing effect, but he held his tongue, for all such victories were detestable to him. And this odd sentiment governed all his actions and feelings; he disliked "going up" in form, he disliked winning a game, not through any acquired virtue, but by inherent nature. Poe would have understood Meyrick's feelings; but then the author of _The Imp of the Perverse_ penetrated so deeply into the inmost secrets of humanity that Anglo-Saxon criticism has agreed in denouncing him as a wholly "inhuman" writer. With Meyrick this mode of feeling had grown stronger by provocation; the more he was injured, the more he shrank from the thought of returning the injury. In a great measure the sentiment remained with him in later life. He would sally forth from his den in quest of fresh air on top of an omnibus and stroll peacefully back again rather than struggle for victory with the furious crowd. It was not so much that he disliked the physical contest: he was afraid of getting a seat! Quite naturally, he said that people who "pushed," in the metaphorical sense, always reminded him of the hungry little pigs fighting for the largest share of the wash; but he seemed to think that, whereas this course of action was natural in the little pigs, it was profoundly unnatural in the little men. But in his early boyhood he had carried this secret doctrine of his to its utmost limits; he had assumed, as it were, the rôle of the coward and the funk; he had, without any conscious religious motive certainly, but in obedience to an inward command, endeavoured to play the part of a Primitive Christian, of a religious, in a great Public School! _Ama nesciri et pro nihilo æstimari._ The maxim was certainly in his heart, though he had never heard it; but perhaps if he had searched the whole world over he could not have found a more impossible field for its exercise than this seminary, where the broad, liberal principles of Christianity were taught in a way that satisfied the Press, the public and the parents. And he sat in his room and grieved over the fashion in which he had broken this discipline. Still, something had to be done: he was compelled to stay in this place, and he did not wish to be reduced to the imbecility of wretched little Phipps who had become at last more like a whimpering kitten with the mange than a human being. One had not the right to allow oneself to be made an idiot, so the principle had to be infringed--but externally only, never internally! Of that he was firmly resolved; and he felt secure in his recollection that there had been no anger in his heart. He resented the presence of Pelly and Rawson, certainly, but in the manner with which some people resent the presence of a cat, a mouse, or a black-beetle, as disagreeable objects which can't help being disagreeable objects. But his bashing of Pelly and his smashing of Rawson, his remarks (gathered from careful observation by the banks of the Lupton and Birmingham Canal); all this had been but the means to an end, the securing of peace and quiet for the future. He would not be murdered by this infernal Public School system either, after the fashion of Phipps--which was melancholy, or after the fashion of the rest--which was more melancholy still, since it is easier to recover from nervous breakdown than from suffusion of cant through the entire system, mental and spiritual. Utterly from his heart he abjured and renounced all the horrible shibboleths of the school, its sham enthusiasm, its "ethos," its "tone," its "loyal co-operation--masters and boys working together for the good of the whole school"--all its ridiculous fetish conventions and absurd observances, the joint contrivances of young fools and old knaves. But his resistance should be secret and not open, for a while; there should be no more "bashing" than was absolutely necessary. And one thing he resolved upon--he would make all he could out of the place; he would work like a tiger and get all the Latin and Greek and French obtainable, in spite of the teaching and its imbecile pedantry. The school work must be done, so that trouble might be avoided, but here at night in his room he would really learn the languages they pottered over in form, wasting half their time in writing sham Ciceronian prose which would have made Cicero sick, and verse evil enough to cause Virgil to vomit. Then there was French, taught chiefly out of pompous eighteenth-century fooleries, with lists of irregular verbs to learn and Babylonish nonsense about the past participle, and many other rotten formulas and rules, giving to the whole tongue the air of a tiresome puzzle which had been dug up out of a prehistoric grave. This was not the French that he wanted; still, he could write out irregular verbs by day and learn the language at night. He wondered whether unhappy French boys had to learn English out of the _Rambler_, Blair's _Sermons_ and Young's _Night Thoughts_. For he had some sort of smattering of English literature which a Public School boy has no business to possess. So he went on with this mental tirade of his: one is not over-wise at fifteen. It is true enough, perhaps, that the French of the average English schoolboy is something fit to move only pity and terror; it may be true also that nobody except Deans and schoolmasters seems to bring away even the formulas and sacred teachings (such as the Optative mystery and the Doctrine of Dum) of the two great literatures. There is, doubtless, a good deal to be said on the subject of the Public Schoolman's knowledge of the history and literature of his own country; an infinite deal of comic stuff might be got out of his views and acquirements in the great science of theology--still let us say, _Floreat_! Meyrick turned from his review of the wisdom of his elders and instructors to more intimate concerns. There were a few cuts of that vigorous cane which still stung and hurt most abominably, for skill or fortune had guided Mr. Horbury's hand so that he had been enabled here and there to get home twice in the same place, and there was one particular weal on the left arm where the flesh, purple and discoloured, had swelled up and seemed on the point of bursting. It was no longer with rage, but with a kind of rapture, that he felt the pain and smarting; he looked upon the ugly marks of the High Usher's evil humours as though they had been a robe of splendour. For he knew nothing of that bad sherry, nothing of the Head's conversation; he knew that when Pelly had come in quite as late it had only been a question of a hundred lines, and so he persisted in regarding himself as a martyr in the cause of those famous "Norman arches," which was the cause of that dear dead enthusiast, his father, who loved Gothic architecture and all other beautiful "unpractical" things with an undying passion. As soon as Ambrose could walk he had begun his pilgrimages to hidden mystic shrines; his father had led him over the wild lands to places known perhaps only to himself, and there, by the ruined stones, by the smooth hillock, had told the tale of the old vanished time, the time of the "old saints." III It was for this blessed and wonderful learning, he said to himself, that he had been beaten, that his body had been scored with red and purple stripes. He remembered his father's oft-repeated exclamation, "cythrawl Sais!" He understood that the phrase damned not Englishmen _qua_ Englishmen, but Anglo-Saxonism--the power of the creed that builds Manchester, that "does business," that invents popular dissent, representative government, adulteration, suburbs, and the Public School system. It was, according to his father, the creed of "the Prince of this world," the creed that made for comfort, success, a good balance at the bank, the praise of men, the sensible and tangible victory and achievement; and he bade his little boy, who heard everything and understood next to nothing, fly from it, hate it and fight against it as he would fight against the devil--"and," he would add, "it _is_ the only devil you are ever likely to come across." And the little Ambrose had understood not much of all this, and if he had been asked--even at fifteen--what it all meant, he would probably have said that it was a great issue between Norman mouldings and Mr. Horbury, an Armageddon of Selden Abbey _versus_ rocker. Indeed, it is doubtful whether old Nicholas Meyrick would have been very much clearer, for he forgot everything that might be said on the other side. He forgot that Anglo-Saxonism (save in the United States of America) makes generally for equal laws; that civil riot ("Labour" movements, of course, excepted) is more a Celtic than a Saxon vice; that the penalty of burning alive is unknown amongst Anglo-Saxons, unless the provocation be extreme; that Englishmen have substituted "Indentured Labour" for the old-world horrors of slavery; that English justice smites the guilty rich equally with the guilty poor; that men are no longer poisoned with swift and secret drugs, though somewhat unwholesome food may still be sold very occasionally. Indeed, the old Meyrick once told his rector that he considered a brothel a house of sanctity compared with a modern factory, and he was beginning to relate some interesting tales concerning the Three Gracious Courtesans of the Isle of Britain when the rector fled in horror--he came from Sydenham. And all this was a nice preparation for Lupton. A wonderful joy, an ecstasy of bliss, swelled in Ambrose's heart as he assured himself that he was a witness, though a mean one, for the old faith, for the faith of secret and beautiful and hidden mysteries as opposed to the faith of rocker and sticker and mucker, and "the thought of the school as an inspiring motive in life"--the text on which the Head had preached the Sunday before. He bared his arms and kissed the purple swollen flesh and prayed that it might ever be so, that in body and mind and spirit he might ever be beaten and reviled and made ridiculous for the sacred things, that he might ever be on the side of the despised and the unsuccessful, that his life might ever be in the shadow--in the shadow of the mysteries. He thought of the place in which he was, of the hideous school, the hideous town, the weary waves of the dun Midland scenery bounded by the dim, hopeless horizon; and his soul revisited the faery hills and woods and valleys of the West. He remembered how, long ago, his father had roused him early from sleep in the hush and wonder of a summer morning. The whole world was still and windless; all the magic odours of the night rose from the earth, and as they crossed the lawn the silence was broken by the enchanted song of a bird rising from a thorn tree by the gate. A high white vapour veiled the sky, and they only knew that the sun had risen by the brightening of this veil, by the silvering of the woods and the meadows and the water in the rejoicing brook. They crossed the road, and crossed the brook in the field beneath, by the old foot-bridge tremulous with age, and began to climb the steep hillside that one could see from the windows, and, the ridge of the hill once surmounted, the little boy found himself in an unknown land: he looked into deep, silent valleys, watered by trickling streams; he saw still woods in that dreamlike morning air; he saw winding paths that climbed into yet remoter regions. His father led him onward till they came to a lonely height--they had walked scarcely two miles, but to Ambrose it seemed a journey into another world--and showed him certain irregular markings in the turf. And Nicholas Meyrick murmured: "The cell of Iltyd is by the seashore, The ninth wave washes its altar, There is a fair shrine in the land of Morgan. "The cell of Dewi is in the City of the Legions, Nine altars owe obedience to it, Sovereign is the choir that sings about it. "The cell of Cybi is the treasure of Gwent, Nine hills are its perpetual guardians, Nine songs befit the memory of the saint." "See," he said, "there are the Nine Hills." He pointed them out to the boy, telling him the tale of the saint and his holy bell, which they said had sailed across the sea from Syon and had entered the Severn, and had entered the Usk, and had entered the Soar, and had entered the Canthwr; and so one day the saint, as he walked beside the little brook that almost encompassed the hill in its winding course, saw the bell "that was made of metal that no man might comprehend," floating under the alders, and crying: "_Sant, sant, sant, I sail from Syon To Cybi Sant!_" "And so sweet was the sound of that bell," Ambrose's father went on, "that they said it was as the joy of angels _ym Mharadwys_, and that it must have come not from the earthly, but from the heavenly and glorious Syon." And there they stood in the white morning, on the uneven ground that marked the place where once the Saint rang to the sacrifice, where the quickening words were uttered after the order of the Old Mass of the Britons. "And then came the Yellow Hag of Pestilence, that destroyed the bodies of the Cymri; then the Red Hag of Rome, that caused their souls to stray; last is come the Black Hag of Geneva, that sends body and soul quick to hell. No honour have the saints any more." Then they turned home again, and all the way Ambrose thought he heard the bell as it sailed the great deeps from Syon, crying aloud: "Sant, Sant, Sant!" And the sound seemed to echo from the glassy water of the little brook, as it swirled and rippled over the shining stones circling round those lonely hills. So they made strange pilgrimages over the beloved land, going farther and farther afield as the boy grew older. They visited deep wells in the heart of the woods, where a few broken stones, perhaps, were the last remains of the hermitage. "Ffynnon Ilar Bysgootwr--the well of Saint Ilar the Fisherman," Nicholas Meyrick would explain, and then would follow the story of Ilar; how no man knew whence he came or who his parents were. He was found, a little child, on a stone in a river in Armorica, by King Alan, and rescued by him. And ever after they discovered on the stone in the river where the child had lain every day a great and shining fish lying, and on this fish Ilar was nourished. And so he came with a great company of the saints to Britain, and wandered over all the land. "So at last Ilar Sant came to this wood, which people now call St. Hilary's wood because they have forgotten all about Ilar. And he was weary with his wandering, and the day was very hot; so he stayed by this well and began to drink. And there on that great stone he saw the shining fish, and so he rested, and built an altar and a church of willow boughs, and offered the sacrifice not only for the quick and the dead, but for all the wild beasts of the woods and the streams. "And when this blessed Ilar rang his holy bell and began to offer, there came not only the Prince and his servants, but all the creatures of the wood. There, under the hazel boughs, you might see the hare, which flies so swiftly from men, come gently and fall down, weeping greatly on account of the Passion of the Son of Mary. And, beside the hare, the weasel and the pole-cat would lament grievously in the manner of penitent sinners; and wolves and lambs together adored the saint's hierurgy; and men have beheld tears streaming from the eyes of venomous serpents when Ilar Agios uttered 'Curiluson' with a loud voice--since the serpent is not ignorant that by its wickedness sorrow came to the whole world. And when, in the time of the holy ministry, it is necessary that frequent Alleluyas should be chanted and vociferated, the saint wondered what should be done, for as yet none in that place was skilled in the art of song. Then was a great miracle, since from all the boughs of the wood, from every bush and from every green tree, there resounded Alleluyas in enchanting and prolonged harmony; never did the Bishop of Rome listen to so sweet a singing in his church as was heard in this wood. For the nightingale and thrush and blackbird and blackcap, and all their companions, are gathered together and sing praises to the Lord, chanting distinct notes and yet concluding in a melody of most ravishing sweetness; such was the mass of the Fisherman. Nor was this all, for one day as the saint prayed beside the well he became aware that a bee circled round and round his head, uttering loud buzzing sounds, but not endeavouring to sting him. To be short; the bee went before Ilar, and led him to a hollow tree not far off, and straightway a swarm of bees issued forth, leaving a vast store of wax behind them. This was their oblation to the Most High, for from their wax Ilar Sant made goodly candles to burn at the Offering; and from that time the bee is holy, because his wax makes light to shine upon the Gifts." This was part of the story that Ambrose's father read to him; and they went again to see the Holy Well. He looked at the few broken and uneven stones that were left to distinguish it from common wells; and there in the deep green wood, in the summer afternoon, under the woven boughs, he seemed to hear the strange sound of the saint's bell, to see the woodland creatures hurrying through the undergrowth that they might be present at the Offering. The weasel beat his little breast for his sins; the big tears fell down the gentle face of the hare; the adders wept in the dust; and all the chorus of the birds sang: "Alleluya, Alleluya, Alleluya!" Once they drove a long way from the Wern, going towards the west, till they came to the Great Mountain, as the people called it. After they had turned from the high road they went down a narrow lane, and this led them with many windings to a lower ridge of the mountain, where the horse and trap were put up at a solitary tavern. Then they began to toil upward on foot, crossing many glistening and rejoicing streams that rushed out cold from the limestone rock, mounting up and up, through the wet land where the rare orchis grew amongst the rushes, through hazel brakes, through fields that grew wilder as they still went higher, and the great wind came down from the high dome above them. They turned, and all the shining land was unrolled before them; the white houses were bright in the sunlight, and there, far away, was the yellow sea and the two islands, and the coasts beyond. Nicholas Meyrick pointed out a tuft of trees on a hill a long way off and told his son that the Wern was hidden beyond it; and then they began to climb once more, till they came at last to the line where the fields and hedges ended, and above there was only the wild mountain land. And on this verge stood an old farmhouse with strong walls, set into the rock, sheltered a little from the winds by a line of twisted beeches. The walls of the house were gleaming white, and by the porch there was a shrub covered with bright yellow flowers. Mr. Meyrick beat upon the oak door, painted black and studded with heavy nails. An old man, dressed like a farmer, opened it, and Ambrose noticed that his father spoke to him with something of reverence in his voice, as if he were some very great person. They sat down in a long room, but dimly lighted by the thick greenish glass in the quarried window, and presently the old farmer set a great jug of beer before them. They both drank heartily enough, and Mr. Meyrick said: "Aren't you about the last to brew your own beer, Mr. Cradock?" "Iss; I be the last of all. They do all like the muck the brewer sends better than _cwrw dda_." "The whole world likes muck better than good drink, now." "You be right, Sir. Old days and old ways of our fathers, they be gone for ever. There was a blasted preacher down at the chapel a week or two ago, saying--so they do tell me--that they would all be damned to hell unless they took to ginger-beer directly. Iss indeed now; and I heard that he should say that a man could do a better day's work on that rot-belly stuff than on good beer. Wass you ever hear of such a liarr as that?" The old man was furious at the thought of these infamies and follies; his esses hissed through his teeth and his r's rolled out with fierce emphasis. Mr. Meyrick nodded his approval of this indignation. "We have what we deserve," he said. "False preachers, bad drink, the talk of fools all the day long--even on the mountain. What is it like, do you think, in London?" There fell a silence in the long, dark room. They could hear the sound of the wind in the beech trees, and Ambrose saw how the boughs were tossed to and fro, and he thought of what it must be like in winter nights, here, high upon the Great Mountain, when the storms swept up from the sea, or descended from the wilds of the north; when the shafts of rain were like the onset of an army, and the winds screamed about the walls. "May we see It?" said Mr. Meyrick suddenly. "I did think you had come for that. There be very few now that remember." He went out, and returned carrying a bunch of keys. Then he opened a door in the room and warned "the young master" to take care of the steps. Ambrose, indeed, could scarcely see the way. His father led him down a short flight of uneven stone steps, and they were in a room which seemed at first quite dark, for the only light came from a narrow window high up in the wall, and across the glass there were heavy iron bars. Cradock lit two tall candles of yellow wax that stood in brass candlesticks on a table; and, as the flame grew clear, Ambrose saw that he was opening a sort of aumbry constructed in the thickness of the wall. The door was a great slab of solid oak, three or four inches thick--as one could see when it was opened--and from the dark place within the farmer took an iron box and set it carefully upon the floor, Mr. Meyrick helping him. They were strong men, but they staggered under the weight of the chest; the iron seemed as thick as the door of the cupboard from which it was taken, and the heavy, antique lock yielded, with a grating scream, to the key. Inside it there was another box of some reddish metal, which, again, held a case of wood black with age; and from this, with reverent hands, the farmer drew out a veiled and splendid cup and set it on the table between the two candles. It was a bowl-like vessel of the most wonderful workmanship, standing on a short stem. All the hues of the world were mingled on it, all the jewels of the regions seemed to shine from it; and the stem and foot were encrusted with work in enamel, of strange and magical colours that shone and dimmed with alternating radiance, that glowed with red fires and pale glories, with the blue of the far sky, the green of the faery seas, and the argent gleam of the evening star. But before Ambrose had gazed more than a moment he heard the old man say, in pure Welsh, not in broken English, in a resonant and chanting voice: "Let us fall down and adore the marvellous and venerable work of the Lord God Almighty." To which his father responded: "Agyos, Agyos, Agyos. Mighty and glorious is the Lord God Almighty, in all His works and wonderful operations. Curiluson, Curiluson, Curiluson." They knelt down, Cradock in the midst, before the cup, and Ambrose and his father on either hand. The holy vessel gleamed before the boy's eyes, and he saw clearly its wonder and its beauty. All its surface was a marvel of the most delicate intertwining lines in gold and silver, in copper and in bronze, in all manner of metals and alloys; and these interlacing patterns in their brightness, in the strangeness of their imagery and ornament, seemed to enthral his eyes and capture them, as it were, in a maze of enchantment; and not only the eyes; for the very spirit was rapt and garnered into that far bright world whence the holy magic of the cup proceeded. Among the precious stones which were set into the wonder was a great crystal, shining with the pure light of the moon; about the rim of it there was the appearance of faint and feathery clouds, but in the centre it was a white splendour; and as Ambrose gazed he thought that from the heart of this jewel there streamed continually a shower of glittering stars, dazzling his eyes with their incessant motion and brightness. His body thrilled with a sudden ineffable rapture, his breath came and went in quick pantings; bliss possessed him utterly as the three crowned forms passed in their golden order. Then the interwoven sorcery of the vessel became a ringing wood of golden, and bronze, and silver trees; from every side resounded the clear summons of the holy bells and the exultant song of the faery birds; he no longer heard the low-chanting voices of Cradock and his father as they replied to one another in the forms of some antique liturgy. Then he stood by a wild seashore; it was a dark night, and there was a shrilling wind that sang about the peaks of the sharp rock, answering to the deep voices of the heaving sea. A white moon, of fourteen days old, appeared for a moment in the rift between two vast black clouds, and the shaft of light showed all the savage desolation of the shore--cliffs that rose up into mountains, into crenellated heights that were incredible, whose bases were scourged by the torrents of hissing foam that were driven against them from the hollow-sounding sea. Then, on the highest of those awful heights, Ambrose became aware of walls and spires, of towers and battlements that must have touched the stars; and, in the midst of this great castle, there surged up the aspiring vault of a vast church, and all its windows were ablaze with a light so white and glorious that it was as if every pane were a diamond. And he heard the voices of a praising host, or the clamour of golden trumpets and the unceasing choir of the angels. And he knew that this place was the Sovereign Perpetual Choir, Cor-arbennic, into whose secret the deadly flesh may scarcely enter. But in the vision he lay breathless, on the floor before the gleaming wall of the sanctuary, while the shadows of the hierurgy were enacted; and it seemed to him that, for a moment of time, he saw in unendurable light the Mystery of Mysteries pass veiled before him, and the Image of the Slain and Risen. For a brief while this dream was broken. He heard his father singing softly: "Gogoniant y Tâd ac y Mab ac yr Yspryd Glân." And the old man answered: "Agya Trias eleeson ymas." Then again his spirit was lost in the bright depths of the crystal, and he saw the ships of the saints, without oar or sail, afloat on the faery sea, seeking the Glassy Isle. All the whole company of the Blessed Saints of the Isle of Britain sailed on the adventure; dawn and sunset, night and morning, their illuminated faces never wavered; and Ambrose thought that at last they saw bright shores in the dying light of a red sun, and there came to their nostrils the scent of the deep apple-garths in Avalon, and odours of Paradise. * * * * * When he finally returned to the presence of earthly things he was standing by his father; while Cradock reverently wrapped the cup in the gleaming veils which covered it, saying as he did so, in Welsh: "Remain in peace, O holy and divine cup of the Lord. Henceforth I know not whether I shall return to thee or not; but may the Lord vouchsafe me to see thee in the Church of the Firstborn which is in Heaven, on the Altar of the Sacrifice which is from age unto ages." Ambrose went up the steps and out into the sunshine on the mountain side with the bewilderment of strange dreams, as a coloured mist, about him. He saw the old white walls, the yellow blossoms by the porch; above, the wild, high mountain wall; and, below, all the dear land of Gwent, happy in the summer air, all its woods and fields, its rolling hills and its salt verge, rich in a golden peace. Beside him the cold water swelled from the earth and trickled from the grey rock, and high in the air an exultant lark was singing. The mountain breeze was full of life and gladness, and the rustling and tossing of the woods, the glint and glimmer of the leaves beneath, made one think that the trees, with every creature, were merry on that day. And in that dark cell beneath many locks, beneath wood and iron, concealed in golden, glittering veils, lay hidden that glorious and awful cup, glass of wonderful vision, portal and entrance of the Spiritual Place. His father explained to him something of that which he had seen. He told him that the vessel was the Holy Cup of Teilo sant, which he was said to have received from the Lord in the state of Paradise, and that when Teilo said Mass, using that Chalice, the choir of angels was present visibly; that it was a cup of wonders and mysteries, the bestower of visions and heavenly graces. "But whatever you do," he said, "do not speak to anyone of what you have seen to-day, because if you do the mystery will be laughed at and blasphemed. Do you know that your uncle and aunt at Lupton would say that we were all mad together? That is because they are fools, and in these days most people are fools, and malignant fools too, as you will find out for yourself before you are much older. So always remember that you must hide the secrets that you have seen; and if you do not do so you will be sorry." Mr. Meyrick told his son why old Cradock was to be treated with respect--indeed, with reverence. "He is just what he looks," he said, "an old farmer with a small freehold up here on the mountain side; and, as you heard, his English is no better than that of any other farmer in this country. And, compared with Cradock, the Duke of Norfolk is a man of yesterday. He is of the tribe of Teilo the Saint; he is the last, in direct descent, of the hereditary keepers of the holy cup; and his race has guarded that blessed relic for thirteen hundred years. Remember, again, that to-day, on this mountain, you have seen great marvels which you must keep in silence." Poor Ambrose! He suffered afterwards for his forgetfulness of his father's injunction. Soon after he went to Lupton one of the boys was astonishing his friends with a brilliant account of the Crown jewels, which he had viewed during the Christmas holidays. Everybody was deeply impressed, and young Meyrick, anxious to be agreeable in his turn, began to tell about the wonderful cup that he had once seen in an old farmhouse. Perhaps his manner was not convincing, for the boys shrieked with laughter over his description. A monitor who was passing asked to hear the joke, and, having been told the tale, clouted Ambrose over the head for an infernal young liar. This was a good lesson, and it served Ambrose in good stead when one of the masters having, somehow or other, heard the story, congratulated him in the most approved scholastic manner before the whole form on his wonderful imaginative gifts. "I see the budding novelist in you, Meyrick," said this sly master. "Besant and Rice will be nowhere when you once begin. I suppose you are studying character just at present? Let us down gently, won't you? [To the delighted form.] We must be careful, mustn't we, how we behave? 'A chiel's amang us takin' notes,'" etc. etc. But Meyrick held his tongue. He did not tell his form master that he was a beast, a fool and a coward, since he had found out that the truth, like many precious things, must often be concealed from the profane. A late vengeance overtook that foolish master. Long years after, he was dining at a popular London restaurant, and all through dinner he had delighted the ladies of his party by the artful mixture of brutal insolence and vulgar chaff with which he had treated one of the waiters, a humble-looking little Italian. The master was in the highest spirits at the success of his persiflage; his voice rose louder and louder, and his offensiveness became almost supernaturally acute. And then he received a heavy earthen casserole, six quails, a few small onions and a quantity of savoury but boiling juices full in the face. The waiter was a Neapolitan. The hours of the night passed on, as Ambrose sat in his bedroom at the Old Grange, recalling many wonderful memories, dreaming his dreams of the mysteries, of the land of Gwent and the land of vision, just as his uncle, but a few yards away in another room of the house, was at the same time rapt into the world of imagination, seeing the new Lupton descending like a bride from the heaven of headmasters. But Ambrose thought of the Great Mountain, of the secret valleys, of the sanctuaries and hallows of the saints, of the rich carven work of lonely churches hidden amongst the hills and woods. There came into his mind the fragment of an old poem which he loved: "In the darkness of old age let not my memory fail, Let me not forget to celebrate the beloved land of Gwent. If they imprison me in a deep place, in a house of pestilence, Still shall I be free, when I remember the sunshine upon Mynydd Maen. There have I listened to the singing of the lark, my soul has ascended with the song of the little bird; The great white clouds were the ships of my spirit, sailing to the haven of the Almighty. Equally to be held in honour is the site of the Great Mountain, Adorned with the gushing of many waters-- Sweet is the shade of its hazel thickets, There a treasure is preserved, which I will not celebrate, It is glorious, and deeply concealed. If Teilo should return, if happiness were restored to the Cymri, Dewi and Dyfrig should serve his Mass; then a great marvel would be made visible. O blessed and miraculous work, then should my bliss be as the bliss of angels; I had rather behold this Offering than kiss the twin lips of dark Gwenllian. Dear my land of Gwent, _O quam dilecta tabernacula_! Thy rivers are like precious golden streams of Paradise, Thy hills are as the Mount Syon-- Better a grave on Twyn Barlwm than a throne in the palace of the Saxons at Caer-Ludd." And then, by the face of contrast, he thought of the first verse of the great school song, "Rocker," one of the earliest of the many poems which his uncle had consecrated to the praise of the dear old school: "Once on a time, in the books that bore me, I read that in olden days before me Lupton town had a wonderful game, It was a game with a noble story (Lupton town was then in its glory, Kings and Bishops had brought it fame). It was a game that you all must know, And 'rocker' they called it, long ago. _Chorus._ "Look out for 'brooks,' or you're sure to drown, Look out for 'quarries,' or else you're down-- That was the way 'Rocker' to play-- Once on a day That was the way, Once on a day, That was the way that they used to play in Lupton town." Thinking of the two songs, he put out his light and, wearied, fell into a deep sleep. IV The British schoolboy, considered in a genial light by those who have made him their special study, has not been found to be either observant or imaginative. Or, rather, it would be well to say that his powers of observation, having been highly specialised within a certain limited tract of thought and experience (bounded mainly by cricket and football), are but faint without these bounds; while it is one of the chiefest works of the System to kill, destroy, smash and bring to nothing any powers of imagination he may have originally possessed. For if this were not done thoroughly, neither a Conservative nor a Liberal administration would be possible, the House of Commons itself would cease to exist, the Episcopus (var. Anglicanus) would go the way of the Great Bustard; a "muddling through somehow" (which must have been _the_ brightest jewel in the British crown, wrung from King John by the barons) would become a lost art. And, since all these consequences would be clearly intolerable, the great Public Schools have perfected a very thorough system of destroying the imaginative toxin, and few cases of failure have been so far reported. Still, there are facts which not even the densest dullards, the most complete boobies, can help seeing; and a good many of the boys found themselves wondering "what was the matter with Meyrick" when they saw him at Chapel on the Sunday morning. The news of his astounding violences both of act and word on the night before had not yet circulated generally. Bates was attending to that department, but hadn't had time to do much so far; and the replies of Pelly and Rawson to enquiries after black eyes and a potato-like nose were surly and misleading. Afterwards, when the tale was told, when Bates, having enlarged the incidents to folk-lore size, showed Pelly lying in a pool of his own blood, Rawson screaming as with the torments of the lost and Meyrick rolling out oaths--all original and all terrible--for the space of a quarter of an hour, then indeed the school was satisfied; it was no wonder if Meyrick did look a bit queer after the achievement of such an adventure. The funk of aforetime had found courage; the air of rapture was easily understood. It is probable that if, in the nature of things, it had been possible for an English schoolboy to meet St. Francis of Assisi, the boy would have concluded that the saint must have just made 200 not out in first-class cricket. But Ambrose walked in a strange light; he had been admitted into worlds undreamed of, and from the first brightness of the sun, when he awoke in the morning in his room at the Grange, it was the material world about him, the walls of stone and brick, the solid earth, the sky itself, and the people who talked and moved and seemed alive--these were things of vision, unsubstantial shapes, odd and broken illusions of the mind. At half-past seven old Toby, the man-of-all-work at the old Grange banged at his door and let his clean boots fall with a crash on the boards after the usual fashion. He awoke, sat up in bed, staring about him. But what was this? The four walls covered with a foolish speckled paper, pale blue and pale brown, the white ceiling, the bare boards with the strip of carpet by the bedside: he knew nothing of all this. He was not horrified, because he knew that it was all non-existent, some plastic fantasy that happened to be presented for the moment to his brain. Even the big black wooden chest that held his books (_Parker_, despised by Horbury, among them) failed to appeal to him with any sense of reality; and the bird's-eye washstand and chest of drawers, the white water-jug with the blue band, were all frankly phantasmal. It reminded him of a trick he had sometimes played: one chose one's position carefully, shut an eye and, behold, a mean shed could be made to obscure the view of a mountain! So these walls and appurtenances made an illusory sort of intrusion into the true vision on which he gazed. That yellow washstand rising out of the shining wells of the undying, the speckled walls in the place of the great mysteries, a chest of drawers in the magic garden of roses--it had the air of a queer joke, and he laughed aloud to himself as he realized that he alone knew, that everybody else would say, "That is a white jug with a blue band," while he, and he only, saw the marvel and glory of the holy cup with its glowing metals, its interlacing myriad lines, its wonderful images, and its hues of the mountain and the stars, of the green wood and the faery sea where, in a sure haven, anchor the ships that are bound for Avalon. For he had a certain faith that he had found the earthly presentation and sacrament of the Eternal Heavenly Mystery. He smiled again, with the quaint smile of an angel in an old Italian picture, as he realized more fully the strangeness of the whole position and the odd humours which would relieve to play a wonderful game of make-believe; the speckled walls, for instance, were not really there, but he was to behave just as if they were solid realities. He would presently rise and go through an odd pantomine of washing and dressing, putting on brilliant boots, and going down to various mumbo-jumbo ceremonies called breakfast, chapel and dinner, in the company of appearances to whom he would accord all the honours due to veritable beings. And this delicious phantasmagoria would go on and on day after day, he alone having the secret; and what a delight it would be to "play up" at rocker! It seemed to him that the solid-seeming earth, the dear old school and rocker itself had all been made to minister to the acuteness of his pleasure; they were the darkness that made the light visible, the matter through which form was manifested. For the moment he enclosed in the most secret place of his soul the true world into which he had been guided; and as he dressed he hummed the favourite school song, "Never mind!" "If the umpire calls 'out' at your poor second over, If none of your hits ever turns out a 'rover,' If you fumble your fives and 'go rot' over sticker, If every hound is a little bit quicker; If you can't tackle rocker at all, not at all, And kick at the moon when you try for the ball, Never mind, never mind, never mind--if you fall, Dick falls before rising, Tom's short ere he's tall, Never mind! Don't be one of the weakest who go to the wall: Never mind!" Ambrose could not understand how Columbus could have blundered so grossly. Somehow or other he should have contrived to rid himself of his crew; he should have returned alone, with a dismal tale of failure, and passed the rest of his days as that sad and sorry charlatan who had misled the world with his mad whimsies of a continent beyond the waters of the Atlantic. If he had been given wisdom to do this, how great--how wonderful would his joys have been! They would have pointed at him as he paced the streets in his shabby cloak; the boys would have sung songs about him and his madness; the great people would have laughed contemptuously as he went by. And he would have seen in his heart all that vast far world of the west, the rich islands barred by roaring surf, a whole hemisphere of strange regions and strange people; he would have known that he alone possessed the secret of it. But, after all, Ambrose knew that his was a greater joy even than this; for the world that he had discovered was not far across the seas, but within him. Pelly stared straight before him in savage silence all through breakfast; he was convinced that mere hazard had guided that crushing blow, and he was meditating schemes of complete and exemplary vengeance. He noticed nothing strange about Meyrick, nor would he have cared if he had seen the images of the fairies in his eyes. Rawson, on the other hand, was full of genial civility and good fellowship; it was "old chap" and "old fellow" every other word. But he was far from unintelligent, and, as he slyly watched Meyrick, he saw that there was something altogether unaccustomed and incomprehensible. Unknown lights burned and shone in the eyes, reflections of one knew not what; the expression was altered in some queer way that he could not understand. Meyrick had always been a rather ugly, dogged-looking fellow; his black hair and something that was not usual in the set of his features gave him an exotic, almost an Oriental appearance; hence a story of Rawson's to the effect that Meyrick's mother was a nigger woman in poor circumstances and of indifferent morality had struck the school as plausible enough. But now the grimness of the rugged features seemed abolished; the face shone, as it were, with the light of a flame--but a flame of what fire? Rawson, who would not have put his observations into such terms, drew his own conclusions readily enough and imparted them to Pelly after Chapel. "Look here, old chap," he said, "did you notice young Meyrick at breakfast?" Pelly simply blasted Meyrick and announced his intention of giving him the worst thrashing he had ever had at an early date. "Don't you try it on," said Rawson. "I had my eye on him all the time. He didn't see I was spotting him. He's cracked; he's dangerous. I shouldn't wonder if he were in a strait waistcoat in the County Lunatic Asylum in a week's time. My governor had a lot to do with lunatics, and he always says he can tell by the eyes. I'll swear Meyrick is raging mad." "Oh, rot!" said Pelly. "What do you know about it?" "Well, look out, old chap, and don't say I didn't give you the tip. Of course, you know a maniac is stronger than three ordinary men? The only thing is to get them down and crack their ribs. But you want at least half a dozen men before you can do it." "Oh, shut up!" So Rawson said no more, remaining quite sure that he had diagnosed Ambrose's symptoms correctly. He waited for the catastrophe with a dreadful joy, wondering whether Meyrick would begin by cutting old Horbury's throat with his own razor, or whether he would rather steal into Pelly's room at night and tear him limb from limb, a feat which, as a madman, he could, of course, accomplish with perfect ease. As a matter of fact, neither of these events happened. Pelly, a boy of the bulldog breed, smacked Ambrose's face a day or two later before a huge crowd of boys, and received in return such a terrific blow under the left ear that a formal fight in the Tom Brown manner was out of the question. Pelly reached the ground and stayed there in an unconscious state for some while; and the other boys determined that it would be as well to leave Meyrick to himself. He might be cracked but he was undoubtedly a hard hitter. As for Pelly, like the sensible fellow that he was, he simply concluded that Meyrick was too good for him. He did not quite understand it; he dimly suspected the intrusion of some strange forces, but with such things he had nothing to do. It was a fair knock-out, and there was an end of it. Bates had glanced up as Ambrose came into the dining-room on the Sunday morning. He saw the shining face, the rapturous eyes, and had silently wondered, recognising the presence of elements which transcended all his calculations. Meanwhile the Lupton Sunday went on after its customary fashion. At eleven o'clock the Chapel was full of boys. There were nearly six hundred of them there, the big ones in frock-coats, with high, pointed collars, which made them look like youthful Gladstones. The younger boys wore broad, turn-down collars and had short, square jackets made somewhat in the Basque fashion. Young and old had their hair cut close to the scalp, and this gave them all a brisk but bullety appearance. The masters, in cassock, gown and hood, occupied the choir stalls. Mr. Horbury, the High Usher, clothed in a flowing surplice, was taking Morning Prayer, and the Head occupied a kind of throne by the altar. The Chapel was not an inspiring building. It was the fourteenth century, certainly, but the fourteenth century translated by 1840, and, it is to be feared, sadly betrayed by the translators. The tracery of the windows was poor and shallow; the mouldings of the piers and arches faulty to a degree; the chancel was absurdly out of proportion, and the pitch-pine benches and stalls had a sticky look. There was a stained-glass window in memory of the Old Luptonians who fell in the Crimea. One wondered what the Woman of Samaria by the Well had to do either with Lupton or the Crimea. And the colouring was like that used in very common, cheap sweets. The service went with a rush. The prayers, versicles and responses, and psalms were said, the officiant and the congregation rather pressing than pausing--often, indeed, coming so swiftly to cues that two or three words at the end of one verse or two or three at the beginning of the next would be lost in a confused noise of contending voices. But _Venite_ and _Te Deum_ and _Benedictus_ were rattled off to frisky Anglicans with great spirit; sometimes the organ tooted, sometimes it bleated gently, like a flock of sheep; now one might have sworn that the music of penny whistles stole on the ear, and again, as the organist coupled up the full organ, using suddenly all the battery of his stops, a gas explosion and a Salvation Army band seemed to strive against one another. A well-known nobleman who had been to Chapel at Lupton was heard to say, with reference to this experience: "I am no Ritualist, heaven knows--but I confess I like a hearty service." But it was, above all, the sermon that has made the Chapel a place of many memories. The Old Boys say--and one supposes that they are in earnest--that the tall, dignified figure of the Doctor, standing high above them all, his scarlet hood making a brilliant splash of colour against the dingy, bilious paint of the pale green walls, has been an inspiration to them in all quarters of the globe, in all manner of difficulties and temptations. One man writes that in the midst of a complicated and dangerous deal on the Stock Exchange he remembered a sermon of Dr. Chesson's called in the printed volume, "Fighting the Good Fight." "You have a phrase amongst you which I often hear," said the Head. "That phrase is 'Play the game,' and I wish to say that, though you know it not; though, it may be, the words are often spoken half in jest; still, they are but your modern, boyish rendering of the old, stirring message which I have just read to you. "Fight the Good Fight.' 'Play the Game.' Remember the words in the storm and struggle, the anxiety and stress that may be--nay, must be--before you--etc., etc., etc." "After the crisis was over," wrote the Stock Exchange man, "I was thankful that I _had_ remembered those words." "That voice sounding like a trumpet on the battle-field, bidding us all remember that Success was the prize of Effort and Endurance----" So writes a well-known journalist. "I remembered what the Doctor said to us once about 'running the race,'" says a young soldier, recounting a narrow escape from a fierce enemy, "so I stuck to my orders." Ambrose, on that Sunday morning, sat in his place, relishing acutely all the savours of the scene, consumed with inward mirth at the thought that this also professed to be a rite of religion. There was an aimless and flighty merriment about the chant to the _Te Deum_ that made it difficult for him to control his laughter; and when he joined in the hymn "Pleasant are Thy courts above," there was an odd choke in his voice that made the boy next to him shuffle uneasily. But the sermon! It will be found on page 125 of the _Lupton Sermons_. It dealt with the Parable of the Talents, and showed the boys in what the sin of the man who concealed his Talent really consisted. "I daresay," said the Head, "that many of the older amongst you have wondered what this man's sin really was. You may have read your Greek Testaments carefully, and then have tried to form in your minds some analogy to the circumstances of the parable--and it would not surprise me if you were to tell me that you had failed. "What manner of man was this? I can imagine your saying one to another. I shall not be astonished if you confess that, for you at least, the question seems unanswerable. "Yes; Unanswerable to you. For you are English boys, the sons of English gentlemen, to whom the atmosphere of casuistry, of concealment, of subtlety, is unknown; by whom such an atmosphere would be rejected with scorn. You come from homes where there is no shadow, no dark corner which must not be pried into. Your relations and your friends are not of those who hide their gifts from the light of day. Some of you, perhaps, have had the privilege of listening to the talk of one or other of the great statesmen who guide the doctrines of this vast Empire. You will have observed, I am sure, that in the world of politics there is no vain simulation of modesty, no feigned reluctance to speak of worthy achievement. All of you are members of this great community, of which each one of us is so proud, which we think of as the great inspiration and motive force of our lives. Here, you will say, there are no Hidden Talents, for the note of the English Public School (thank God for it!) is openness, frankness, healthy emulation; each endeavouring to do his best for the good of all. In our studies and in our games each desires to excel to carry off the prize. We strive for a corruptible crown, thinking that this, after all, is the surest discipline for the crown that is incorruptible. If a man say that he loveth God whom he hath not seen, and love not his brother whom he hath seen! Let your light _shine_ before men. Be sure that we shall never win Heaven by despising earth. "Yet that man hid his Talent in a napkin. What does the story mean? What message has it for us to-day? "I will tell you. "Some years ago during our summer holidays I was on a walking tour in a mountainous district in the north of England. The sky was of a most brilliant blue, the sun poured, as it were, a gospel of gladness on the earth. Towards the close of the day I was entering a peaceful and beautiful valley amongst the hills, when three sullen notes of a bell came down the breeze towards me. There was a pause. Again the three strokes, and for a third time this dismal summons struck my ears. I walked on in the direction of the sound, wondering whence it came and what it signified; and soon I saw before me a great pile of buildings, surrounded by a gloomy and lofty wall. "It was a Roman Catholic monastery. The bell was ringing the Angelus, as it is called. "I obtained admittance to this place and spoke to some of the unhappy monks. I should astonish you if I mentioned the names of some of the deluded men who had immured themselves in this prison-house. It is sufficient to say that among them were a soldier who had won distinction on the battle-field, an artist, a statesman and a physician of no mean repute. "Now do you understand? Ah! a day will come--you know, I think, what that day is called--when these poor men will have to answer the question: 'Where is the Talent that was given to you?' "'Where was your sword in the hour of your country's danger?' "'Where was your picture, your consecration of your art to the service of morality and humanity, when the doors of the great Exhibition were thrown open?' "'Where was your silver eloquence, your voice of persuasion, when the strife of party was at its fiercest?' "'Where was your God-given skill in healing when One of Royal Blood lay fainting on the bed of dire--almost mortal--sickness?' "And the answer? 'I laid it up in a napkin.' And now, etc., etc." Then the whole six hundred boys sang "O Paradise! O Paradise!" with a fervour and sincerity that were irresistible. The organ thundered till the bad glass shivered and rattled, and the service was over. V Almost the last words that Ambrose had heard after his wonderful awaking were odd enough, though at the time he took little note of them, since they were uttered amidst passionate embraces, amidst soft kisses on his poor beaten flesh. Indeed, if these words recurred to him afterwards, they never made much impression on his mind, though to most people they would seem of more serious import than much else that was uttered that night! The sentences ran something like this: "The cruel, wicked brute! He shall be sorry all his days, and every blow shall be a grief to him. My dear! I promise you he shall pay for to-night ten times over. His heart shall ache for it till it stops beating." There cannot be much doubt that this promise was kept to the letter. No one knew how wicked rumours concerning Mr. Horbury got abroad in Lupton, but from that very day the execution of the sentence began. In the evening the High Usher, paying a visit to a friend in town, took a short cut through certain dark, ill-lighted streets, and was suddenly horrified to hear his name shrieked out, coupled with a most disgusting accusation. His heart sank down in his breast; his face, he knew, was bloodless; and then he rushed forward to the malpassage whence the voice seemed to proceed. There was nothing there. It was a horrid little alley, leading from one slum to another, between low walls and waste back-gardens, dismal and lampless. Horbury ran at top speed to the end of it, but there was nothing to be done. A few women were gossiping at their doors, a couple of men slouched past on their way to the beer-shop at the corner--that was all. He asked one of the women if she had seen anybody running, and she said no, civilly enough--and yet he fancied that she had leered at him. He turned and went back home. He was not in the mood for paying visits. It was some time before he could compose his mind by assuring himself that the incident, though unpleasant, was not of the slightest significance. But from that day the nets were about his feet, and his fate was sealed. Personally, he was subjected to no further annoyance, and soon forgot that unpleasant experience in the back-street. But it seems certain that from that Sunday onwards a cloud of calumny overshadowed the High Usher in all his ways. No one said anything definite, but everyone appeared to be conscious of something unpleasant when Horbury's name was mentioned. People looked oddly at one another, and the subject was changed. One of the young masters, speaking to a colleague, did indeed allude casually to Horbury as Xanthias Phoceus. The other master, a middle-aged man, raised his eyebrows and shook his head without speaking. It is understood that these muttered slanders were various in their nature; but, as has been said, everything was indefinite, intangible as contagion--and as deadly to the master's worldly health. That horrible accusation which had been screamed out of the alley was credited by some; others agreed with the young master; while a few had a terrible story of an idiot girl in a remote Derbyshire village. And the persistence of all these fables was strange. It was four years before Henry Vibart Chesson, D. D., ascended the throne of St. Guthmund at Dorchester; and all through those four years the fountain of evil innuendo rose without ceasing. It is doubtful how far belief in the truth of these scandals was firm and settled, or how far they were in the main uttered and circulated by ill-natured people who disliked Horbury, but did not in their hearts believe him guilty of worse sins than pompousness and arrogance. The latter is the more probable opinion. Of course, the deliberations of the Trustees were absolutely secret, and the report that the Chairman, the Marquis of Dunham, said something about Cæsar's wife is a report and nothing more. It is evident that the London press was absolutely in the dark as to the existence of this strange conspiracy of vengeance, since two of the chief dailies took the appointment of the High Usher to the Headmastership as a foregone conclusion, prophesying, indeed, a rule of phenomenal success. And then Millward, a Winchester man, understood to be rather unsound on some scholastic matters--"not _quite_ the right man"; "just a _little_ bit of a Jesuit"--received the appointment, and people did begin to say that there must be a screw loose somewhere. And Horbury was overwhelmed, and began to die. The odd thing was that, save on that Sunday night, he never saw the enemy; he never suspected that there was an enemy; And as for the incident of the alley, after a little consideration he treated it with contempt. It was only some drunken beast in the town who knew him by sight and wished to be offensive, in the usual fashion of drunken beasts. And there was nothing else. Lupton society was much too careful to allow its suspicions to be known. A libel action meant, anyhow, a hideous scandal and might have no pleasant results for the libellers. Besides, no one wanted to offend Horbury, who was suspected of possessing a revengeful temper; and it had not dawned on the Lupton mind that the rumours they themselves were circulating would eventually ruin the High Usher's chances of the Headmastership. Each gossip heard, as it were, only his own mutter at the moment. He did not realize that when a great many people are muttering all at once an ugly noise of considerable volume is being produced. It is true that a few of the masters were somewhat cold in their manner. They lacked the social gift of dissimulation, and could not help showing their want of cordiality. But Horbury, who noticed this, put it down to envy and disaffection, and resolved that the large powers given him by the Trustees should not be in vain so far as the masters in question were concerned. Indeed, C. L. Wood, who was afterwards Headmaster of Marcester and died in Egypt a few years ago, had a curious story which in part relates to the masters in question, and perhaps throws some light on the extraordinary tale of Horbury's ruin. Wood was an old Luptonian. He was a mighty athlete in his time, and his records for the Long Jump and Throwing the Cricket Ball have not been beaten at Lupton to this day. He had been one of the first boarders taken at the Old Grange. The early relations between Horbury and himself had been continued in later life, and Wood was staying with his former master at the time when the Trustee's decision was announced. It is supposed, indeed, that Horbury had offered him a kind of unofficial, but still important, position in the New Model; in fact, Wood confessed over his port that the idea was that he should be a kind of "Intelligence Department" to the Head. He did not seem very clear as to the exact scope of his proposed duties. We may certainly infer, however, that they would have been of a very confidential nature, for Wood had jotted down his recollections of that fatal morning somewhat as follows: "I never saw Horbury in better spirits. Indeed, I remember thinking that he was younger than ever--younger than he was in the old days when he was a junior master and I was in the Third. Of course, he was always energetic; one could not disassociate the two notions of Horbury and energy, and I used to make him laugh by threatening to include the two terms in the new edition of my little book, _Latin and English Synonyms_. It did not matter whether he were taking the Fifth, or editing Classics for his boys, or playing rocker--one could not help rejoicing in the vivid and ebullient energy of the man. And perhaps this is one reason why shirkers and loafers dreaded him, as they certainly did. "But during those last few days at Lupton his vitality had struck me as quite superhuman. As all the world knows, his succession to the Headmastership was regarded by everyone as assured, and he was, naturally and properly, full of the great task which he believed was before him. This is not the place to argue the merits or demerits of the scheme which had been maturing for many years in his brain. "A few persons who, I cannot but think, have received very imperfect information on the subject, have denounced Horbury's views of the modern Public School as revolutionary. Revolutionary they certainly were, as an express engine is revolutionary compared to an ox-waggon. But those who think of the late Canon Horbury as indifferent to the good side of Public School traditions knew little of the real man. However, were his plans good or bad, they were certainly of vast scope, and on the first night of my visit he made me sit up with him till two o'clock while he expounded his ideas, some of which, as he was good enough to say, he trusted to me to carry out. He showed me the piles of MS. he had accumulated: hundreds of pages relating to the multiple departments of the great organisation which he was to direct, or rather to create; sheets of serried figures, sheaves of estimates which he had caused to be made out in readiness for immediate action. "Nothing was neglected. I remember seeing a note on the desirability of compiling a 'Lupton Hymn Book' for use in the Chapel, and another on the question of forming a Botanical Garden, so that the school botany might be learned from 'the green life,' as he beautifully expressed it, not from dry letterpress and indifferent woodcuts. Then, I think, on a corner of the 'Botany Leaf' was a jotting--a mere hasty scrawl, waiting development and consideration: 'Should we teach Hindustani? Write to Tucker _re_ the Moulvie Ahmed Khan.' "I despair of giving the reader any conception of the range and minuteness of these wonderful memoranda. I remember saying to Horbury that he seemed to be able to use the microscope and the telescope at the same time. He laughed joyously, and told me to wait till he was really at work. 'You will have your share, I promise you,' he added. His high spirits were extraordinary and infectious. He was an excellent _raconteur_, and now and again, amidst his talk of the New Lupton which he was about to translate from the idea into substance, he told some wonderful stories which I have not the heart to set down here. _Tu ne quæsieris._ I have often thought of those lines when I remember Horbury's intense happiness, the nervous energy which made the delay of a day or two seem almost intolerable. His brain and his fingers tingled, as it were, to set about the great work before him. He reminded me of a mighty host, awaiting but the glance of their general to rush forward with irresistible force. "There was not a trace of misgiving. Indeed, I should have been utterly astonished if I had seen anything of the kind. He told me, indeed, that for some time past he had suspected the existence of a sort of cabal or clique against him. 'A. and X., B. and Y., M. and N., and, I think, Z., are in it,' he said, naming several of the masters. 'They are jealous, I suppose, and want to make things as difficult as they can. They are all cowards, though, and I don't believe one of them--except, perhaps, M.--would fail in obedience, or rather in subservience, when it comes to the point. But I am going to make short work of the lot.' And he told me his intention of ridding the school of these disaffected elements. 'The Trustees will back me up, I know,' he added, 'but we must try to avoid all unnecessary friction'; and he explained to me a plan he had thought of for eliminating the masters in question. 'It won't do to have half-hearted officers on our ship,' was the way in which he put it, and I cordially agreed with him. "Possibly he may have underrated the force of the opposition which he treated so lightly; possibly he altogether misjudged the situation. He certainly regarded the appointment as already made, and this, of course, was, or appeared to be, the conviction of all who knew anything of Lupton and Horbury. "I shall never forget the day on which the news came. Horbury made a hearty breakfast, opening letters, jotting down notes, talking of his plans as the meal proceeded. I left him for a while. I was myself a good deal excited, and I strolled up and down the beautiful garden at the Old Grange, wondering whether I should be able to satisfy such a chief who, the soul of energy himself, would naturally expect a like quality in his subordinates. I rejoined him in the course of an hour in the study, where he was as busy as ever--'snowed up,' as he expressed it, in a vast pile of papers and correspondence. "He nodded genially and pointed to a chair, and a few minutes later a servant came in with a letter. She had just found it in the hall, she explained. I had taken a book and was reading. I noticed nothing till what I can only call a groan of intense anguish made me look up in amazement--indeed, in horror--and I was shocked to see my old friend, his face a ghastly white, his eyes staring into vacancy, and his expression one of the most terrible--_the_ most terrible--that I have ever witnessed. I cannot describe that look. There was an agony of grief and despair, a glance of the wildest amazement, terror, as of an impending awful death, and with these the fiercest and most burning anger that I have ever seen on any human face. He held a letter clenched in his hand. I was afraid to speak or move. "It was fully five minutes before he regained his self-control, and he did this with an effort which was in itself dreadful to contemplate--so severe was the struggle. He explained to me in a voice which faltered and trembled with the shock that he had received, that he had had very bad news--that a large sum of money which was absolutely necessary to the carrying out of his projects had been embezzled by some unscrupulous person, that he did not know what he should do. He fell back into his chair; in a few minutes he had become an old man. "He did not seem upset, or even astonished, when, later in the day, a telegram announced that he had failed in the aim of his life--that a stranger was to bear rule in his beloved Lupton. He murmured something to the effect that it was no matter now. He never held up his head again." This note is an extract from _George Horbury: a Memoir_. It was written by Dr. Wood for the use of a few friends and privately printed in a small edition of a hundred and fifty copies. The author felt, as he explains in his brief _Foreword_, that by restricting the sale to those who either knew Horbury or were especially interested in his work, he was enabled to dwell somewhat intimately on matters which could hardly have been treated in a book meant for the general public. The extract that has been made from this book is interesting on two points. It shows that Horbury was quite unaware of what had been going on for four years before Chesson's resignation and that he had entirely misinterpreted the few and faint omens which had been offered him. He was preparing to break a sulky sentinel or two when all the ground of his fortalice was a very network of loaded mines! The other point is still more curious. It will be seen from Wood's story that the terrific effect that he describes was produced by a letter, received some hours before the news of the Trustees' decision arrived by telegram. "Later in the day" is the phrase in the Memoir; as a matter of fact, the final deliberation of the Lupton Trustees, held at Marshall's Hotel in Albemarle Street, began at eleven-thirty and was not over till one-forty-five. It is not likely that the result could have reached the Old Grange before two-fifteen; whereas the letter found in the hall must have been read by Horbury before ten o'clock. The invariable breakfast hour at the Old Grange was eight o'clock. C. L. Wood says: "I rejoined him in the course of an hour," and the letter was brought in "a few minutes later." Afterwards, when the fatal telegram arrived, the Memoir notes that the unfortunate man was not "even astonished." It seems to follow almost necessarily from these facts that Horbury learnt the story of his ruin from the letter, for it has been ascertained that the High Usher's account of the contents of the letter was false from beginning to end. Horbury's most excellent and sagacious investments were all in the impeccable hands of "Witham's" (Messrs. Witham, Venables, Davenport and Witham), of Raymond Buildings, Gray's Inn, who do not include embezzlement in their theory and practice of the law; and, as a matter of fact, the nephew, Charles Horbury, came into a very handsome fortune on the death of his uncle--eighty thousand pounds in personality, with the Old Grange and some valuable ground rents in the new part of Lupton. It is as certain as anything can be that George Horbury never lost a penny by embezzlement or, indeed, in any other way. One may surmise, then, the real contents of that terrible letter. In general, that is, for it is impossible to conjecture whether the writer told the whole story; one does not know, for example, whether Meyrick's name was mentioned or not: whether there was anything which carried the reader's mind to that dark evening in November when he beat the white-faced boy with such savage cruelty. But from Dr. Wood's description of the wretched man's appearance one understands how utterly unexpected was the crushing blow that had fallen upon him. It was a lightning flash from the sky at its bluest, and before that sudden and awful blast his whole life fell into deadly and evil ruin. "He never held up his head again." He never lived again, one may say, unless a ceaseless wheel of anguish and anger and bitter and unavailing and furious regret can be called life. It was not a man, but a shell, full of gall and fire, that went to Wareham; but probably he was not the first of the Klippoth to be made a Canon. As we have no means of knowing exactly what or how much that letter told him, one is not in a position to say whether he recognised the singularity--one might almost say, the eccentricity--with which his punishment was stage-managed. _Nec deus intersit_ certainly; but a principle may be pushed too far, and a critic might point out that, putting avenging deities in their machines on one side, it was rather going to the other extreme to bring about the Great Catastrophe by means of bad sherry, a trying Headmaster, boiled mutton, a troublesome schoolboy and a servant-maid. Yet these were the agents employed; and it seems that we are forced to the conclusion that we do not altogether understand the management of the universe. The conclusion is a dangerous one, since we may be led by it, unless great care is exercised, into the worst errors of the Dark Ages. There is the question, of course, of the truthfulness or falsity of the various slanders which had such a tremendous effect. The worst of them were lies--there can be little doubt of that--and for the rest, it may be hinted that the allusion of the young master to Xanthias Phoceus was not very far wide of the mark. Mrs. Horbury had been dead some years, and it is to be feared that there had been passages between the High Usher and Nelly Foran which public opinion would have condemned. It would be difficult to tell the whole story, but the girl's fury of revenge makes one apt to believe that she was exacting payment not only for Ambrose's wrongs, but for some grievous injury done to herself. But before all these things could be brought to their ending, Ambrose Meyrick had to live in wonders and delights, to be initiated in many mysteries, to discover the meaning of that voice which seemed to speak within him, denouncing him because he had pried unworthily into the Secret which is hidden from the Holy Angels. III I One of Ambrose Meyrick's favourite books was a railway timetable. He spent many hours in studying these intricate pages of figures, noting times of arrival and departure on a piece of paper, and following the turnings and intersections of certain lines on the map. In this way he had at last arrived at the best and quickest route to his native country, which he had not seen for five years. His father had died when he was ten years old. This result once obtained, the seven-thirty to Birmingham got him in at nine-thirty-five; the ten-twenty for the west was a capital train, and he would see the great dome of Mynydd Mawr before one o'clock. His fancy led him often to a bridge which crossed the railway about a mile out of Lupton. East and west the metals stretched in a straight line, defying, it seemed, the wisdom of Euclid. He turned from the east and gazed westward, and when a red train went by in the right direction he would lean over the bridge and watch till the last flying carriage had vanished into the distance. He imagined himself in that train and thought of the joy of it, if the time ever came--for it seemed long--the joy in every revolution of the wheels, in every whistle of the engine; in the rush and in the rhythm of this swift flight from that horrible school and that horrible place. Year after year went by and he had not revisited the old land of his father. He was left alone in the great empty house in charge of the servants during the holidays--except one summer when Mr. Horbury despatched him to a cousin of his who lived at Yarmouth. The second year after his father's death there was a summer of dreadful heat. Day after day the sky was a glare of fire, and in these abhorred Midlands, far from the breath of the sea and the mountain breeze, the ground baked and cracked and stank to heaven. A dun smoke rose from the earth with the faint, sickening stench of a brick-field, and the hedgerows swooned in the heat and in the dust. Ambrose's body and soul were athirst with the desire of the hills and the woods; his heart cried out within him for the waterpools in the shadow of the forest; and in his ears continually he heard the cold water pouring and trickling and dripping from the grey rocks on the great mountain side. And he saw that awful land which God has no doubt made for manufacturers to prepare them for their eternal habitation, its weary waves burning under the glaring sky: the factory chimneys of Lupton vomiting their foul smoke; the mean red streets, each little hellway with its own stink; the dull road, choking in its dust. For streams there was the Wand, running like black oil between black banks, steaming here as boiling poisons were belched into it from the factory wall; there glittering with iridescent scum vomited from some other scoundrel's castle. And for the waterpools of the woods he was free to gaze at the dark green liquor in the tanks of the Sulphuric Acid factory, but a little way out of town. Lupton was a very rising place. His body was faint with the burning heat and the foulness of all about him, and his soul was sick with loneliness and friendlessness and unutterable longing. He had already mastered his Bradshaw and had found out the bridge over the railway; and day after day he leaned over the parapet and watched the burning metals vanishing into the west, into the hot, thick haze that hung over all the land. And the trains sped away towards the haven of his desire, and he wondered if he should ever see again the dearly loved country or hear the song of the nightingale in the still white morning, in the circle of the green hills. The thought of his father, of the old days of happiness, of the grey home in the still valley, swelled in his heart and he wept bitterly, so utterly forsaken and wretched seemed his life. It happened towards the end of that dreadful August that one night he had tossed all through the hours listening to the chiming bells, only falling into a fevered doze a little while before they called him. He woke from ugly and oppressive dreams to utter wretchedness; he crawled downstairs like an old man and left his breakfast untouched, for he could eat nothing. The flame of the sun seemed to burn in his brain; the hot smoke of the air choked him. All his limbs ached. From head to foot he was a body of suffering. He struggled out and tottered along the road to the bridge and gazed with dim, hopeless eyes along the path of desire, into the heavy, burning mist in the far distance. And then his heart beat quick, and he cried aloud in his amazed delight; for, in the shimmering glamour of the haze, he saw as in a mirror the vast green wall of the Great Mountain rise before him--not far, but as if close at hand. Nay, he stood upon its slope; his feet were in the sweet-smelling bracken; the hazel thicket was rustling beneath him in the brave wind, and the shining water poured cold from the stony rock. He heard the silver note of the lark, shrilling high and glad in the sunlight. He saw the yellow blossoms tossed by the breeze about the porch of the white house. He seemed to turn in this vision and before him the dear, long-remembered land appeared in its great peace and beauty: meadows and cornfield, hill and valley and deep wood between the mountains and the far sea. He drew a long breath of that quickening and glorious air, and knew that life had returned to him. And then he was gazing once more down the glittering railway into the mist; but strength and hope had replaced that deadly sickness of a moment before, and light and joy came back to his eyes. The vision had doubtless been given to him in his sore and pressing need. It returned no more; not again did he see the fair height of Mynydd Mawr rise out of the mist. But from that day the station on the bridge was daily consecrated. It was his place of refreshment and hope in many seasons of evil and weariness. From this place he could look forward to the hour of release and return that must come at last. Here he could remind himself that the bonds of the flesh had been broken in a wonderful manner; that he had been set free from the jaws of hell and death. Fortunately, few people came that way. It was but a by-road serving a few farms in the neighbourhood, and on the Sunday afternoon, in November, the Head's sermon over and dinner eaten, he betook himself to his tower, free to be alone for a couple of hours, at least. He stood there, leaning on the wall, his face turned, as ever, to the west, and, as it were, a great flood of rapture overwhelmed him. He sank down, deeper, still deeper, into the hidden and marvellous places of delight. In his country there were stories of the magic people who rose all gleaming from the pools in lonely woods; who gave more than mortal bliss to those who loved them; who could tell the secrets of that land where flame was the most material substance; whose inhabitants dwelt in palpitating and quivering colours or in the notes of a wonderful melody. And in the dark of the night all legends had been fulfilled. It was a strange thing, but Ambrose Meyrick, though he was a public schoolboy of fifteen, had lived all his days in a rapt innocence. It is possible that in school, as elsewhere, enlightenment, pleasant or unpleasant, only comes to those who seek for it--or one may say certainly that there are those who dwell under the protection of enchantments, who may go down into the black depths and yet appear resurgent and shining, without any stain or defilement of the pitch on their white robes. For these have ears so intent on certain immortal songs that they cannot hear discordant voices; their eyes are veiled with a light that shuts out the vision of evil. There are flames about these feet that extinguish the gross fires of the pit. It is probable that all through those early years Ambrose's father had been charming his son's heart, drawing him forth from the gehenna-valley of this life into which he had fallen, as one draws forth a beast that has fallen into some deep and dreadful place. Various are the methods recommended. There is the way of what is called moral teaching, the way of physiology and the way of a masterly silence; but Mr. Meyrick's was the strange way of incantation. He had, in a certain manner, drawn the boy aside from that evil traffic of the valley, from the stench of the turmoil, from the blows and the black lechery, from the ugly fight in the poisonous smoke, from all the amazing and hideous folly that practical men call life, and had set him in that endless procession that for ever and for ever sings its litanies in the mountains, going from height to height on its great quest. Ambrose's soul had been caught in the sweet thickets of the woods; it had been bathed in the pure water of blessed fountains; it had knelt before the altars of the old saints, till all the earth was become a sanctuary, all life was a rite and ceremony, the end of which was the attainment of the mystic sanctity--the achieving of the Graal. For this--for what else?--were all things made. It was this that the little bird sang of in the bush, piping a few feeble, plaintive notes of dusky evenings, as if his tiny heart were sad that it could utter nothing better than such sorry praises. This also celebrated the awe of the white morning on the hills, the breath of the woods at dawn. This was figured in the red ceremony of sunset, when flames shone over the dome of the great mountain, and roses blossomed in the far plains of the sky. This was the secret of the dark places in the heart of the woods. This the mystery of the sunlight on the height; and every little flower, every delicate fern, and every reed and rush was entrusted with the hidden declaration of this sacrament. For this end, final and perfect rites had been given to men to execute; and these were all the arts, all the far-lifted splendour of the great cathedral; all rich carven work and all glowing colours; all magical utterance of word and tones: all these things were the witnesses that consented in the One Offering, in the high service of the Graal. To this service also, together with songs and burning torches and dyed garments and the smoke of the bruised incense, were brought the incense of the bruised heart, the magic torches of virtue hidden from the world, the red dalmatics of those whose souls had been martyred, the songs of triumph and exultation chanted by them that the profane had crushed into the dust; holy wells and water-stoups were fountains of tears. So must the Mass be duly celebrated in Cor-arbennic when Cadwaladr returned, when Teilo Agyos lifted up again the Shining Cup. Perhaps it was not strange that a boy who had listened to such spells as these should heed nothing of the foolish evils about him, the nastiness of silly children who, for want of wits, were "crushing the lilies into the dunghill." He listened to nothing of their ugly folly; he heard it not, understood it not, thought as little of it as of their everlasting chatter about "brooks" and "quarries" and "leg-hits" and "beaks from the off." And when an unseemly phrase did chance to fall on his ear it was of no more import or meaning than any or all of the stupid jargon that went on day after day, mixing itself with the other jargon about the optative and the past participle, the oratio obliqua and the verbs in [Greek: mi]. To him this was all one nothingness, and he would not have dreamed of connecting anything of it with the facts of life, as he understood life. Hence it was that for him all that was beautiful and wonderful was a part of sanctity; all the glory of life was for the service of the sanctuary, and when one saw a lovely flower it was to be strewn before the altar, just as the bee was holy because by its wax the Gifts are illuminated. Where joy and delight and beauty were, there he knew by sure signs were the parts of the mystery, the glorious apparels of the heavenly vestments. If anyone had told him that the song of the nightingale was an unclean thing he would have stared in amazement, as though one had blasphemed the Sanctus. To him the red roses were as holy as the garments of the martyrs. The white lilies were pure and shining virtues; the imagery of the _Song of Songs_ was obvious and perfect and unassailable, for in this world there was nothing common nor unclean. And even to him the great gift had been freely given. So he stood, wrapt in his meditations and in his ecstasy, by the bridge over the Midland line from Lupton to Birmingham. Behind him were the abominations of Lupton: the chimneys vomiting black smoke faintly in honour of the Sabbath; the red lines of the workmen's streets advancing into the ugly fields; the fuming pottery kilns, the hideous height of the boot factory. And before him stretched the unspeakable scenery of the eastern Midlands, which seems made for the habitation of English Nonconformists--dull, monotonous, squalid, the very hedgerows cropped and trimmed, the trees looking like rows of Roundheads, the farmhouses as uninteresting as suburban villas. On a field near at hand a scientific farmer had recently applied an agreeable mixture consisting of superphosphate of lime, nitrate of soda and bone meal. The stink was that of a chemical works or a Texel cheese. Another field was just being converted into an orchard. There were rows of grim young apple trees planted at strictly mathematical intervals from one another, and grisly little graves had been dug between the apple trees for the reception of gooseberry bushes. Between these rows the farmer hoped to grow potatoes, so the ground had been thoroughly trenched. It looked sodden and unpleasant. To the right Ambrose could see how the operations on a wandering brook were progressing. It had moved in and out in the most wasteful and absurd manner, and on each bank there had grown a twisted brake of trees and bushes and rank water plants. There were wonderful red roses there in summer time. Now all this was being rectified. In the first place the stream had been cut into a straight channel with raw, bare banks, and then the rose bushes, the alders, the willows and the rest were being grubbed up by the roots and so much valuable land was being redeemed. The old barn which used to be visible on the left of the line had been pulled down for more than a year. It had dated perhaps from the seventeenth century. Its roof-tree had dipped and waved in a pleasant fashion, and the red tiles had the glow of the sun in their colours, and the half-timbered walls were not lacking in ruinous brace. It was a dilapidated old shed, and a neat-looking structure with a corrugated iron roof now stood in its place. Beyond all was the grey prison wall of the horizon; but Ambrose no longer gazed at it with the dim, hopeless eyes of old. He had a Breviary among his books, and he thought of the words: _Anima mea erepta est sicut passer de laqueo venantium_, and he knew that in a good season his body would escape also. The exile would end at last. He remembered an old tale which his father was fond of telling him--the story of Eos Amherawdur (the Emperor Nightingale). Very long ago, the story began, the greatest and the finest court in all the realms of faery was the court of the Emperor Eos, who was above all the kings of the Tylwydd Têg, as the Emperor of Rome is head over all the kings of the earth. So that even Gwyn ap Nudd, whom they now call lord over all the fair folk of the Isle of Britain, was but the man of Eos, and no splendour such as his was ever seen in all the regions of enchantment and faery. Eos had his court in a vast forest, called Wentwood, in the deepest depths of the green-wood between Caerwent and Caermaen, which is also called the City of the Legions; though some men say that we should rather name it the city of the Waterfloods. Here, then, was the Palace of Eos, built of the finest stones after the Roman manner, and within it were the most glorious chambers that eye has ever seen, and there was no end to the number of them, for they could not be counted. For the stones of the palace being immortal, they were at the pleasure of the Emperor. If he had willed, all the hosts of the world could stand in his greatest hall, and, if he had willed, not so much as an ant could enter into it, since it could not be discerned. But on common days they spread the Emperor's banquet in nine great halls, each nine times larger than any that are in the lands of the men of Normandi. And Sir Caw was the seneschal who marshalled the feast; and if you would count those under his command--go, count the drops of water that are in the Uske River. But if you would learn the splendour of this castle it is an easy matter, for Eos hung the walls of it with Dawn and Sunset. He lit it with the sun and moon. There was a well in it called Ocean. And nine churches of twisted boughs were set apart in which Eos might hear Mass; and when his clerks sang before him all the jewels rose shining out of the earth, and all the stars bent shining down from heaven, so enchanting was the melody. Then was great bliss in all the regions of the fair folk. But Eos was grieved because mortal ears could not hear nor comprehend the enchantment of their song. What, then, did he do? Nothing less than this. He divested himself of all his glories and of his kingdom, and transformed himself into the shape of a little brown bird, and went flying about the woods, desirous of teaching men the sweetness of the faery melody. And all the other birds said: "This is a contemptible stranger." The eagle found him not even worthy to be a prey; the raven and the magpie called him simpleton; the pheasant asked where he had got that ugly livery; the lark wondered why he hid himself in the darkness of the wood; the peacock would not suffer his name to be uttered. In short never was anyone so despised as was Eos by all the chorus of the birds. But wise men heard that song from the faery regions and listened all night beneath the bough, and these were the first who were bards in the Isle of Britain. Ambrose had heard the song from the faery regions. He had heard it in swift whispers at his ear, in sighs upon his breast, in the breath of kisses on his lips. Never was he numbered amongst the despisers of Eos. II Mr. Horbury had suffered from one or two slight twinges of conscience for a few days after he had operated on his nephew. They were but very slight pangs, for, after all, it was a case of flagrant and repeated disobedience to rules, complicated by lying. The High Usher was quite sincere in scouting the notion of a boy's taking any interest in Norman architecture, and, as he said to himself, truly enough, if every boy at Lupton could come and go when and how he pleased, and choose which rules he would keep and which disobey--why, the school would soon be in a pretty state. Still, there was a very faint and indistinct murmur in his mind which suggested that Meyrick had received, in addition to his own proper thrashing, the thrashings due to the Head, his cook and his wine merchant. And Horbury was rather sorry, for he desired to be just according to his definition of justice--unless, indeed justice should be excessively inconvenient. But these faint scruples were soon removed--turned, indeed, to satisfaction by the evident improvement which declared itself in Ambrose Meyrick's whole tone and demeanour. He no longer did his best to avoid rocker. He played, and played well and with relish. The boy was evidently all right at heart: he had only wanted a sharp lesson, and it was clear that, once a loafer, he was now on his way to be a credit to the school. And by some of those secret channels which are known to masters and to masters alone, rather more than a glimmering of the truth as to Rawson's black eyes and Pelly's disfigured nose was vouchsafed to Horbury's vision, and he was by no means displeased with his nephew. The two boys had evidently asked for punishment, and had got it. It served them right. Of course, if the swearing had been brought to his notice by official instead of by subterranean and mystic ways, he would have had to cane Meyrick a second time, since, by the Public School convention, an oath is a very serious offence--as bad as smoking, or worse; but, being far from a fool, under the circumstances he made nothing of it. Then the lad's school work was so very satisfactory. It had always been good, but it had become wonderfully good. That last Greek prose had shown real grip of the language. The High Usher was pleased. His sharp lesson had brought forth excellent results, and he foresaw the day when he would be proud of having taught a remarkably fine scholar. With the boys Ambrose was becoming a general favourite. He learned not only to play rocker, he showed Pelly how he thought that blow under the ear should be dealt with. They all said he was a good fellow; but they could not make out why, without apparent reason, he would sometimes burst out into loud laughter. But he said it was something wrong with his inside--the doctors couldn't make it out--and this seemed rather interesting. In after life he often looked back upon this period when, to all appearance, Lupton was "making a man" of him, and wondered at its strangeness. To boys and masters alike he was an absolutely normal schoolboy, busy with the same interests as the rest of them. There was certainly something rather queer in his appearance; but, as they said, generously enough, a fellow couldn't help his looks; and, that curious glint in the eyes apart, he seemed as good a Luptonian as any in the whole six hundred. Everybody thought that he had absolutely fallen into line; that he was absorbing the _ethos_ of the place in the most admirable fashion, subduing his own individuality, his opinions, his habits, to the general tone of the community around him--putting off, as it were, the profane dust of his own spirit and putting on the mental frock of the brotherhood. This, of course, is one of the aims--rather, _the_ great aim--of the system: this fashioning of very diverse characters into one common form, so that each great Public School has its type, which is easily recognisable in the grown-up man years after his school days are over. Thus, in far lands, in India and Egypt, in Canada and New Zealand, one recognises the brisk alertness of the Etonian, the exquisite politeness of Harrow, the profound seriousness of Rugby; while the note of Lupton may, perhaps, be called finality. The Old Luptonian no more thinks of arguing a question than does the Holy Father, and his conversation is a series of irreformable dogmas, and the captious person who questions any one article is made to feel himself a cad and an outsider. Thus it has been related that two men who had met for the first time at a certain country house-party were getting on together capitally in the evening over their whisky and soda and cigars. Each held identical views of equal violence on some important topic--Home Rule or the Transvaal or Free Trade--and, as the more masterful of the two asserted that hanging was too good for Blank (naming a well-known statesman), the other would reply: "I quite agree with you: hanging is too good for Blank." "He ought to be burned alive," said the one. "That's about it: he ought to be burned at the stake," answered the other. "Look at the way he treated Dash! He's a coward and a damned scoundrel!" "Perfectly right. He's a damned cursed scoundrel!" This was splendid, and each thought the other a charming companion. Unfortunately, however, the conversation, by some caprice, veered from the iniquities of Blank and glanced aside to cookery--possibly by the track of Irish stew, used metaphorically to express the disastrous and iniquitous policy of the great statesman with regard to Ireland. But, as it happened, there was not the same coincidence on the question of cookery as there had been on the question of Blank. The masterful man said: "No cookery like English. No other race in the world can cook as we do. Look at French cookery--a lot of filthy, greasy messes." Now, instead of assenting briskly and firmly as before the other man said: "Been much in France? Lived there?" "Never set foot in the beastly country! Don't like their ways, and don't care to dine off snails and frogs swimming in oil." The other man began then to talk of the simple but excellent meals he had relished in France--the savoury _croûte-au-pot_, the _bouilli_--good eating when flavoured by a gherkin or two; velvety _épinards au jus_, a roast partridge, a salad, a bit of Roquefort and a bunch of grapes. But he had barely mentioned the soup when the masterful one wheeled round his chair and offered a fine view of his strong, well-knit figure--as seen from the back. He did not say anything--he simply took up the paper and went on smoking. The other men stared in amazement: the amateur of French cookery looked annoyed. But the host--a keen-eyed old fellow with a white moustache, turned to the enemy of frogs and snails and grease and said quite simply: "I say, Mulock, I never knew you'd been at Lupton." Mulock gazed. The other men held their breath for a moment as the full force of the situation dawned on them, and then a wild scream of laughter shrilled from their throats. Yells and roars of mirth resounded in the room. Their delight was insatiable. It died for a moment for lack of breath, and then burst out anew in still louder, more uproarious clamour, till old Sir Henry Rawnsley, who was fat and short, could do nothing but choke and gasp and crow out a sound something between a wheeze and a chuckle. Mulock left the room immediately, and the house the next morning. He made some excuse to his host, but he told enquiring friends that, personally, he disliked bounders. The story, true or false, illustrates the common view of the Lupton stamp. "We try to teach the boys to know their own minds," said the Headmaster, and the endeavour seems to have succeeded in most cases. And, as Horbury noted in an article he once wrote on the Public School system, every boy was expected to submit himself to the process, to form and reform himself in accordance with the tone of the school. "I sometimes compare our work with that of the metal founder," he says in the article in question. "Just as the metal comes to the foundry _rudis indigestaque moles_, a rough and formless mass, without the slightest suggestion of the shape which it must finally assume, so a boy comes to a great Public School with little or nothing about him to suggest the young man who, in eight or nine years' time, will say good-bye to the dear old school, setting his teeth tight, restraining himself from giving up to the anguish of this last farewell. Nay, I think that ours is the harder task, for the metal that is sent to the foundry has, I presume, been freed of its impurities; we have to deal rather with the ore--a mass which is not only shapeless, but contains much that is not metal at all, which must be burnt out and cast aside as useless rubbish. So the boy comes from his home, which may or may not have possessed valuable formative influences; which we often find has tended to create a spirit of individualism and assertiveness; which, in numerous cases, has left the boy under the delusion that he has come into the world to live his own life and think his own thoughts. This is the ore that we cast into our furnace. We burn out the dross and rubbish; we liquefy the stubborn and resisting metal till it can be run into the mould--the mould being the whole tone and feeling of a great community. We discourage all excessive individuality; we make it quite plain to the boy that he has come to Lupton, not to live his life, not to think his thoughts, but to live _our_ life, to think _our_ thoughts. Very often, as I think I need scarcely say, the process is a somewhat unpleasant one, but, sooner or later, the stubbornest metal yields to the cleansing, renewing, restoring fires of discipline and public opinion, and the shapeless mass takes on the shape of the Great School. Only the other day an old pupil came to see me and confessed that, for the whole of his first year at Lupton, he had been profoundly wretched. 'I was a dreamy young fool,' he said. 'My head was stuffed with all sorts of queer fancies, and I expect that if I hadn't come to Lupton I should have turned out an absolute loafer. But I hated it badly that first year. I loathed rocker--I did, really--and I thought the fellows were a lot of savages. And then I seemed to go into a kind of cloud. You see, Sir, I was losing my old self and hadn't got the new self in its place, and I couldn't make out what was happening. And then, quite suddenly, it all came out light and clear. I saw the purpose behind it all--how we were all working together, masters and boys, for the dear old school; how we were all "members one of another," as the Doctor said in Chapel; and that I had a part in this great work, too, though I was only a kid in the Third. It was like a flash of light: one minute I was only a poor little chap that nobody cared for and who didn't matter to anybody, and the next I saw that, in a way, I was as important as the Doctor himself--I was a part of the failure or success of it all. Do you know what I did, Sir? I had a book I thought a lot of--_Poems and Tales_ of Edgar Allan Poe. It was my poor sister's book; she had died a year before when she was only seventeen, and she had written my name in it when she was dying--she knew I was fond of reading it. It was just the sort of thing I used to like--morbid fancies and queer poems, and I was always reading it when the fellows would let me alone. But when I saw what life really was, when the meaning of it all came to me, as I said just now, I took that book and tore it to bits, and it was like tearing myself up. But I knew that writing all that stuff hadn't done that American fellow much good, and I didn't see what good I should get by reading it. I couldn't make out to myself that it would fit in with the Doctor's plans of the spirit of the school, or that I should play up at rocker any better for knowing all about the "Fall of the House of Usher," or whatever it's called. I knew my poor sister would understand, so I tore it up, and I've gone straight ahead ever since--thanks to Lupton.' _Like a refiner's fire._ _I_ remembered the dreamy, absent-minded child of fifteen years before; I could scarcely believe that he stood before--keen, alert, practical, living every moment of his life, a force, a power in the world, certain of successful achievement." Such were the influences to which Ambrose Meyrick was being subjected, and with infinite success, as it seemed to everybody who watched him. He was regarded as a conspicuous instance of the efficacy of the system--he had held out so long, refusing to absorb the "tone," presenting an obstinate surface to the millstones which would, for his own good, have ground him to powder, not concealing very much his dislike of the place and of the people in it. And suddenly he had submitted with a good grace: it was wonderful! The masters are believed to have discussed the affair amongst themselves, and Horbury, who confessed or boasted that he had used sharp persuasion, got a good deal of _kudos_ in consequence. III A few years ago a little book called _Half-holidays_ attracted some attention in semi-scholastic, semi-clerical circles. It was anonymous, and bore the modest motto _Crambe bis cocta_; but those behind the scenes recognised it as the work of Charles Palmer, who was for many years a master at Lupton. His acknowledged books include a useful little work on the Accents and an excellent summary of Roman History from the Fall of the Republic to Romulus Augustulus. The _Half-holidays_ contains the following amusing passage; there is not much difficulty in identifying the N. mentioned in it with Ambrose Meyrick. "The cleverest dominie sometimes discovers"--the passage begins--"that he has been living in a fool's paradise, that he has been tricked by a quiet and persistent subtlety that really strikes one as almost devilish when one finds it exhibited in the person of an English schoolboy. A good deal of nonsense, I think, has been written about boys by people who in reality know very little about them; they have been credited with complexities of character, with feelings and aspirations and delicacies of sentiment which are quite foreign to their nature. I can quite believe in the dead cat trick of Stalky and his friends, but I confess that the incident of the British Flag leaves me cold and sceptical. Such refinement of perception is not the way of the boy--certainly not of the boy as I have known him. He is radically a simple soul, whose feelings are on the surface; and his deepest laid schemes and manoeuvres hardly call for the talents of a Sherlock Holmes if they are to be detected and brought to naught. Of course, a good deal of rubbish has been talked about the wonderful success of our English plan of leaving the boys to themselves without the everlasting supervision which is practised in French schools. As a matter of fact, the English schoolboy is under constant supervision; where in a French school one wretched usher has to look after a whole horde of boys, in an English school each boy is perpetually under the observation of hundreds of his fellows. In reality, each boy is an unpaid _pion_, a watchdog whose vigilance never relaxes. He is not aware of this; one need scarcely say that such a notion is far from his wildest thoughts. He thinks, and very rightly, doubtless, that he is engaged in maintaining the honour of the school, in keeping up the observance of the school tradition, in dealing sharply with slackers and loafers who would bring discredit on the place he loves so well. He is, no doubt, absolutely right in all this; none the less, he is doing the master's work unwittingly and admirably. When one thinks of this, and of the Compulsory System of Games, which ensures that every boy shall be in a certain place at a certain time, one sees, I think, that the phrase about our lack of supervision _is_ a phrase and nothing more. There is no system of supervision known to human wit that approaches in thoroughness and minuteness the supervision under which every single boy is kept all through his life at an English Public School. "Hence one is really rather surprised when, in spite of all these unpaid assistants, who are the whole school, one is thoroughly and completely taken in. I can only remember one such case, and I am still astonished at the really infernal ability with which the boy in question lived a double life under the very eyes of the masters and six hundred other boys. N., as I shall call him, was not in my House, and I can scarcely say how I came to watch his career with so much interest; but there was certainly something about him which did interest me a good deal. It may have been his appearance: he was an odd-looking boy--dark, almost swarthy, dreamy and absent in manner, and, for the first years of his school life, a quite typical loafer. Such boys, of course, are not common in a big school, but there are a few such everywhere. One never knows whether this kind will write a successful book, or paint a great picture, or go to the devil--from my observation I am sorry to say that the last career is the most usual. I need scarcely say that such boys meet with but little encouragement; it is not the type which the Public School exists to foster, and the boy who abandons himself to morbid introspection is soon made to feel pretty emphatically that he is matter in the wrong place. Of course, one may be crushing genius. If this ever happened it would be very unfortunate; still, in all communities the minority must suffer for the good of the majority, and, frankly, I have always been willing to run the risk. As I have hinted, the particular sort of boy I have in my mind turns out in nine cases out of ten to be not a genius, but that much more common type--a blackguard. "Well, as I say, I was curious about N. I was sorry for him, too; both his parents were dead, and he was rather in the position of the poor fellows who have no home life to look forward to when the holidays are getting near. And his obstinacy astonished me; in most cases the pressure of public opinion will bring the slackest loafer to a sense of the error of his ways before his first term is ended; but N. seemed to hold out against us all with a sort of dreamy resistance that was most exasperating. I do not think he can have had a very pleasant time. His general demeanour suggested that of a sage who has been cast on an island inhabited by a peculiarly repulsive and degraded tribe of savages, and I need scarcely say that the other boys did their best to make him realise the extreme absurdity of such behaviour. He was clever enough at his work, but it was difficult to make him play games, and impossible to make him play up. He seemed to be looking through us at something else; and neither the boys nor the masters liked being treated as unimportant illusions. And then, quite suddenly, N. altered completely. I believe his housemaster, worn out of all patience, gave him a severe thrashing; at any rate, the change was instant and marvellous. "I remember that a few days before N.'s transformation we had been discussing the question of the cane at the weekly masters' meeting. I had confessed myself a very half-hearted believer in the efficacy of the treatment. I forget the arguments that I used, but I know that I was strongly inclined to favour the 'Anti-baculist Party,' as the Head jocosely named it. But a few months later when N.'s housemaster pointed out N. playing up at football like a young demon, and then with a twinkle in his eye reminded me of the position I had taken up at the masters' meeting, there was nothing for it but to own that I had been in the wrong. The cane had certainly, in this case, proved itself a magic wand; the sometime loafer had been transformed by it into one of the healthiest and most energetic fellows in the whole school. It was a pleasure to watch him at the games, and I remember that his fast bowling was at once terrific in speed and peculiarly deadly in its accuracy. "He kept up this deception, for deception it was, for three or four years. He was just going up to Oxford, and the whole school was looking forward to a career which we knew would be quite exceptional in its brilliance. His scholarship papers astonished the Balliol authorities. I remember one of the Fellows writing to our Head about them in terms of the greatest enthusiasm, and we all knew that N.'s bowling would get him into the University Eleven in his first term. Cricketers have not yet forgotten a certain performance of his at the Oval, when, as a poetic journalist observed, wickets fell before him as ripe corn falls before the sickle. N. disappeared in the middle of term. The whole school was in a ferment; masters and boys looked at one another with wild faces; search parties were sent out to scour the country; the police were communicated with; on every side one heard the strangest surmises as to what had happened. The affair got into the papers; most people thought it was a case of breakdown and loss of memory from overwork and mental strain. Nothing could be heard of N., till, at the end of a fortnight, his Housemaster came into our room looking, as I thought, puzzled and frightened. "'I don't understand,' he said. 'I've had this by the second post. It's in N.'s handwriting. I can't make head or tail of it. It's some sort of French, I suppose.' "He held out a paper closely written in N.'s exquisite, curious script, which always reminded me vaguely of some Oriental character. The masters shook their heads as the manuscript went from hand to hand, and one of them suggested sending for the French master. But, as it happened, I was something of a student of Old French myself, and I found I could make out the drift of the document that N. had sent his master. "It was written in the manner and in the language of Rabelais. It was quite diabolically clever, and beyond all question the filthiest thing I have ever read. The writer had really exceeded his master in obscenity, impossible as that might seem: the purport of it all was a kind of nightmare vision of the school, the masters and the boys. Everybody and everything were distorted in the most horrible manner, seen, we might say, through an abominable glass, and yet every feature was easily recognisable; it reminded me of Swift's disgusting description of the Yahoos, over which one may shudder and grow sick, but which one cannot affect to misunderstand. There was a fantastic episode which I remember especially. One of us, an ambitious man, who for some reason or other had become unpopular with a few of his colleagues, was described as endeavouring to climb the school clock-tower, on the top of which a certain object was said to be placed. The object was defended, so the writer affirmed, by 'the Dark Birds of Night,' who resisted the master's approach in all possible and impossible manners. Even to indicate the way in which this extraordinary theme was treated would be utterly out of the question; but I shall never forget the description of the master's face, turned up towards the object of his quest, as he painfully climbed the wall. I have never read even in the most filthy pages of Rabelais, or in the savagest passages of Swift, anything which approached the revolting cruelty of those few lines. They were compounded of hell-fire and the Cloaca Maxima. "I read out and translated a few of the least abominable sentences. I can hardly say whether the feeling of disgust or that of bewilderment predominated amongst us. One of my colleagues stopped me and said they had heard enough; we stared at one another in silence. The astounding ability, ferocity and obscenity of the whole thing left us quite dumbfounded, and I remember saying that if a volcano were suddenly to belch forth volumes of flame and filth in the middle of the playing fields I should scarcely be more astonished. And all this was the work of N., whose brilliant abilities in games and in the schools were to have been worth many thousands a year to X., as one of us put it! This was the boy that for the last four years we had considered as a great example of the formative influences of the school! This was the N. who we thought would have died for the honour of the school, who spoke as if he could never do enough to repay what X. had done for him! As I say, we looked at one another with faces of blank amazement and horror. At last somebody said that N. must have gone mad, and we tried to believe that it was so, for madness, awful calamity as it is, would be more endurable than sanity under such circumstances as these. I need scarcely say that this charitable hypothesis turned out to be quite unfounded: N. was perfectly sane; he was simply revenging himself for the suppression of his true feelings for the four last years of his school life. The 'conversion' on which we prided ourselves had been an utter sham; the whole of his life had been an elaborately organised hypocrisy maintained with unfailing and unflinching skill term after term and year after year. One cannot help wondering when one considers the inner life of this unhappy fellow. Every morning, I suppose, he woke up with curses in his soul; he smiled at us all and joined in the games with black rage devouring him. So far as one can say, he was quite sincere in his concealed opinions at all events. The hatred, loathing and contempt of the whole system of the place displayed in that extraordinary and terrible document struck me as quite genuine; and while I was reading it I could not help thinking of his eager, enthusiastic face as he joined with a will in the school songs; he seemed to inspire all the boys about him with something of his own energy and devotion. The apparition was a shocking one; I felt that for a moment I had caught a glimpse of a region that was very like hell itself. "I remember that the French master contributed a characteristic touch of his own. Of course, the Headmaster had to be told of the matter, and it was arranged that M. and myself should collaborate in the unpleasant task of making a translation. M. read the horrible stuff through with an expression on his face that, to my astonishment, bordered on admiration, and when he laid down the paper he said: "'_Eh bien: Maître François est encore en vie, évidemment. C'est le vrai renouveau de la Renaissance; de la Renaissance en très mauvaise humeur, si vous voulez, mais de la Renaissance tout-de-même. Si, si; c'est de la crû véritable, je vous assure. Mais, notre bon N. est un Rabelais qui a habité une terre affreusement sèche._' "I really think that to the Frenchman the terrible moral aspect of the case was either entirely negligible or absolutely non-existent; he simply looked on N.'s detestable and filthy performance as a little masterpiece in a particular literary _genre_. Heaven knows! One does not want to be a Pharisee; but as I saw M. grinning appreciatively over this dung-heap I could not help feeling that the collapse of France before Germany offered no insoluble problem to the historian. "There is little more to be said as to this extraordinary and most unpleasant affair. It was all hushed up as much as possible. No further attempts to discover N.'s whereabouts were made. It was some months before we heard by indirect means that the wretched fellow had abandoned the Balliol Scholarship and the most brilliant prospects in life to attach himself to a company of greasy barnstormers--or 'Dramatic Artists,' as I suppose they would be called nowadays. I believe that his subsequent career has been of a piece with these beginnings; but of that I desire to say nothing." The passage has been quoted merely in evidence of the great success with which Ambrose Meyrick adapted himself to his environment at Lupton. Palmer, the writer, who was a very well-meaning though intensely stupid person, has told the bare facts as he saw them accurately enough; it need not be said that his inferences and deductions from the facts are invariably ridiculous. He was a well-educated man; but in his heart of hearts he thought that Rabelais, _Maria Monk, Gay Life in Paris and La Terre_ all came to much the same thing. IV In an old notebook kept by Ambrose Meyrick in those long-past days there are some curious entries which throw light on the extraordinary experiences that befell him during the period which poor Palmer has done his best to illustrate. The following is interesting: "I told her she must not come again for a long time. She was astonished and asked me why--was I not fond of her? I said it was because I was so fond of her, that I was afraid that if I saw her often I could not live. I should pass away in delight because our bodies are not meant to live for long in the middle of white fire. I was lying on my bed and she stood beside it. I looked up at her. The room was very dark and still. I could only just see her faintly, though she was so close to me that I could hear her breathing quite well. I thought of the white flowers that grew in the dark corners of the old garden at the Wern, by the great ilex tree. I used to go out on summer nights when the air was still and all the sky cloudy. One could hear the brook just a little, down beyond the watery meadow, and all the woods and hills were dim. One could not see the mountain at all. But I liked to stand by the wall and look into the darkest place, and in a little time those flowers would seem to grow out of the shadow. I could just see the white glimmer of them. She looked like the flowers to me, as I lay on the bed in my dark room. "Sometimes I dream of wonderful things. It is just at the moment when one wakes up; one cannot say where one has been or what was so wonderful, but you know that you have lost everything in waking. For just that moment you knew everything and understood the stars and the hills and night and day and the woods and the old songs. They were all within you, and you were all light. But the light was music, and the music was violet wine in a great cup of gold, and the wine in the golden cup was the scent of a June night. I understood all this as she stood beside my bed in the dark and stretched out her hand and touched me on the breast. "I knew a pool in an old, old grey wood a few miles from the Wern. I called it the grey wood because the trees were ancient oaks that they say must have grown there for a thousand years, and they have grown bare and terrible. Most of them are all hollow inside and some have only a few boughs left, and every year, they say, one leaf less grows on every bough. In the books they are called the Foresters' Oaks. If you stay under them you feel as if the old times must have come again. Among these trees there was a great yew, far older than the oaks, and beneath it a dark and shadowy pool. I had been for a long walk, nearly to the sea, and as I came back I passed this place and, looking into the pool, there was the glint of the stars in the water. "She knelt by my bed in the dark, and I could just see the glinting of her eyes as she looked at me--the stars in the shadowy waterpool! * * * * * "I had never dreamed that there could be anything so wonderful in the whole world. My father had told me of many beautiful and holy and glorious things, of all the heavenly mysteries by which those who know live for ever, all the things which the Doctor and my uncle and the other silly clergymen in the Chapel ...[1] because they don't really know anything at all about them, only their names, so they are like dogs and pigs and asses who have somehow found their way into a beautiful room, full of precious and delicate treasures. These things my father told me of long ago, of the Great Mystery of the Offering. [Footnote 1: A highly Rabelaisian phrase is omitted.] "And I have learned the wonders of the old venerable saints that once were marvels in our land, as the Welch poem says, and of all the great works that shone around their feet as they went upon the mountains and sought the deserts of ocean. I have seen their marks and writings cut on the edges of the rocks. I know where Sagramnus lies buried in Wlad Morgan. And I shall not forget how I saw the Blessed Cup of Teilo Agyos drawn out from golden veils on Mynydd Mawr, when the stars poured out of the jewel, and I saw the sea of the saints and the spiritual things in Cor-arbennic. My father read out to me all the histories of Teilo, Dewi, and Iltyd, of their marvellous chalices and altars of Paradise from which they made the books of the Graal afterwards; and all these things are beautiful to me. But, as the Anointed Bard said: 'With the bodily lips I receive the drink of mortal vineyards; with spiritual understanding wine from the garths of the undying. May Mihangel intercede for me that these may be mingled in one cup; let the door between body and soul be thrown open. For in that day earth will have become Paradise, and the secret sayings of the bards shall be verified.' I always knew what this meant, though my father told me that many people thought it obscure or, rather, nonsense. But it is just the same really as another poem by the same Bard, where he says: "'My sin was found out, and when the old women on the bridge pointed at me I was ashamed; I was deeply grieved when the boys shouted rebukes as I went from Caer-Newydd. How is it that I was not ashamed before the Finger of the Almighty? I did not suffer agony at the rebuke of the Most High. The fist of Rhys Fawr is more dreadful to me than the hand of God.' "He means, I think, that our great loss is that we separate what is one and make it two; and then, having done so, we make the less real into the more real, as if we thought the glass made to hold wine more important than the wine it holds. And this is what I had felt, for it was only twice that I had known wonders in my body, when I saw the Cup of Teilo sant and when the mountains appeared in vision, and so, as the Bard says, the door is shut. The life of bodily things is _hard_, just as the wineglass is hard. We can touch it and feel it and see it always before us. The wine is drunk and forgotten; it cannot be held. I believe the air about us is just as substantial as a mountain or a cathedral, but unless we remind ourselves we think of the air as nothing. It is not _hard_. But now I was in Paradise, for body and soul were molten in one fire and went up in one flame. The mortal and the immortal vines were made one. Through the joy of the body I possessed the joy of the spirit. And it was so strange to think that all this was through a woman--through a woman I had seen dozens of times and had thought nothing of, except that she was pleasant-looking and that the colour of her hair, like copper, was very beautiful. "I cannot understand it. I cannot feel that she is really Nelly Foran who opens the door and waits at table, for she is a miracle. How I should have wondered once if I had seen a stone by the roadside become a jewel of fire and glory! But if that were to happen, it would not be so strange as what happened to me. I cannot see now the black dress and the servant's cap and apron. I see the wonderful, beautiful body shining through the darkness of my room, the glimmering of the white flower in the dark, the stars in the forest pool. "'O gift of the everlasting! O wonderful and hidden mystery! Many secrets have been vouchsafed to me. I have been long acquainted with the wisdom of the trees; Ash and oak and elm have communicated to me from my boyhood, The birch and the hazel and all the trees of the green wood have not been dumb. There is a caldron rimmed with pearls of whose gifts I am not ignorant. I will speak little of it; its treasures are known to Bards. Many went on the search of Caer-Pedryfan, Seven alone returned with Arthur, but my spirit was present. Seven are the apple trees in a beautiful orchard. I have eaten of their fruit, which is not bestowed on Saxons. I am not ignorant of a Head which is glorious and venerable. It made perpetual entertainment for the warriors; their joys would have been immortal. If they had not opened the door of the south, they could have feasted for ever, Listening to the song of the Fairy Birds of Rhiannon. Let not anyone instruct me concerning the Glassy Isle, In the garments of the saints who returned from it were rich odours of Paradise. All this I knew and yet my knowledge was ignorance, For one day, as I walked by Caer-rhiu in the principal forest of Gwent, I saw golden Myfanwy, as she bathed in the brook Tarógi. Her hair flowed about her. Arthur's crown had dissolved into a shining mist. I gazed into her blue eyes as it were into twin heavens. All the parts of her body were adornments and miracles. O gift of the everlasting! O wonderful and hidden mystery! When I embraced Myfanwy a moment became immortality!'[2] [Footnote 2: Translated from the Welsh verses quoted in the notebook.] "And yet I daresay this 'golden Myfanwy' was what people call 'a common girl,' and perhaps she did rough, hard work, and nobody thought anything of her till the Bard found her bathing in the brook of Tarógi. The birds in the wood said, when they saw the nightingale: 'This is a contemptible stranger!' "_June 24._ Since I wrote last in this book the summer has come. This morning I woke up very early, and even in this horrible place the air was pure and bright as the sun rose up and the long beams shone on the cedar outside the window. She came to me by the way they think is locked and fastened, and, just as the world is white and gold at the dawn, so was she. A blackbird began to sing beneath the window. I think it came from far, for it sang to me of morning on the mountain, and the woods all still, and a little bright brook rushing down the hillside between dark green alders, and air that must be blown from heaven. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar. Dewi and Tegfeth and Cybi preside over that region; Sweet is the valley, sweet the sound of its waters. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar; Its voice is golden, like the ringing of the saints' bells; Sweet is the valley, echoing with melodies. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar; Tegfeth in the south won red martyrdom. Her song is heard in the perpetual choirs of heaven. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar; Dewi in the west had an altar from Paradise. He taught the valleys of Britain to resound with Alleluia. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar; Cybi in the north was the teacher of Princes. Through him Edlogan sings praise to heaven. There is a bird that sings in the valley of the Soar When shall I hear again the notes of its melody? When shall I behold once more Gwladys in that valley?'[3] [Footnote 3: The following translation of these verses appeared in _Poems from the Old Bards_, by Taliesin, Bristol, 1812: "In Soar's sweet valley, where the sound Of holy anthems once was heard From many a saint, the hills prolong Only the music of the bird. In Soar's sweet valley, where the brook With many a ripple flows along, Delicious prospects meet the eye, The ear is charmed with _Phil'mel's_ song. In Soar's sweet valley once a Maid, Despising worldly prospects gay, Resigned her note in earthly choirs Which now in Heaven must sound alway. In Soar's sweet valley David preached; His Gospel accents so beguiled The savage Britons, that they turned Their fiercest cries to music mild. In Soar's sweet valley Cybi taught To haughty Prince the Holy Law, The way to Heaven he showed, and then The subject tribes inspired with awe. In Soar's sweet valley still the song Of Phil'mel sounds and checks alarms. But when shall I once more renew Those heavenly hours in Gladys' arms?" "Taliesin" was the pseudonym of an amiable clergyman, the Reverend Owen Thomas, for many years curate of Llantrisant. He died in 1820, at the great age of eighty-four. His original poetry in Welsh was reputed as far superior to his translations, and he made a very valuable and curious collection of "Cymric Antiquities," which remains in manuscript in the keeping of his descendants.] "When I think of what I know, of the wonders of darkness and the wonders of dawn, I cannot help believing that I have found something which all the world has lost. I have heard some of the fellows talking about women. Their words and their stories are filthy, and nonsense, too. One would think that if monkeys and pigs could talk about their she-monkeys and sows, it would be just like that. I might have thought that, being only boys, they knew nothing about it, and were only making up nasty, silly tales out of their nasty, silly minds. But I have heard the poor women in the town screaming and scolding at their men, and the men swearing back; and when they think they are making love, it is the most horrible of all. "And it is not only the boys and the poor people. There are the masters and their wives. Everybody knows that the Challises and the Redburns 'fight like cats,' as they say, and that the Head's daughter was 'put up for auction' and bought by the rich manufacturer from Birmingham--a horrible, fat beast, more than twice her age, with eyes like pig's. They called it a splendid match. "So I began to wonder whether perhaps there are very few people in the world who know; whether the real secret is lost like the great city that was drowned in the sea and only seen by one or two. Perhaps it is more like those shining Isles that the saints sought for, where the deep apple orchards are, and all the delights of Paradise. But you had to give up everything and get into a boat without oar or sails if you wanted to find Avalon or the Glassy Isle. And sometimes the saints could stand on the rocks and see those Islands far away in the midst of the sea, and smell the sweet odours and hear the bells ringing for the feast, when other people could see and hear nothing at all. "I often think now how strange it would be if it were found out that nearly everybody is like those who stood on the rocks and could only see the waves tossing and stretching far away, and the blue sky and the mist in the distance. I mean, if it turned out that we have all been in the wrong about everything; that we live in a world of the most wonderful treasures which we see all about us, but we don't understand, and kick the jewels into the dirt, and use the chalices for slop-pails and make the holy vestments into dish-cloths, while we worship a great beast--a monster, with the head of a monkey, the body of a pig and the hind legs of a goat, with swarming lice crawling all over it. Suppose that the people that they speak of now as 'superstitious' and 'half-savages' should turn out to be in the right, and very wise, while we are all wrong and great fools! It would be something like the man who lived in the Bright Palace. The Palace had a hundred and one doors. A hundred of them opened into gardens of delight, pleasure-houses, beautiful bowers, wonderful countries, fairy seas, caves of gold and hills of diamonds, into all the most splendid places. But one door led into a cesspool, and that was the only door that the man ever opened. It may be that his sons and his grandsons have been opening that one door ever since, till they have forgotten that there are any others, so if anyone dares to speak of the ways to the garden of delight or the hills of gold he is called a madman, or a very wicked person. "_July 15._ The other day a very strange thing happened. I had gone for a short walk out of the town before dinner on the Dunham road and came as far as the four ways where the roads cross. It is rather pretty for Lupton just there; there is a plot of grass with a big old elm tree in the middle of it, and round the tree is a rough sort of seat, where tramps and such people are often resting. As I came along I heard some sort of music coming from the direction of the tree; it was like fairies dancing, and then there were strange solemn notes like the priests' singing, and a choir answered in a deep, rolling swell of sound, and the fairies danced again; and I thought somehow of a grey church high on the cliff above a singing sea, and the Fair People outside dancing on the close turf, while the service was going on all the while. As I came nearer I heard the sea waves and the wind and the cry of the seagulls, and again the high, wonderful chanting, as if the fairies and the rocks and the waves and the wild birds were all subject to that which was being done within the church. I wondered what it could be, and then I saw there was an old ragged man sitting on the seat under the tree, playing the fiddle all to himself, and rocking from side to side. He stopped directly he saw me, and said: "'Ah, now, would your young honour do yourself the pleasure of giving the poor old fiddler a penny or maybe two: for Lupton is the very hell of a town altogether, and when I play to dirty rogues the Reel of the Warriors, they ask for something about Two Obadiahs--the devil's black curse be on them! And it's but dry work playing to the leaf and the green sod--the blessing of the holy saints be on your honour now, this day, and for ever! 'Tis but a scarcity of beer that I have tasted for a long day, I assure your honour.' "I had given him a shilling because I thought his music so wonderful. He looked at me steadily as he finished talking, and his face changed. I thought he was frightened, he stared so oddly. I asked him if he was ill. "'May I be forgiven,' he said, speaking quite gravely, without that wheedling way he had when he first spoke. 'May I be forgiven for talking so to one like yourself; for this day I have begged money from one that is to gain Red Martyrdom; and indeed that is yourself.' "He took off his old battered hat and crossed himself, and I stared at him, I was so amazed at what he said. He picked up his fiddle, and saying 'May you remember me in the time of your glory,' he walked quickly off, going away from Lupton, and I lost sight of him at the turn of the road. I suppose he was half crazy, but he played wonderfully." IV I The materials for the history of an odd episode in Ambrose Meyrick's life are to be found in a sort of collection he made under the title "Concerning Gaiety." The episode in question dates from about the middle of his eighteenth year. "I do not know"--he says--"how it all happened. I had been leading two eager lives. On the outside I was playing games and going up in the school with a rush, and in the inside I was being gathered more and more into the sanctuaries of immortal things. All life was transfigured for me into a radiant glory, into a quickening and catholic sacrament; and, the fooleries of the school apart, I had more and more the sense that I was a participant in a splendid and significant ritual. I think I was beginning to be a little impatient with the outward signs: I _think_ I had a feeling that it was a pity that one had to drink wine out of a cup, a pity that kernels seemed to imply shells. I wanted, in my heart, to know nothing but the wine itself flowing gloriously from vague, invisible fountains, to know the things 'that really are' in their naked beauty, without their various and elaborate draperies. I doubt whether Ruskin understood the motive of the monk who walked amidst the mountains with his eyes cast down lest he might see the depths and heights about him. Ruskin calls this a narrow asceticism; perhaps it was rather the result of a very subtle aestheticism. The monk's inner vision might be fixed with such rapture on certain invisible heights and depths, that he feared lest the sight of their visible counterparts might disturb his ecstasy. It is probable, I think, that there is a point where the ascetic principle and the aesthetic become one and the same. The Indian fakir who distorts his limbs and lies on spikes is at the one extreme, the men of the Italian Renaissance were at the other. In each case the true line is distorted and awry, for neither system attains either sanctity or beauty in the highest. The fakir dwells in _surfaces_, and the Renaissance artist dwelt in _surfaces_; in neither case is there the inexpressible radiance of the invisible world shining through the surfaces. A cup of Cellini's work is no doubt very lovely; but it is not beautiful in the same way as the old Celtic cups are beautiful. "I think I was in some danger of going wrong at the time I am talking about. I was altogether too impatient of surfaces. Heaven forbid the notion that I was ever in danger of being in any sense of the word a Protestant; but perhaps I was rather inclined to the fundamental heresy on which Protestantism builds its objection to what is called Ritual. I suppose this heresy is really Manichee; it is a charge of corruption and evil made against the visible universe, which is affirmed to be not 'very good,' but 'very bad'--or, at all events, too bad to be used as the vehicle of spiritual truth. It is extraordinary by the way, that the thinking Protestant does not perceive that this principle damns all creeds and all Bibles and all teaching quite as effectually as it damns candles and chasubles--unless, indeed, the Protestant thinks that the logical understanding is a competent vehicle of Eternal Truth, and that God can be properly and adequately defined and explained in human speech. If he thinks _that_, he is an ass. Incense, vestments, candles, all ceremonies, processions, rites--all these things are miserably inadequate; but they do not abound in the horrible pitfalls, misapprehensions, errors which are inseparable from speech of men used as an expression of the Church. In a savage dance there may be a vast deal more of the truth than in many of the hymns in our hymn-books. "After all, as Martinez said, we must even be content with what we have, whether it be censers or syllogisms, or both. The way of the censer is certainly the safer, as I have said; I suppose because the ruin of the external universe is not nearly so deep nor so virulent as the ruin of men. A flower, a piece of gold, no doubt approach their archetypes--what they were meant to be--much more nearly than man does; hence their appeal is purer than the speech or the reasoning of men. "But in those days at Lupton my head was full of certain sentences which I had lit upon somewhere or other--I believe they must have been translations from some Eastern book. I knew about a dozen of these maxims; all I can remember now are: "_If you desire to be inebriated: abstain from wine._" "_If you desire beauty: look not on beautiful things._" "_If you desire to see: let your eyes be blindfolded._" "_If you desire love: refrain from the Beloved._" "I expect the paradox of these sayings pleased me. One must allow that if one has the inborn appetite of the somewhat subtle, of the truth not too crudely and barely expressed, there is no such atmosphere as that of a Public School for sharpening this appetite to an edge of ravening, indiscriminate hunger. Think of our friend the Colonel, who is by way of being a _fin gourmet_; imagine him fixed in a boarding-house where the meals are a repeating cycle of Irish Stew, Boiled Rabbit, Cold Mutton and Salt Cod (without oyster or any other sause)! Then let him out and place him in the Café Anglais. With what a fierce relish would he set tooth into curious and sought-out dishes! It must be remembered that I listened every Sunday in every term to one of the Doctor's sermons, and it is really not strange that I gave an eager ear to the voice of _Persian Wisdom_--as I think the book was called. At any rate, I kept Nelly Foran at a distance for nine or ten months, and when I saw a splendid sunset I averted my eyes. I longed for a love purely spiritual, for a sunset of vision. "I caught glimpses, too, I think, of a much more profound _askesis_ than this. I suppose you have the _askesis_ in its simplest, most rationalised form in the Case of Bill the Engine-driver--I forget in what great work of _Theologia Moralis_ I found the instance; perhaps Bill was really _Quidam_ in the original, and his occupation stated as that of _Nauarchus_. At all events, Bill is fond of four-ale; but he had perceived that two pots of this beverage consumed before a professional journey tended to make him rather sleepy, rather less alert, than he might be in the execution of his very responsible duties. Hence Bill, considering this, wisely contents himself with _one_ pot before mounting on his cab. He has deprived himself of a sensible good in order that an equally sensible but greater good may be secured--in order that he and the passengers may run no risks on the journey. Next to this simple asceticism comes, I suppose, the ordinary discipline of the Church--the abandonment of sensible goods to secure spiritual ends, the turning away from the type to the prototype, from the sight of the eyes to the vision of the soul. For in the true asceticism, whatever its degree, there is always action to a certain end, to a perceived good. Does the self-tormenting fakir act from this motive? I don't know; but if he does not, his discipline is not asceticism at all, but folly, and impious folly, too. If he mortifies himself merely for the sake of mortifying himself; then he defiles and blasphemes the Temple. This in parenthesis. "But, as I say, I had a very dim and distant glimpse of another region of the _askesis_. Mystics will understand me when I say that there are moments when the Dark Night of the Soul is seen to be brighter than her brightest day; there are moments when it is necessary to drive away even the angels that there may be place for the Highest. One may ascend into regions so remote from the common concerns of life that it becomes difficult to procure the help of analogy, even in the terms and processes of the Arts. But suppose a painter--I need not say that I mean an artist--who is visited by an idea so wonderful, so super-exalted in its beauty that he recognises his impotence; he knows that no pigments and no technique can do anything but grossly parody his vision. Well, he will show his greatness by _not_ attempting to paint that vision: he will write on a bare canvass _vidit anima sed non pinxit manus_. And I am sure that there are many romances which have never been written. It was a highly paradoxical, even a dangerous philosophy that affirmed God to be rather _Non-Ens_ than _Ens_; but there are moods in which one appreciates the thought. "I think I caught, as I say, a distant vision of that Night which excels the Day in its splendour. It began with the eyes turned away from the sunset, with lips that refused kisses. Then there came a command to the heart to cease from longing for the dear land of Gwent, to cease from that aching desire that had never died for so many years for the sight of the old land and those hills and woods of most sweet and anguished memory. I remember once, when I was a great lout of sixteen, I went to see the Lupton Fair. I always liked the great booths and caravans and merry-go-rounds, all a blaze of barbaric green and red and gold, flaming and glowing in the middle of the trampled, sodden field against a background of Lupton and wet, grey autumn sky. There were country folk then who wore smock-frocks and looked like men in them, too. One saw scores of these brave fellows at the Fair: dull, good Jutes with flaxen hair that was almost white, and with broad pink faces. I liked to see them in the white robe and the curious embroidery; they were a note of wholesomeness, an embassage from the old English village life to our filthy 'industrial centre.' It was odd to see how they stared about them; they wondered, I think, at the beastliness of the place, and yet, poor fellows, they felt bound to admire the evidence of so much money. Yes, they were of Old England; they savoured of the long, bending, broad village street, the gable ends, the grave fronts of old mellow bricks, the thatched roofs here and there, the bulging window of the 'village shop,' the old church in decorous, somewhat dull perpendicular among the elms, and, above all, the old tavern--that excellent abode of honest mirth and honest beer, relic of the time when there were men, and men who _lived_. Lupton is very far removed from Hardy's land, and yet as I think of these country-folk in their smock-frocks all the essence of Hardy is distilled for me; I see the village street all white in snow, a light gleaming very rarely from an upper window, and presently, amid ringing bells, one hears the carol-singers begin: '_Remember Adam's fall, O thou man._' "And I love to look at the whirl of the merry-go-rounds, at the people sitting with grave enjoyment on those absurd horses as they circle round and round till one's eyes were dazed. Drums beat and thundered, strange horns blew raucous calls from all quarters, and the mechanical music to which those horses revolved belched and blazed and rattled out its everlasting monotony, checked now and again by the shriek of the steam whistle, groaning into silence for a while: then the tune clanged out once more, and the horses whirled round and round. "But on this Fair Day of which I am speaking I left the booths and the golden, gleaming merry-go-rounds for the next field, where horses were excited to brief madness and short energy. I had scarcely taken up my stand when a man close by me raised his voice to a genial shout as he saw a friend a little way off. And he spoke with the beloved accent of Gwent, with those tones that come to me more ravishing, more enchanting than all the music in the world. I had not heard them for years of weary exile! Just a phrase or two of common greeting in those chanting accents: the Fair passed away, was whirled into nothingness, its shouting voices, the charging of horses, drum and trumpet, clanging, metallic music--it rushed down into the abyss. There was the silence that follows a great peal of thunder; it was early morning and I was standing in a well-remembered valley, beside the blossoming thorn bush, looking far away to the wooded hills that kept the East, above the course of the shining river. I was, I say, a great lout of sixteen, but the tears flooded my eyes, my heart swelled with its longing. "Now, it seemed, I was to quell such thoughts as these, to desire no more the fervent sunlight on the mountain, or the sweet scent of the dusk about the runnings of the brook. I had been very fond of 'going for walks'--walks of the imagination. I was afraid, I suppose, that unless by constant meditation I renewed the shape of the old land in my mind, its image might become a blurred and fading picture; I should forget little by little the ways of those deep, winding lanes that took courses that were almost subterranean over hill and vale, by woodside and waterside, narrow, cavernous, leaf-vaulted; cool in the greatest heats of summer. And the wandering paths that crossed the fields, that led one down into places hidden and remote, into still depths where no one save myself ever seemed to enter, that sometimes ended with a certain solemnity at a broken stile in a hedgerow grown into a thicket--within a plum tree returning to the savage life of the wood, a forest, perhaps, of blue lupins, and a great wild rose about the ruined walls of a house--all these ways I must keep in mind as if they were mysteries and great secrets, as indeed they were. So I strolled in memory through the Pageant of Gwent: 'lest I should forget the region of the flowers, lest I should become unmindful of the wells and the floods.' "But the time came, as I say, when it was represented to me that all this was an indulgence which, for a season at least, must be pretermitted. With an effort I voided my soul of memory and desire and weeping; when the idols of doomed Twyn-Barlwm, and great Mynydd Maen, and the silver esses of the Usk appeared before me, I cast them out; I would not meditate white Caerleon shining across the river. I endured, I think, the severest pains. De Quincey, that admirable artist, that searcher into secrets and master of mysteries, has described my pains for me under the figure of the Opium Eater breaking the bonds of his vice. How often, when the abominations of Lupton, its sham energies, its sham morals, its sham enthusiasms, all its battalia of cant surged and beat upon me, have I been sorely tempted to yield, to suffer no more the press of folly, but to steal away by a secret path I knew, to dwell in a secure valley where the foolish could never trouble me. Sometimes I 'fell,' as I drank deep then of the magic well-water, and went astray in the green dells and avenues of the wildwood. Still I struggled to refrain my heart from these things, to keep my spirit under the severe discipline of abstention; and with a constant effort I succeeded more and more. "But there was a yet deeper depth in this process of _catharsis_. I have said that sometimes one must expel the angels that God may have room; and now the strict ordinance was given that I should sever myself from that great dream of Celtic sanctity that for me had always been _the_ dream, the innermost shrine in which I could take refuge, the house of sovran medicaments where all the wounds of soul and body were healed. One does not wish to be harsh; we must admit, I suppose, that moderate, sensible Anglicanism must have _something_ in it--since the absolute sham cannot very well continue to exist. Let us say, then, that it is highly favourable to a respectable and moral life, that it encourages a temperate and well-regulated spirit of devotion. It was certainly a very excellent and (according to her lights) devout woman who, in her version of the _Anima Christi_ altered 'inebriate me' to 'purify me,' and it was a good cleric who hated the Vulgate reading, _calix meus inebrians_. My father had always instructed me that we must conform outwardly, and bear with _Dearly Beloved Brethren_; while we celebrated in our hearts the Ancient Mass of the Britons, and waited for Cadwaladr to return. I reverenced his teaching, I still reverence it, and agree that we must conform; but in my heart I have always doubted whether moderate Anglicanism be Christianity in any sense, whether it even deserves to be called a religion at all. I do not doubt, of course, that many truly religious people have professed it: I speak of the system, and of the atmosphere which emanates from it. And when the Public School _ethos_ is added to this--well, the resultant teaching comes pretty much to the dogma that Heaven and the Head are strict allies. One must not degenerate into ecclesiastical controversy; I merely want to say that I never dreamed of looking for religion in our Chapel services. No doubt the _Te Deum_ was _still the Te Deum_, but the noblest of hymns is degraded, obscured, defiled, made ridiculous, if you marry it to a tune that would disgrace a penny gaff. Personally, I think that the airs on the piano-organs are much more reverend compositions than Anglican chants, and I am sure that many popular hymn tunes are vastly inferior in solemnity to _'E Dunno where 'e are_. "No; the religion that led me and drew me and compelled me was that wonderful and doubtful mythos of the Celtic Church. It was the study--nay, more than the study, the enthusiasm--of my father's life; and as I was literally baptized with water from a Holy Well, so spiritually the great legend of the Saints and their amazing lives had tinged all my dearest aspirations, had become to me the glowing vestment of the Great Mystery. One may sometimes be deeply interested in the matter of a tale while one is wearied or sickened by the manner of it; one may have to embrace the bright divinity on the horrid lips of the serpent of Cos. Or, on the other hand, the manner--the style--may be admirable, and the matter a mere nothing but a ground for the embroidery. But for me the Celtic Mythos was the Perfect Thing, the King's Daughter: _Omnis gloria ejus filiæ Regis ab, intus, in fimbriis aureis circumamicta varietatibus_. I have learned much more of this great mystery since those days--I have seen, that is, how entirely, how absolutely my boyhood's faith was justified; but even then with but little knowledge I was rapt at the thought of this marvellous knight-errantry, of this Christianity which was not a moral code, with some sort of metaphorical Heaven held out as a reward for its due observance, but a great mystical adventure into the unknown sanctity. Imagine a Bishop of the Established Church getting into a boat without oar or sails! Imagine him, if you can, doing anything remotely analagous to such an action. Conceive the late Archbishop Tait going apart into the chapel at Lambeth for three days and three nights; then you may well conceive the people in the opposite bank being dazzled with the blinding supernatural light poured forth from the chapel windows. Of course, the end of the Celtic Church was ruin and confusion--but Don Quixote failed and fell, while Sancho Panza lived a fat, prosperous peasant. He inherited, I think, a considerable sum from the knight, and was, no doubt, a good deal looked up to in the village. "Yes; the Celtic Church was the Company of the Great Errantry, of the Great Mystery, and, though all the history of it seems but a dim and shadowy splendour, its burning rose-red lamp yet glows for a few, and from my earliest childhood I was indoctrinated in the great Rite of Cor-arbennic. When I was still very young I had been humoured with the sight of a wonderful Relic of the Saints--never shall I forget that experience of the holy magic of sanctity. Every little wood, every rock and fountain, and every running stream of Gwent were hallowed for me by some mystical and entrancing legend, and the thought of this High Spiritual City and its Blessed Congregation could, in a moment, exercise and drive forth from me all the ugly and foolish and gibbering spectres that made up the life of that ugly and foolish place where I was imprisoned. "Now, with a sorrowful farewell, I bade good-bye for a brief time (as I hoped it would be) to this golden legend; my heart was emptied of its treasures and its curious shows, and the lights on the altars were put out, and the images were strictly veiled. Hushed was the chanting in the Sovereign and Perpetual Choir, hidden were the High Hallows of the Saints, no more did I follow them to their cells in the wild hills, no more did I look from the rocks in the west and see them set forth for Avalon. Alas! "A great silence seemed to fall upon me, the silence of the depths beneath the earth. And with the silence there was darkness. Only in a hidden place there was reserved the one taper--the Light of Conformity, of a perfect submission, that from the very excess of sorrow and deprivation drew its secret but quintessential joy. I am reminded, now that I look back upon this great purgation of the soul, of the story that I once read of the Arabic Alchemist. He came to the Caliph Haroun with a strange and extravagant proposal. Haroun sat in all his splendour, his viziers, his chamberlains, his great officers about him, in his golden court which displayed all the wonders and superfluities of the East. He gave judgment; the wicked were punished, the virtuous were rewarded; God's name was exalted, the Prophet was venerated. There came before the Commander of the Faithful a poor old man in the poor and ragged robes of a wandering poet; he was oppressed by the weight of his years, and his entrance was like the entrance of misery. So wretched was his appearance that one of the chamberlains, who was well acquainted with the poets, could not help quoting the well-known verses: "'Between the main and a drop of rain the difference seen is nothing great. The sun so bright and the taper's light are alike and one save in pomp and state. In the grain of sand and in all the land what may ye arraign as disparate? A crust of bread and a King's board spread will hunger's lust alike abate. With the smallest blade or with host arrayed the Ruler may quench his gall and hate. A stone in a box and a quarry of rocks may be shown to be of an equal freight. With a sentence bold or with gold untold the lover may hold or capture his mate. The King and the Bard may alike be debarred from the fold of the Lord Compassionate.'" "The Commander of the Faithful praised God, the Merciful, the Compassionate, the King of the Day of Judgment, and caused the chamberlain to be handsomely rewarded. He then enquired of the old man for what reason he came before him, and the beggar (as, indeed, he seemed) informed the Caliph that he had for many years prosecuted his studies in magic, alchemy, astrology and geomancy and all other curious and surprising arts, in Spain, Grand Cairo, the land of the Moors, India, China, in various Cities of the Infidels; in fact, in every quarter of the world where magicians were to be found. In proof of his proficiency he produced a little box which he carried about him for the purpose of his geomantic operations and asked anyone who was willing to stand forth, that he might hear his whole life, past, present and future. The Caliph ordered one of his officers to submit himself to this ordeal, and the beggar having made the points in the sand, and having erected the figure according to the rules of the geomantic art, immediately informed the officer of all the most hidden transactions in which he had been engaged, including several matters which this officer thought had been secrets locked in his own breast. He also foretold his death in a year's time from a certain herb, and so it fell out, for he was strangled with a hempen cord by order of the Caliph. In the meantime, the Commander of the Faithful and all about him were astonished, and the Beggar Magician was ordered to proceed with his story. He spoke at great length, and everyone remarked the elegance and propriety of his diction, which was wanting in no refinement of classical eloquence. But the sum of his speech was this--that he had discovered the greatest wonder of the whole world, the name of which he declared was Asrar, and by this talisman he said that the Caliph might make himself more renowned than all the kings that had ever reigned on the earth, not excepting King Solomon, the son of David. This was the method of the operation which the beggar proposed. The Commander of the Faithful was to gather together all the wealth of his entire kingdom, omitting nothing that could possibly be discovered; and while this was being done the magician said that he would construct a furnace of peculiar shape in which all these splendours and magnificences and treasures of the world must be consumed in a certain fire of art, prepared with wisdom. And at last, he continued, after the operation had endured many days, the fire being all the while most curiously governed, there would remain but one drop no larger than a pearl, but glorious as the sun to the moon and all the starry heavens and the wonders of the compassionate; and with this drop the Caliph Haroun might heal all the sorrows of the universe. Both the Commander of the Faithful and all his viziers and officers were stupefied by this proposal, and most of the assemblage considered the beggar to be a madman. The Caliph, however, asked him to return the next day in order that his plans might receive more mature consideration. "The beggar prostrated himself and went forth from the hall of audience, but he returned no more, nor could it be discovered that he had been seen again by anyone. "'But one drop no larger than a pearl,' and 'where there is Nothing there is All.' I have often thought of those sentences in looking back on that time when, as Chesson said, I was one of those 'light-hearted and yet sturdy and reliable young fellows to whose hands the honour and safety of England might one day be committed.' I cast all the treasures I possessed into the alembic; again and again they were rectified by the heat of the fire 'most curiously governed'; I saw the 'engendering of the Crow' black as pitch, the flight of the Dove with Silver Wings, and at last Sol rose red and glorious, and I fell down and gave thanks to heaven for this most wonderful gift, the 'Sun blessed of the Fire.' I had dispossessed myself of all, and I found that I possessed all; I had thrown away all the money in my purse, and I was richer than I had ever been; I had died, and I had found a new life in the land of the living. "It is curious that I should now have to explain the pertinency of all that I have written to the title of this Note--concerning Gaiety. It should not be necessary. The chain of thought is almost painfully obvious. But I am afraid it is necessary. "Well: I once read an interesting article in the daily paper. It was written apropos of some Shakespearean celebrations or other, and its purport was that modern England was ever so much happier than mediæval or Elizabethian England. It is possible that an acute logician might find something to say on this thesis; but my interest lay in the following passages, which I quote: "'Merrie England,' with its maypoles and its Whitsun Ales, and its Shrove-tide jousts and junketings is dead for us, from the religious point of view. The England that has survived is, after all, a greater England still. It is Puritan England.... The spirit has gone. Surely it is useless to revive the form. Wherefore should the May Queen be "holy, wise, and fair," if not to symbolise the Virgin Mary? And as for Shrove-tide, too, what point in jollity without a fast to follow?' "The article is not over-illuminating, but I think the writer had caught a glimpse of the truth that there is a deep relation between Mirth and Sanctity; that no real mirth is possible without the apprehension of the mysteries as its antecedent. The fast and the feast are complementary terms. He is right; there is no point in jollity unless there is a fast or something of the nature of a fast to follow--though, of course, there is nothing to hinder the most advanced thinker from drinking as much fusel-oil and raw Russian spirit as he likes. But the result of this course is not real mirth or jollity; it is perhaps more essentially dismal than a 'Tea' amongst the Protestant Dissenters. And, on the other hand, true gaiety is only possible to those who have fasted; and now perhaps it will be seen that I have been describing the preparations for a light-hearted festival. "The cloud passed away from me, the restrictions and inhibitions were suddenly removed, and I woke up one morning in dancing, bubbling spirits, every drop of blood in my body racing with new life, my nerves tingling and thrilling with energy. I laughed as I awoke; I was conscious that I was to engage in a strange and fantastic adventure, though I had not the remotest notion of what it was to be." II Ambrose Meyrick's adventure was certainly of the fantastic order. His fame had long been established on a sure footing with his uncle and with everybody else, and Mr. Horbury had congratulated him with genuine enthusiasm on his work in the examinations--the Summer term was drawing to a close. Mr. Horbury was Ambrose's trustee, and he made no difficulty about signing a really handsome cheque for his nephew's holiday expenses and outfit. "There," he said "you ought to be able to do pretty well on that. Where do you think of going?" Ambrose said that he had thought of North Devon, of tramping over Exmoor, visiting the Doone country, and perhaps of working down to Dartmoor. "You couldn't do better. You ought to try your hand at fishing: wonderful sport in some of those streams. It mightn't come off at first, but with your eye and sense of distance you'll soon make a fine angler. If you _do_ have a turn at the trout, get hold of some local man and make him give you a wrinkle or two. It's no good getting your flies from town. Now, when I was fishing in Hampshire----" Mr. Horbury went on; but the devil of gaiety had already dictated a wonderful scheme to Ambrose, and that night he informed Nelly Foran that she must alter her plans; she was to come with him to France instead of spending a fortnight at Blackpool. He carried out this mad device with an ingenuity that poor Mr. Palmer would certainly have called "diabolical." In the first place, there was to be a week in London--for Nelly must have some clothes; and this week began as an experience of high delight. It was not devoid of terror, for masters might be abroad, and Ambrose did not wish to leave Lupton for some time. However, they neither saw nor were seen. Arriving at St. Pancras, the luggage was left in the station, and Ambrose, who had studied the map of London, stood for a while on the pavement outside Scott's great masterpiece of architecture and considered the situation with grave yet humorous deliberation. Nelly proved herself admirably worthy of the adventure; its monstrous audacity appealed to her, and she was in a state of perpetual subdued laughter for some days after their arrival. Meyrick looked about him and found that the Euston Road, being squalid and noisy, offered few attractions; and with sudden resolution he took the girl by the arm and steered into the heart of Bloomsbury. In this charmingly central and yet retired quarter they found rooms in a quiet byway which, oddly enough, looked on a green field; and under the pleasant style of Mr. and Mr. Lupton they partook of tea while the luggage was fetched by somebody--probably a husband--who came with a shock of red, untidy hair from the dark bowels of the basement. They screamed with mirth over the meal. Mr. Horbury had faults, but he kept a good table for himself, his boys and his servants; and the exotic, quaint flavour of the "bread" and "butter" seemed to these two young idiots exquisitely funny. And the queer, faint, close smell, too, of the whole house--it rushed out at one when the hall door was opened: it was heavy, and worth its weight in gold. "I never know," Ambrose used to say afterwards, "whether to laugh or cry when I have been away for some time from town, and come back and smell that wonderful old London aroma. I don't believe it's so strong or so rare as it used to be; I have been disappointed once or twice in houses in quite shabby streets. It was _there_, of course, but--well, if it were a vintage wine I should say it was a second growth of a very poor year--Margaux, no doubt, but a Margaux of one of those very indifferent years in the early 'seventies. Or it may be like the smell of grease-paints; one doesn't notice it after a month or two. But I don't think it is. "Still," he would go on, "I value what I can smell of it. It brings back to me that afternoon, that hot, choking afternoon of ever so many years ago. It was really tremendously hot--ninety-two degrees, I think I saw in the paper the next day--and when we got out at St. Pancras the wind came at one like a furnace blast. There was no sun visible; the sky was bleary--a sort of sickly, smoky yellow, and the burning wind came in gusts, and the dust hissed and rattled on the pavement. Do you know what a low public-house smells like in London on a hot afternoon? Do you know what London bitter tastes like on such a day--the publican being evidently careful of his clients' health, and aware of the folly of drinking cold beverages during a period of extreme heat? I do. Nelly, poor dear, had warm lemonade, and I had warm beer--warm chemicals, I mean. But the odour! Why doesn't some scientific man stop wasting his time over a lot of useless rubbish and discover a way of bottling the odour of the past? "Ah! but if he did so, in a phial of rare crystal with a stopper as secure as the seal of Solimaun ben Daoud would I preserve one most precious scent, inscribing on the seal, within a perfect pentagram, the mystic legend 'No. 15, Little Russell Row.'" The cat had come in with the tea-tray. He was a black cat, not very large, with a decent roundness of feature, and yet with a suggestion of sinewy skinniness about him--the Skinniness of the wastrel, not of the poor starveling. His bright green eyes had, as Ambrose observed, the wisdom of Egypt; on his tomb should be inscribed "The Justified in Sekht." He walked solemnly in front of the landlady, his body describing strange curves, his tail waving in the air, and his ears put back with an expression of intense cunning. He seemed delighted at "the let," and when Nelly stroked his back he gave a loud shriek of joy and made known his willingness to take a little refreshment. They laughed so heartily over their tea that when the landlady came in to clear the things away they were still bubbling over with aimless merriment. "I likes to see young people 'appy," she said pleasantly, and readily provided a latchkey in case they cared to come in rather late. She told them a good deal of her life: she had kept lodgings in Judd Street, near King's Cross--a nasty, noisy street, she called it--and she seemed to think the inhabitants a low lot. She had to do with all sorts, some good some bad, and the business wasn't what it had been in her mother's day. They sat a little while on the sofa, hand in hand still consumed with the jest of their being there at all, and imagining grotesque entrances of Mr. Horbury or Dr. Chesson. Then they went out to wander about the streets, to see London easily, merrily, without bothering the Monument, or the British Museum, or Madame Tussaud's--finally, to get something to eat, they didn't know when or where or how, and they didn't in the least care! There was one "sight" they were not successful in avoiding: they had not journeyed far before the great portal of the British Museum confronted them, grandiose and gloomy. So, by the sober way of Great Russell Street, they made their way into Tottenham Court Road and, finally, into Oxford Street. The shops were bright and splendid, the pavement was crowded with a hurrying multitude, as it seemed to the country folk, though it was the dullest season of the year. It was a great impression--decidedly London was a wonderful place. Already Ambrose felt a curious sense of being at home in it; it was not beautiful, but it was on the immense scale; it did something more than vomit stinks into the air, poison into the water and rows of workmen's houses on the land. They wandered on, and then they had the fancy that they would like to explore the regions to the south; it was so impossible, as Ambrose said, to know where they would find themselves eventually. He carefully lost himself within a few minutes of Oxford Street. A few turnings to right and then to left; the navigation of strange alleys soon left them in the most satisfactory condition of bewilderment; the distinctions of the mariner's compass, its pedantry of east and west, north and south, were annihilated and had ceased to be; it was an adventure in a trackless desert, in the Australian bush, but on safer ground and in an infinitely more entertaining scene. At first they had passed through dark streets, Georgian and Augustan ways, gloomy enough, and half deserted; there were grave houses, with many stories of windows, now reduced to printing offices, to pickle warehouses, to odd crafts such as those of the metal assayer, the crucible maker, the engraver of seals, the fabricator of Boule. But how wonderful it was to see the actual place where those things were done! Ambrose had read of such arts, but had always thought of them as existing in a vague void--if some of them even existed at all in those days: but there in the windows were actual crucibles, strange-looking curvilinear pots of grey-yellowish ware, the veritable instruments of the Magnum Opus, inventions of Arabia. He was no longer astonished when a little farther he saw a harpsichord, which had only been a name to him, a beautiful looking thing, richly inlaid, with its date--1780--inscribed on a card above it. It was now utterly wonderland: he could very likely buy armour round the corner; and he had scarcely formed the thought when a very fine sixteenth-century suit, richly damascened, rose up before him, handsomely displayed between two black jacks. These were the comparatively silent streets; but they turned a corner, and what a change! All the roadway, not the pavement only, seemed full of a strolling, chatting, laughing mob of people: the women were bareheaded, and one heard nothing but the roll of the French "r," torrents of sonorous sound trolled out with the music of happy song. The papers in the shops were all French, ensigns on every side proclaimed "Vins Fins," "Beaune Supérieur": the tobacconists kept their tobacco in square blue, yellow and brown packets; "Charcuterie" made a brave and appetising show. And here was a "Café Restaurant: au château de Chinon." The name was enough; they could not dine elsewhere, and Ambrose felt that he was honouring the memory of the great Rabelais. It was probably not a very good dinner. It was infinitely better than the Soho dinner of these days, for the Quarter had hardly begun to yield to the attack of Art, Intellect and the Suburbs which, between them, have since destroyed the character and unction of many a good cook-shop. Ambrose only remembered two dishes; the _pieds de porc grillés_ and the salad. The former he thought both amusing and delicious, and the latter was strangely and artfully compounded of many herbs, of little vinegar, of abundant Provençal oil, with the _chapon_, or crust rubbed with garlic, reposing at the bottom of the bowl after Madame had "tormented" the ingredients--the salad was a dish from Fairyland. There be no such salads now in all the land of Soho. "Let me celebrate, above all, the little red wine," says Ambrose in a brief dithyrambic note. "Not in any mortal vineyard did its father grape ripen; it was not nourished by the warmth of the visible sun, nor were the rains that made it swell common waters from the skies above us. Not even in the Chinonnais, sacred earth though that be, was the press made that caused its juices to be poured into the _cuve_, nor was the humming of its fermentation heard in any of the good cellars of the lower Touraine. But in that region which Keats celebrates when he sings the 'Mermaid Tavern' was this juice engendered--the vineyard lay low down in the south, among the starry plains where is the _Terra Turonensis Celestis_, that unimaginable country which Rabelais beheld in his vision where mighty Gargantua drinks from inexhaustible vats eternally, where Pantagruel is athirst for evermore, though he be satisfied continually. There, in the land of the Crowned Immortal Tosspots was that wine of ours vintaged, red with the rays of the Dog-star, made magical by the influence of Venus, fertilised by the happy aspect of Mercury. O rare, superabundant and most excellent juice, fruit of all fortunate stars, by thee were we translated, exalted into the fellowship of that Tavern of which the old poet writes: _Mihi est propositum in Taberna mori!_" There were few English people in the Château de Chinon--indeed, it is doubtful whether there was more than one--the ménage Lupton excepted. This one compatriot happened to be a rather remarkable man--it was Carrol. He was not in the vanguard of anything; he knew no journalists and belonged to no clubs; he was not even acquainted in the most distant manner with a single person who could be called really influential or successful. He was an obscure literary worker, who published an odd volume every five or six years: now and then he got notices, when there was no press of important stuff in the offices, and sometimes a kindly reviewer predicted that he would come out all right in time, though he had still much to learn. About a year before he died, an intelligent reading public was told that one or two things of his were rather good; then, on his death, it was definitely discovered that the five volumes of verse occupied absolutely unique ground, that a supreme poet had been taken from us, a poet who had raised the English language into a fourth dimension of melody and magic. The intelligent reading public read him no more than they ever did, but they buy him in edition after edition, from large quarto to post octavo; they buy him put up into little decorated boxes; they buy him on Japanese vellum; they buy him illustrated by six different artists; they discuss no end of articles about him; they write their names in the Carrol Birthday Book; they set up the Carrol Calendar in their boudoirs; they have quotations from him in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedral; they sing him in the famous Carrol Cycle of Song; and, last and best of all, a brilliant American playwright is talking even now of dramatising him. The Carrol Club, of course, is ancient history. Its membership is confined to the ranks of intellect and art; it invites to its dinners foreign princes, bankers, major-generals and other persons of distinction--all of whom, of course, are intensely interested in the master's book; and the record and praise of the Club are in all the papers. It is a pity that Carrol is dead. He would not have sworn: he would have grinned. Even then, though he was not glorious, he was observant, and he left a brief note, a sort of thumb-nail sketch, of his impressions that night at the Château de Chinon. "I was sitting in my old corner," he says, "wondering why the devil I wrote so badly on the whole, and what the devil I was going to do with the subject that I had tackled. The dinner was not so bad at the old Château in those days, though now they say the plate-glass is the best dish in the establishment. I liked the old place; it was dingy and low down and rather disreputable, I fancy, and the company was miscellaneous French with a dash of Italian. Nearly all of us knew each other, and there were regulars who sat in the same seat night after night. I liked it all. I liked the coarse tablecloths and the black-handled knives and the lead spoons and the damp, adhesive salt, and the coarse, strong, black pepper that one helped with a fork handle. Then there was Madame sitting on high, and I never saw an uglier woman nor a more good-natured. I was getting through my roast fowl and salad that evening, when two wonderful people came in, obviously from fairyland! I saw they had never been in such a place in all their lives before--I don't believe either of them had set foot in London until that day, and their wonder and delight and enjoyment of it all were so enormous that I had another helping of food and an extra half-bottle of wine. I enjoyed them, too, in their way, but I could see that _their_ fowl and _their_ wine were not a bit the same as mine. _I_ once knew the restaurant they were really dining at--Grand Café de Paradis--some such name as that. He was an extraordinary looking chap, quite young, I should fancy, black hair, dark skin, and such burning eyes! I don't know why, but I felt he was a bit out of his setting, and I kept thinking how I should like to see him in a monk's robe. Madame was different. She was a lovely girl with amazing copper hair; dressed rather badly--of the people, I should imagine. But what a gaiety she had! I couldn't hear what they were saying, but one had to smile with sheer joy at the sight of her face--it positively danced with mirth, and a good musician could have set it to music, I am sure. There was something a little queer--too pronounced, perhaps--about the lower part of her face. Perhaps it would have been an odd tune, but I know I should have liked to hear it!" Ambrose lit a black Caporal cigarette--he had bought a packet on his way. He saw an enticing bottle, of rotund form, paying its visits to some neighbouring tables, and the happy fools made the acquaintance of Benedictine. "Oh, yes, it is all very well," Ambrose has been heard to say on being offered this agreeable and aromatic liqueur, "it's nice enough, I daresay. But you should have tasted the _real_ stuff. I got it at a little cafe in Soho some years ago--the Château de Chinon. No, it's no good going there now, it's quite different. All the walls are plate-glass and gold; the head waiter is called Maître d'hôtel, and I am told it's quite the thing, both in southern and northern suburbs, to make up dinner parties at the Château--everything most correct, evening dress, fans, opera cloaks, 'Hide-seek' champagne, and stalls afterwards. One gets a glimpse of Bohemian life that way, and everybody says it's been such a queer evening, but quite amusing, too. But you can't get the real Benedictine there now. "Where can you get it? Ah! I wish I knew. _I_ never come across it. The bottle looks just the same, but it's quite a different flavour. The phylloxera may be responsible, of course, but I don't think it is. Perhaps the bottle that went round the table that night was like the powder in _Jekyll and Hyde_--its properties were the result of some strange accident. At all events, they were quite magical." The two adventurers went forth into the maze of streets and lost themselves again. Heaven knows where they went, by what ways they wandered, as with wide-gleaming eyes, arm locked in arm, they gazed on an enchanted scene which they knew must be London and nothing else--what else could it be? Indeed, now and again, Ambrose thought he recognized certain features and monuments and public places of which he had read; but still! That wine of the Château was, by all mundane reckonings, of the smallest, and one little glass of Benedictine with coffee could not disturb the weakest head: yet was it London, after all? What they saw was, doubtless, the common world of the streets and squares, the gay ways and the dull, the broad, ringing, lighted roads and the dark, echoing passages; yet they saw it all as one sees a mystery play, through a veil. But the veil before their eyes was a transmuting vision, and its substance was shot as if it were samite, with wonderful and admirable golden ornaments. In the Eastern Tales, people find themselves thus suddenly transported into an unknown magical territory, with cities that are altogether things of marvel and enchantment, whose walls are pure gold, lighted by the shining of incomparable jewels; and Ambrose declared later that never till that evening had he realized the extraordinary and absolute truth to nature of the _Arabian Nights_. Those who were present on a certain occasion will not soon forget his rejoinder to "a gentleman in the company" who said that for truth to nature he went to George Eliot. "I was speaking of men and women, Sir," was the answer, "not of lice." The gentleman in question, who was quite an influential man--some whisper that he was an editor--was naturally very much annoyed. Still, Ambrose maintained his position. He would even affirm that for crude realism the Eastern Tales were absolutely unique. "Of course," he said, "I take realism to mean absolute and essential truthfulness of description, as opposed to merely conventional treatment. Zola is a realist, not--as the imbeciles suppose--because he described--well, rather minutely--many unpleasant sights and sounds and smells and emotions, but because he was a poet, a seer; because, in spite of his pseudo-philosophies, his cheap materialisms, he saw the true heart, the reality of things. Take _La Terre_; do you think it is 'realistic' because it describes minutely, and probably faithfully, the event of a cow calving? Not in the least; the local vet. who was called in could probably do all that as well, or better. It is 'realist' because it goes behind all the brutalities, all the piggeries and inhumanities, of those frightful people, and shows us the strange, mad, transcendent passion that lay behind all those things--the wild desire for the land--a longing that burned, that devoured, that inflamed, that drove men to hell and death as would a passion for a goddess who might never be attained. Remember how 'La Beauce' is personified, how the earth swells and quickens before one, how every clod and morsel of the soil cries for its service and its sacrifice and its victims--I call _that_ realism. "The _Arabian Nights_ is also profoundly realistic, though both the subject-matter and the method of treatment--the technique--are very different from the subject-matter and the technique of Zola. Of course, there may be people who think that if you describe a pigsty well you are a 'realist,' and if you describe an altar well you are 'romantic.' ... I do not know that the mental processes of Crétins form a very interesting subject for discussion." One may surmise, if one will, that the sudden violence of the change was a sufficient cause of exaltation. That detestable Lupton left behind; no town, but a collection of stink and poison factories and slave quarters; that more detestable school, more ridiculous than the Academy of Lagado; that most detestable routine, games, lessons and the Doctor's sermons--the transition was tremendous to the freedom of fabled London, of the unknown streets and unending multitudes. Ambrose said he hesitated to talk of that walk, lest he should be thought an aimless liar. They strolled for hours seeing the most wonderful things, the most wonderful people; but he declared that the case was similar to that of the Benedictine--he could never discover again the regions that he had perambulated. Somewhere, he said, close to the Château de Chinon there must be a passage which had since been blocked up. By it was the entrance to Fairyland. When at last they found Little Russell Row, the black cat was awaiting them with an expression which was pleased and pious, too; he had devoured the greater portion of that quarter-pound of dubious butter. Ambrose smoked black cigarettes in bed till the packet was finished. III It was an amazing week they spent in London. For a couple of days Nelly was busied in getting "things" and "odds and ends," and, to her credit, she dressed the part most admirably. She abjured all the imperial purples, the Mediterranean blues, the shrieking lilacs that her class usually affects, and appeared at last a model of neat gaiety. In the meantime, while these shopping expeditions were in progress, while Nelly consulted with those tall, dark-robed, golden-haired and awful Elegances which preside over the last mysteries of the draper and milliner, Ambrose sat at home in Little Russell Row and worked out the outlines of some fantasies that had risen in his mind. It was, in fact, during these days that he made the notes which were afterwards expanded into the curious _Defence of Taverns_, a book which is now rare and sought after by collectors. It is supposed that it was this work that was in poor Palmer's mind when the earnest man referred with a sort of gloomy reticence to Meyrick's later career. He had, in all probability, not read a line of it; but the title was certainly not a very pleasing one, judged by ordinary scholastic standards. And it must be said that the critical reception of the book was not exactly encouraging. One paper wondered candidly why such a book was ever written or printed; another denounced the author in good, set terms as an enemy of the great temperance movement; while a third, a Monthly Reviewer, declared that the work made his blood boil. Yet even the severest moralists should have seen by the epigraph that the Apes and Owls and Antiques hid mysteries of some sort, since a writer whose purposes were really evil and intemperate would never have chosen such a motto as: _Jalalúd-Din praised the behaviour of the Inebriated and drank water from the well_. But the reviewers thought that this was unintelligible nonsense, and merely a small part of the writer's general purpose to annoy. The rough sketch is contained in the first of the _Note Books_, which are still unpublished, and perhaps are likely to remain so. Meyrick jotted down his hints and ideas in the dingy "first floor front" of the Bloomsbury lodging-house, sitting at the rosewood "Davenport" which, to the landlady, seemed the last word in beautiful furniture. The ménage rose late. What a relief it was to be free of the horrible bells that poisoned one's rest at Lupton, to lie in peace as long as one liked, smoking a matutinal cigarette or two to the accompaniment of a cup of tea! Nelly was acquiring the art of the cigarette-smoker by degrees. She did not like the taste at all at first, but the wild and daring deviltry of the practice sustained her, and she persevered. And while they thus wasted the best hours of the day, Ambrose would make to pass before the bottom of the bed a long procession of the masters, each uttering his characteristic word of horror and astonishment as he went by, each whirled away by some invisible power in the middle of a sentence. Thus would enter Chesson, fully attired in cassock, cap and gown: "Meyrick! It is impossible? Are you not aware that such conduct as this is entirely inconsistent with the tone of a great Public School? Have the Games ..." But he was gone; his legs were seen vanishing in a whirlwind which bore him up the chimney. Then Horbury rose out of the carpet: "Plain living and clear thinking are the notes of the System. A Spartan Discipline--Meyrick! Do you call this a Spartan Discipline? Smoking tobacco and reposing with ..." He shot like an arrow after the Head. "We discourage luxury by every means in our power. Boy! This is luxury! Boy, boy! You are like the later Romans, boy! Heliogabalus was accustomed ..." The chimney consumed Palmer also; and he gave place to another. "Roughly speaking, a boy should be always either in school or playing games. He should never be suffered to be at a loose end. Is this your idea of playing games? I tell you, Meyrick ..." The game amused Nelly, more from its accompanying "business" and facial expression than from any particular comprehension of the dialogue. Ambrose saw that she could not grasp all the comedy of his situations, so he invented an Idyll between the Doctor and a notorious and flamboyant barmaid at the "Bell." The fame of this lady ran great but not gracious through all Lupton. This proved a huge success; beginning as a mere episode, it gathered to itself a complicated network of incidents and adventures, of wild attempts and strange escapes, of stratagems and ambushes, of disguises and alarms. Indeed, as Ambrose instructed Nelly with great solemnity, the tale, at first an idyll, the simple, pastoral story of the loves of the Shepherd Chesson and the Nymph Bella, was rapidly becoming epical in its character. He talked of dividing it into twelve books! He enlarged very elaborately the Defeat of the Suitors. In this the dear old Head, disguised as a bookmaker, drugged the whisky of the young bloods who were accustomed to throng about the inner bar of the "Bell." There was quite a long passage describing the compounding of the patent draught from various herbs, the enormous cook at the Head's house enacting a kind of Canidia part, and helping in the concoction of the dose. "Mrs. Belper," the Doctor would observe, "This is _most_ gratifying. I had no idea that your knowledge of simples was so extensive. Do I understand you to affirm that those few leaves which you hold in your hand will produce marked symptoms?" "Bless your dear 'art, Doctor Chesson, and if you'll forgive me for talking so to such a learned gentleman, and so good, I'm sure, but you'll find there's nothing in the world like it. Often and often have I 'eard my pore old mother that's dead and gone these forty year come Candlemas ..." "Mrs. Belper, Mrs. Belper, I am surprised at you! Are you not aware that the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council has pronounced the observance of the festival you so lightly name to be of a highly superstitious nature? Your deceased mother, you were saying, will have entered into her reward forty years ago on February the second of next year? Is not this the case?" "These forty years came Febbymas, I mean, and a good woman she was, and never have I seen a larger wart on the nose and her legs bad as bad for years and years!" "These details, though, no doubt, of high personal interest, seem hardly germane to our present undertaking. However, Mrs. Belper, proceed in your remarks." "And thank you kindly, Sir, and not forgetting you are a clergyman--but there! we can't all of us be everything. And my pore mother, as I was saying, Sir, she said, again and again, that if she'd been like some folks she'd a made a fortune in golden money from this very yarb I'm a-showing you, Sir." "Dear me, Mrs. Belper! You interest me deeply. I have often thought how wrong it is of us to neglect, as undoubtedly we _do_ neglect, the bounteous gifts of the kindly earth. Your lamented mother used this specific with remarkable success?" "Lord a mercy, Doctor 'Chesson! elephants couldn't a stood against it, nor yet whales, being as how it's stronger than the strongest gunpowder that was ever brewed or blasted, and miles better than the nasty rubbidge you get in them doctors' shops, and a pretty penny they make you pay for it and no better than calomel, if you ask me, Sir. But be it the strongest of the strong, I'll take my Gospel oath it's weak to what my pore mother made, and that anybody in Much Moddle parish would tell you, for man, woman or child who took one of Mrs. Marjoram's Mixtures and got over it, remember it, he would, until his dying day. And my pore old mother, she was that funny--never was a cheerfuller woman, I do believe, and when Tom Copus, the lame fiddler, he got married, pore mother! though she could hardly walk, her legs was that bad, come she would, and if she didn't slip a little of the mixture into the beer when everybody was looking another way! Pore, dear soul! as she said herself afterwards, 'mirth becomes marriage,' and so to be sure it does, and merry they all were that day that didn't touch the beer, preferring spirits, which pore mother couldn't get at, being locked up--a nasty, mean trick, I call it, and always will." "Enough, Mrs. Belper, enough! You have amply satisfied me as to the potency of the late Mrs. Marjoram's pharmacopoeia. We will, if you have no objection, Mrs. Belper, make the mixture--to use the words of Shakespeare--'slab and thick.'" "And bless your kind 'art, Sir, and a good, kind master you've always been to me, if you 'aven't got enough 'ere to lay out all the Lupton town, call me a Dutchwoman, and that I never was, nor pore Belper neither." "Certainly not, Mrs. Belper. The Dutch belong to a different branch of the great Teutonic stock, or, if identity had ever existed, the two races have long been differentiated. I think, Mrs. Belper, that the most eminent physicians have recognised the beneficial effects of a gentle laxative during the treacherous (though delightful) season of spring?" "Law bless you, Sir, you're right, as you always are, or why, Doctor? As my pore mother used to say when she made up the mixture: 'Scour 'em out is the right way about!' And laugh she would as she pounded the stuff up till I really thought she would 'a busted, and shaking like the best blancmanges all the while." "Mrs. Belper, you have removed a weight from my mind. You think, then, that I shall be freed from all unfair competition while I pay my addresses to my young friend, Miss Floyer?" "As free you will be, Doctor Chesson, Sir, as the little birds in the air; for not one of them young fellers will stand on his feet for days, and groans and 'owls will be the best word that mortal man will speak, and bless you they will with their dying breath. So, Sir, you'll 'ave the sweet young lady, bless her dear 'art, all to yourself, and if it's twins, don't blame me!" "Mrs. Belper, your construction, if I may say so, is somewhat proleptic in its character. Still, I am sure that your meaning is good. Ha! I hear the bell for afternoon school." The Doctor's voice happened to be shrill and piercing, with something of the tone of the tooth-comb and tissue-paper; while the fat cook spoke in a suety, husky contralto. Ambrose reproduced these peculiarities with the gift of the born mimic, adding appropriate antic and gesture to grace the show, and Nelly's appreciation of its humours was intense. Day by day new incidents and scenes were added. The Head, in the pursuit of his guilty passion, hid in the coal-cellar of the "Bell," and, rustling sounds being heard, evaded detection for a while by imitating the barks of a terrier in chase of a rat. Nelly liked to hear the "Wuff! wuff! wuff!" which was introduced at this point. She liked also the final catastrophe, when the odd man of the "Bell" burst into the bar and said: "Dang my eyes, if it ain't the Doctor! I seed his cap and gown as he run round and round the coals on all fours, a-growling 'orrible." To which the landlady rejoined: "Don't tell your silly lies here! How _could_ he growl, him being a clergyman?" And all the loafers joined in the chorus: "That's right, Tom; why _do_ you talk such silly lies as that--him being a clergyman?" They laughed so loud and so merrily over their morning tea and these lunacies that the landlady doubted gravely as to their marriage lines. She cared nothing; they had paid what she asked, money down in advance, and, as she said: "Young gentlemen _will_ have their fun with the young ladies--so what's the good of talking?" Breakfast came at length. They gave the landlady a warning bell some half-hour in advance, so the odd food was, at all events, not cold. Afterwards Nelly sallied off on her shopping expeditions, which, as might have been expected, she enjoyed hugely, and Ambrose stayed alone, with his pen and ink and a fat notebook which had captured his eye in a stationer's window. Under these odd circumstances, then, he laid the foundations of his rare and precious _Defence of Taverns_, which is now termed by those fortunate enough to possess copies as a unique and golden treatise. Though he added a good deal in later years and remodelled and rearranged freely, there is a certain charm of vigour and freshness about the first sketch which is quite delightful in its way. Take, for example, the description of the whole world overwhelmed with sobriety: a deadly absence of inebriation annulling and destroying all the works and thoughts of men, the country itself at point to perish of the want of good liquor and good drinkers. He shows how there is grave cause to dread that, by reason of this sad neglect of the Dionysiac Mysteries, humanity is fast falling backward from the great heights to which it had ascended, and is in imminent danger of returning to the dumb and blind and helpless condition of the brutes. "How else," he says, "can one account for the stricken state in which all the animal world grows and is eternally impotent? To them, strange, vast and enormous powers and faculties have been given. Consider, for example, the curious equipments of two odd extremes in this sphere--the ant and the elephant. The ant, if one may say so, is very near to us. We have our great centres of industry, our Black Country and our slaves who, if not born black, become black in our service. And the ants, too, have their black, enslaved races who do their dirty work for them, and are, perhaps, congratulated on their privileges as sharing in the blessings of civilisation--though this may be a refinement. The ant slaves, I believe, will rally eagerly to the defence of the nest and the eggs, and they say that the labouring classes are Liberal to the core. Nay; we grow mushrooms by art, and so they. In some lands, I think, they make enormous nests which are the nuisance and terror of the country. We have Manchester and Lupton and Leeds, and many such places--one would think them altogether civilised. "The elephant, again, has many gifts which we lack. Note the curious instinct (or intuition, rather) of danger. The elephant knows, for example, when a bridge is unsafe, and refuses to pass, where a man would go on to destruction. One might examine in the same way all the creatures, and find in them singular capacities. "Yet--they have no art. They see--but they see not. They hear--and they hear not. The odour in their nostrils has no sweetness at all. They have made no report of all the wonders that they knew. Their houses are, sometimes, as ingenious as a Chemical Works, but never is there any beauty for beauty's sake. "It is clear that their state is thus desolate, because of the heavy pall of sobriety that hangs over them all; and it scarcely seems to have occurred to our 'Temperance' advocates that when they urge on us the example and abstinence of the beasts they have advanced the deadliest of all arguments against their nostrum. The Laughing Jackass is a teetotaller, doubtless, but no sane man should desire to be a Laughing Jackass. "But the history of the men who have attained, who have done the glorious things of the earth and have become for ever exalted is the history of the men who have quested the Cup. Dionysius, said the Greeks, _civilised_ the world; and the Bacchic Mystery was, naturally, the heart and core of Greek civilisation. "Note the similitudes of Vine and Vineyard in Old Testament. "Note the Quest of the San Graal. "Note Rabelais and _La Dive Bouteille_. "Place yourself in imagination in a Gothic Cathedral of the thirteenth century and assist at High Mass. Then go to the nearest Little Bethel, and look, and listen. Consider the difference in the two buildings, in those who worship in one and listen and criticise in the other. You have the difference between the Inebriated and the Sober, displayed in their works. As Little Bethel is to Tintern, so is Sobriety to Inebriation. "Modern civilisation has advanced in many ways? Yes. Bethel has a stucco front. This material was quite unknown to the builders of Tintern Abbey. Advanced? What is advancement? Freedom from excesses, from extravagances, from wild enthusiasms? Small Protestant tradesmen are free from all these things, certainly. But is the joy of Adulteration to be the last goal, the final Initiation of the Race of Men? _Cælumque tueri_--to sand the sugar? "The Flagons of the Song of Songs did not contain ginger-beer. "But the worst of it is we shall not merely descend to the beasts. We shall fall very far below the beasts. A black fellow is good, and a white fellow is good. But the white fellow who 'goes Fantee' does not become a negro--he becomes something infinitely worse, a horrible mass of the most putrid corruption. "If we can clear our minds of the horrible cant of our 'civilisation,' if we can look at a modern 'industrial centre' with eyes purged of illusions, we shall have some notion of the awful horror to which we are descending in our effort to become as the ants and bees--creatures who know nothing of CALIX INEBRIANS. "I doubt if we can really make this effort. Blacks, Stinks, Desolations, Poisons, Hell's Nightmare generally have, I suspect, worked themselves into the very form and mould of our thoughts. We are sober, and perhaps the Tavern door is shut for ever against us. "Now and then, perhaps, at rarer and still rarer intervals, a few of us will hear very faintly the far echoes of the holy madness within the closed door: _"When up the thyrse is raised, and when the sound Of sacred orgies flies 'around, around.'_ "Which is the _Sonus Epulantium in Æterno Convivio_. "But this we shall not be able to discern. Very likely we shall take the noise of this High Choir for the horrid mirth of Hell. How strange it is that those who are pledged officially and ceremonially, as it were, to a Rite of Initiation which figures certainly a Feast, should in all their thoughts and words and actions be continually blaspheming and denying all the uses and ends of feastings and festivals. "This is not the refusal of the _species_ for the sake of enjoying perfectly the most beautiful and desirable _genus_; it is the renouncing of species and genus, the pronouncing of Good to be Evil. The Universal being denied, the Particular is degraded and defiled. What is called 'The Drink Curse' is the natural and inevitable result and sequence of the 'Protestant Reformation.' If the clear wells and fountains of the magic wood are buried out of sight, then men (who must have Drink) will betake them to the Slime Ponds and Poison Pools. "In the Graal Books there is a curse--an evil enchantment--on the land of Logres because the mystery of the Holy Vessel is disregarded. The Knight sees the Dripping Spear and the Shining Cup pass before him, and says no word. He asks no question as to the end and meaning of this ceremony. So the land is blasted and barren and songless, and those who dwell in it are in misery. "Every day of our lives we see the Graal carried before us in a wonderful order, and every day we leave the question unasked, the Mystery despised and neglected. Yet if we could ask that question, bowing down before these Heavenly and Glorious Splendours and Hallows--then every man should have the meat and drink that his soul desired; the hall would be filled with odours of Paradise, with the light of Immortality. "In the books the Graal was at last taken away because of men's unworthiness. So it will be, I suppose. Even now, the Quester's adventure is a desperate one--few there be that find It. "Ventilation and sanitation are well enough in their way. But it would not be very satisfactory to pass the day in a ventilated and sanitated Hell with nothing to eat or drink. If one is perishing of hunger and thirst, sanitation seems unimportant enough. "How wonderful, how glorious it would be if the Kingdom of the Great Drinkers could be restored! If we could only sweep away all the might of the Sober Ones--the factory builders, the poison makers, the politicians, the manufacturers of bad books and bad pictures, together with Little Bethel and the morality of Mr. Mildmay, the curate (a series of negative propositions)--then imagine the Great Light of the Great Inebriation shining on every face, and not any work of man's hands, from a cathedral to a penknife, without the mark of the Tavern upon it! All the world a great festival; every well a fountain of strong drink; every river running with the New Wine; the Sangraal brought back from Sarras, restored to the awful shrine of Cor-arbennic, the Oracle of the _Dive Bouteille_ once more freely given, the ruined Vineyard flourishing once more, girt about by shining, everlasting walls! Then we should hear the Old Songs again, and they would dance the Old Dances, the happy, ransomed people, Commensals and Compotators of the Everlasting Tavern." The whole treatise, of which this extract is a fragment in a rudimentary and imperfect stage, is, of course, an impassioned appeal for the restoration of the quickening, exuberant imagination, not merely in art, but in all the inmost places of life. There is more than this, too. Here and there one can hear, as it were, the whisper and the hint of deeper mysteries, visions of a great experiment and a great achievement to which some men may be called. In his own words: "Within the Tavern there is an Inner Tavern, but the door of it is visible to few indeed." In Ambrose's mind in the after years the stout notebook was dear, perhaps as a substitute for that aroma of the past in a phial which he has declared so desirable an invention. It stood, not so much for what was written in it as for the place and the circumstances in which it was written. It recalled Little Russell Row and Nelly, and the evenings at the Château de Chinon, where, night by night, they served still stranger, more delicious meats, and the red wine revealed more clearly its high celestial origin. One evening was diversified by an odd encounter. A middle-aged man, sitting at an adjoining table, was evidently in want of matches, and Ambrose handed his box with the sympathetic smile which one smoker gives to another in such cases. The man--he had a black moustache and a small, pointed beard--thanked him in fluent English with a French accent, and they began to talk of casual things, veering, by degrees, in the direction of the arts. The Frenchman smiled at Meyrick's enthusiasm. "What a life you have before you!" he said. "Don't you know that the populace always hates the artist--and kills him if it can? You are an artist and mystic, too. What a fate! "Yes; but it is that applause, that _réclame_ that comes after the artist is dead," he went on, replying to some objection of Ambrose's; "it is that which is the worst cruelty of all. It is fine for Burns, is it not, that his stupid compatriots have not ceased to utter follies about him for the last eighty years? Scotchmen? But they should be ashamed to speak his name! And Keats, and how many others in my country and in yours and in all countries? The imbeciles are not content to calumniate, to persecute, to make wretched the artist in his lifetime. They follow him with their praise to the grave--the grave that they have digged! Praise of the populace! Praise of a race of pigs! For, you see, while they are insulting the dead with their compliments they are at the same time insulting the living with their abuse." He dropped into silence; from his expression he seemed to be cursing "the populace" with oaths too frightful to be uttered. He rose suddenly and turned to Ambrose. "Artist--and mystic. Yes. You will probably be crucified. Good evening ... and a fine martyrdom to you!" He was gone with a charming smile and a delightful bow to "Madame." Ambrose looked after him with a puzzled face; his last words had called up some memory that he could not capture; and then suddenly he recollected the old, ragged Irish fiddler, the player of strange fantasies under the tree in the outskirts of Lupton. He thought of his phrase about "red martyrdom"; it was an odd coincidence. IV The phrases kept recurring to his mind after they had gone out, and as they wandered through the lighted streets with all their strange and variegated show, with glittering windows and glittering lamps, with the ebb and flow of faces, the voices and the laughter, the surging crowds about the theatre doors, the flashing hansoms and the omnibuses lumbering heavily along to strange regions, such as Turnham Green and Castlenau, Cricklewood and Stoke Newington--why, they were as unknown as cities in Cathay! It was a dim, hot night; all the great city smoked as with a mist, and a tawny moon rose through films of cloud far in the vista of the east. Ambrose thought with a sudden recollection that the moon, that world of splendour, was shining in a farther land, on the coast of the wild rocks, on the heaving sea, on the faery apple-garths in Avalon, where, though the apples are always golden, yet the blossoms of enchantment never fade, but hang for ever against the sky. They were passing a half-lit street, and these dreams were broken by the sudden clanging, rattling music of a piano-organ. For a moment they saw the shadowy figures of the children as they flitted to and fro, dancing odd measures in the rhythm of the tune. Then they came into a long, narrow way with a church spire in the distance, and near the church they passed the "church-shop"--Roman, evidently, from the subjects and the treatment of the works of art on view. But it was strange! In the middle of the window was a crude, glaring statue of some saint. He was in bright red robes, sprinkled with golden stars; the blood rained down from a wound in his forehead, and with one hand he drew the scarlet vestment aside and pointed to the dreadful gash above his heart, and from this, again, the bloody drops fell thick. The colours stared and shrieked, and yet, through the bad, cheap art there seemed to shine a rapture that was very near to beauty; the thing expressed was so great that it had to a certain extent overcome the villainy of the expression. They wandered vaguely, after their custom. Ambrose was silent; he was thinking of Avalon and "Red Martyrdom" and the Frenchman's parting salutation, of the vision in one of the old books, "the Man clothed in a robe redder and more shining than burning fire, and his feet and his hands and his face were of a like flame, and five angels in fiery vesture stood about him, and at the feet of the Man the ground was covered with a ruddy dew." They passed under an old church tower that rose white in the moonlight above them. The air had cleared, the mist had floated away, and now the sky glowed violet, and the white stones of the classic spirit shone on high. From it there came suddenly a tumult of glad sound, exultant bells in ever-changing order, pealing out as if to honour some great victory, so that the mirth of the street below became but a trivial restless noise. He thought of some passage that he had read but could not distinctly remember: a ship was coming back to its haven after a weary and tempestuous voyage over many dreadful seas, and those on board saw the tumult in the city as their sails were sighted; heard afar the shouts of gladness from the rejoicing people; heard the bells from all the spires and towers break suddenly into triumphant chorus, sounding high above the washing of the waves. Ambrose roused himself from his dreams. They had been walking in a circle and had returned almost to the street of the Château, though, their knowledge of the district being of an unscientific character, they were under the impression that they were a mile or so away from that particular point. As it happened, they had not entered this street before, and they were charmed at the sudden appearance of stained glass lighted up from within. The colour was rich and good; there were flourished scrolls and grotesques in the Renaissance manner, many emblazoned shields in ruby and gold and azure; and the centre-piece showed the Court of the Beer King--a jovial and venerable figure attended by a host of dwarfs and kobolds, all holding on high enormous mugs of beer. They went in boldly and were glad. It was the famous "Three Kings" in its golden and unreformed days, but this they knew not. The room was of moderate size, very low, with great dark beams in the white ceiling. White were the walls; on the plaster, black-letter texts with vermilion initials praised the drinker's art, and more kobolds, in black and red, loomed oddly in unsuspected corners. The lighting, presumably, was gas, but all that was visible were great antique lanterns depending from iron hooks, and through their dull green glass only a dim radiance fell upon the heavy oak tables and the drinkers. From the middle beam an enormous bouquet of fresh hops hung on high; there was a subdued murmur of talk, and now and then the clatter of the lid of a mug, as fresh beer was ordered. In one corner there was a kind of bar; behind it a couple of grim women--the kobolds apparently--performed their office; and above, on a sort of rack, hung mugs and tankards of all sizes and of all fantasies. There were plain mugs of creamy earthenware, mugs gaudily and oddly painted with garlanded goats, with hunting scenes, with towering castles, with flaming posies of flowers. Then some friend of the drunken, some sage who had pried curiously into the secrets of thirst, had made a series of wonders in glass, so shining and crystalline that to behold them was as if one looked into a well, for every glitter of the facets gave promise of satisfaction. There were the mugs, capacious and very deep, crowned for the most part not with mere plain lids of common use and make, but with tall spires in pewter, richly ornamented, evident survivals from the Middle Ages. Ambrose's eyes glistened; the place was altogether as he would have designed it. Nelly, too, was glad to sit down, for they had walked longer than usual. She was refreshed by a glass of some cool drink with a borage flower and a cherry floating in it, and Ambrose ordered a mug of beer. It is not known how many of these _krugs_ he emptied. It was, as has been noted, a sultry night, and the streets were dusty, and that glass of Benedictine after dinner rather evokes than dismisses the demon of thirst. Still, Munich beer is no hot and rebellious drink, so the causes of what followed must probably be sought for in other springs. Ambrose took a deep draught, gazed upward to the ceiling, and ordered another mug of beer for himself and some more of the cool and delicate and flowery beverage for Nelly. When the drink was set upon the board, he thus began, without title or preface: "You must know, Nelly dear," he said, "that the marriage of Panurge, which fell out in due time (according to the oracle and advice of the Holy Bottle), was by no means a fortunate one. For, against all the counsel of Pantagruel and of Friar John, and indeed of all his friends, Panurge married in a fit of spleen and obstinacy the crooked and squinting daughter of the little old man who sold green sauce in the Rue Quincangrogne at Tours--you will see the very place in a few days, and then you will understand everything. You do not understand that? My child, that is impiety, since it accuses the Zeitgest, who is certainly the only god that ever existed, as you will see more fully demonstrated in Huxley and Spencer and all the leading articles in all the leading newspapers. _Quod erat demonstrandum._ To be still more precise: You must know that when I am dead, and a very great man indeed, many thousands of people will come from all the quarters of the globe--not forgetting the United States--to Lupton. They will come and stare very hard at the Old Grange, which will have an inscription about me on the wall; they will spend hours in High School; they will walk all round Playing Fields; they will cut little bits off 'brooks' and 'quarries.' Then they will view the Sulphuric Acid works, the Chemical Manure factory and the Free Library, and whatever other stink-pots and cesspools Lupton town may contain; they will finally enjoy the view of the Midland Railway Goods Station. Then they will say: '_Now_ we understand him; _now_ one sees how he got all his inspiration in that lovely old school and the wonderful English country-side.' So you see that when I show you the Rue Quincangrogne you will perfectly understand this history. Let us drink; the world shall never be drowned again, so have no fear. "Well, the fact remains that Panurge, having married this hideous wench aforesaid, was excessively unhappy. It was in vain that he argued with his wife in all known languages and in some that are unknown, for, as she said, she only knew two languages, the one of Touraine and the other of the Stick, and this second she taught Panurge _per modum passionis_--that is by beating him, and this so thoroughly that poor Pilgarlic was sore from head to foot. He was a worthy little fellow, but the greatest coward that ever breathed. Believe me, illustrious drinkers and most precious.... Nelly, never was man so wretched as this Panurge since Paradise fell from Adam. This is the true doctrine; I heard it when I was at Eleusis. You enquire what was the matter? Why, in the first place, this vile wretch whom they all called--so much did they hate her--La Vie Mortale, or Deadly Life, this vile wretch, I say: what do you think that she did when the last note of the fiddles had sounded and the wedding guests had gone off to the 'Three Lampreys' to kill a certain worm--the which worm is most certainly immortal, since it is not dead yet! Well, then, what did Madame Panurge? Nothing but this: She robbed her excellent and devoted husband of all that he had. Doubtless you remember how, in the old days, Panurge had played ducks and drakes with the money that Pantagruel had given him, so that he borrowed on his corn while it was still in the ear, and before it was sown, if we enquire a little more closely. In truth, the good little man never had a penny to bless himself withal, for the which cause Pantagruel loved him all the more dearly. So that when the Dive Bouteille gave its oracle, and Panurge chose his spouse, Pantagruel showed how preciously he esteemed a hearty spender by giving him such a treasure that the goldsmiths who live under the bell of St. Gatien still talk of it before they dine, because by doing so their mouths water, and these salivary secretions are of high benefit to the digestion: read on this, Galen. If you would know how great and glorious this treasure was, you must go to the Library of the Archevêché at Tours, where they will show you a vast volume bound in pigskin, the name of which I have forgotten. But this book is nothing else than the list of all the wonders and glories of Pantagruel's wedding present to Panurge; it contains surprising things, I can tell you, for, in good coin of the realm alone, never was gift that might compare with it; and besides the common money there were ancient pieces, the very names of which are now incomprehensible, and incomprehensible they will remain till the coming of the Coqcigrues. There was, for instance, a great gold Sol, a world in itself, as some said truly, and I know not how many myriad myriad of Étoiles, all of the finest silver that was ever minted, and Anges-Gardiens, which the learned think must have been first coined at Angers, though others will have it that they were the same as our Angels; and, as for Roses de Paradis and Couronnes Immortelles, I believe he had as many of them as ever he would. Beauties and joys he was to keep for pocket-money; small change is sometimes great gain. And, as I say, no sooner had Panurge married that accursed daughter of the Rue Quincangrogne than she robbed him of everything, down to the last brass farthing. The fact is that the woman was a witch; she was also something else which I leave out for the present. But, if you will believe me, she cast such a spell upon Panurge that he thought himself an absolute beggar. Thus he would look at his Sol d'Or and say: 'What is the use of that? It is only a great bright lump: I can see it every day.' Then when they said, 'But how about those Anges-Gardiens?' he would reply, 'Where are they? Have you seen them? _I_ never see them. Show them to me,' and so with all else; and all the while that villain of a woman beat, thumped and belaboured him so that the tears were always in his eyes, and they say you could hear him howling all over the world. Everybody said that he had made a pretty mess of it, and would come to a bad end. "Luckily for him, this ... witch of a wife of his would sometimes doze off for a few minutes, and then he had a little peace, and he would wonder what had become of all the gay girls and gracious ladies that he had known in old times--for he had played the devil with the women in his day and could have taught Ovid lessons in _arte amoris_. Now, of course, it was as much as his life was worth to mention the very name of one of these ladies, and as for any little sly visits, stolen endearments, hidden embraces, or any small matters of that kind, it was _good-bye, I shall see you next Nevermas_. Nor was this all, but worse remains behind; and it is my belief that it is the thought of what I am going to tell you that makes the wind wail and cry of winter nights, and the clouds weep, and the sky look black; for in truth it is the greatest sorrow that ever was since the beginning of the world. I must out with it quick, or I shall never have done: in plain English, and as true as I sit here drinking good ale, not one drop or minim or drachm or pennyweight of drink had Panurge tasted since the day of his wedding! He had implored mercy, he had told her how he had served Gargantua and Pantagruel and had got into the habit of drinking in his sleep, and his wife had merely advised him to go to the devil--she was not going to let him so much as look at the nasty stuff. '"Touch not, taste not, smell not," is my motto,' said she. She gave him a blue ribbon, which she said would make up for it. 'What do you want with Drink?' said she. 'Go and do business instead, it's much better for you.' "Sad, then, and sorry enough was the estate of poor Panurge. At last, so wretched did he become, that he took advantage of one of his wife's dozes and stole away to the good Pantagruel, and told him the whole story--and a very bad one it was--so that the tears rolled down Pantagruel's cheeks from sheer grief, and each teardrop contained exactly one hundred and eighteen gallons of aqueous fluid, according to the calculations of the best geometers. The great man saw that the case was a desperate one, and Heaven knew, he said, whether it could be mended or not; but certain it was that a business such as this could not be settled in a hurry, since it was not like a game at shove-ha'penny to be got over between two gallons of wine. He therefore counselled Panurge to have patience and bear with his wife for a few thousand years, and in the meantime they would see what could be done. But, lest his patience should wear out, he gave him an odd drug or medicine, prepared by the great artist of the Mountains of Cathay, and this he was to drop into his wife's glass--for though he might have no drink, she was drunk three times a day, and she would sleep all the longer, and leave him awhile in peace. This Panurge very faithfully performed, and got a little rest now and again, and they say that while that devil of a woman snored and snorted he was able, by odd chances once or twice, to get hold of a drop of the right stuff--good old Stingo from the big barrel--which he lapped up as eagerly as a kitten laps cream. Others there be who declare that once or twice he got about his sad old tricks, while his ugly wife was sleeping in the sun; the women on the Maille make no secret of their opinion that his old mistress, Madame Sophia, was seen stealing in and out of the house as slyly as you please, and God knows what goes on when the door is shut. But the Tourainians were always sad gossips, and one must not believe all that one hears. I leave out the flat scandal-mongers who are bold enough to declare that he kept one mistress at Jerusalem, another at Eleusis, another in Egypt and about as many as are contained in the seraglio of the Grand Turk, scattered up and down in the towns and villages of Asia; but I do believe there was some kissing in dark corners, and a curtain hung across one room in the house could tell odd tales. Nevertheless, La Vie Mortale (a pest on her!) was more often awake than asleep, and when she was awake Panurge's case was worse than ever. For, you see, the woman was no piece of a fool, and she saw sure enough that something was going on. The Stingo in the barrel was lower than of rights, and more than once she had caught her husband looking almost happy, at which she beat the house about his ears. Then, another time, Madame Sophia dropped her ring, and again this sweet lady came one morning so strongly perfumed that she scented the whole place, and when La Vie woke up it smelt like a church. There was fine work then, I promise you; the people heard the bangs and curses and shrieks and groans as far as Amboise on the one side and Luynes on the other; and that year the Loire rose ten feet higher than the banks on account of Panurge's tears. As a punishment, she made him go and be industrial, and he built ten thousand stink-pot factories with twenty thousand chimneys, and all the leaves and trees and green grass and flowers in the world were blackened and died, and all the waters were poisoned so that there were no perch in the Loire, and salmon fetched forty sols the pound at Chinon market. As for the men and women, they became yellow apes and listened to a codger named Calvin, who told them they would all be damned eternally (except himself and his friends), and they found his doctrine very comforting, and probable too, since they had the sense to know that they were more than half damned already. I don't know whether Panurge's fate was worse on this occasion or on another when his wife found a book in his writing, full from end to end of poetry; some of it about the wonderful treasure that Pantagruel had given him, which he was supposed to have forgotten. Some of it verses to those old light-o'-loves of his, with a whole epic in praise of his mistress-in-chief, Sophia. Then, indeed, there was the very deuce to pay; it was bread and water, stripes and torment, all day long, and La Vie swore a great oath that if he ever did it again he should be sent to spend the rest of his life in Manchester, whereupon he fell into a swoon from horrid fright and lay like a log, so that everybody thought he was dead. "All this while the great Pantagruel was not idle. Perceiving how desperate the matter was, he summoned the Thousand and First Great OEcumenical Council of all the sages of the wide world, and when the fathers had come, and had heard High Mass at St. Gatien's, the session was opened in a pavilion in the meadows by the Loire just under the Lanterne of Roche Corbon, whence this Council is always styled the great and holy Council of the Lantern. If you want to know where the place is you can do so very easily, for there is a choice tavern on the spot where the pavilion stood, and there you may have _malelotte_ and _friture_ and amber wine of Vouvray, better than in any tavern in Touraine. As for the history of the acts of this great Council, it is still a-writing, and so far only two thousand volumes in elephant folio have been printed _sub signo Lucernæ cum permissu superiorum_. However, as it is necessary to be brief, it may be said that the holy fathers of the Lantern, after having heard the whole case as it was exposed to them by the great clerks of Pantagruel, having digested all the arguments, looked into the precedents, applied themselves to the doctrine, explored the hidden wisdom, consulted the Canons, searched the Scriptures, divided the dogma, distinguished the distinctions and answered the questions, resolved with one voice that there was no help in the world for Panurge, save only this: he must forthwith achieve the most high, noble and glorious quest of the Sangraal, for no other way was there under heaven by which he might rid himself of that pestilent wife of his, La Vie Mortale. "And on some other occasion," said Ambrose, "you may hear of the last voyage of Panurge to the Glassy Isle of the Holy Graal, of the incredible adventures that he achieved, of the dread perils through which he passed, of the great wonders and marvels and compassions of the way, of the manner in which he received the title Plentyn y Tonau, which signifies 'Child of the Waterfloods,' and how at last he gloriously attained the vision of the Sangraal, and was most happily translated out of the power of La Vie Mortale." "And where is he now?" said Nelly, who had found the tale interesting but obscure. "It is not precisely known--opinions vary. But there are two odd things: one is that he is exactly like that man in the red dress whose statue we saw in the shop window to-night; and the other is that from that day to this he has never been sober for a single minute. "_Calix meus inebrians quam præclarus est!_" V Ambrose took a great draught from the mug and emptied it, and forthwith rapped the lid for a fresh supply. Nelly was somewhat nervous; she was afraid he might begin to sing, for there were extravagances in the history of Panurge which seemed to her to be of alcoholic source. However, he did not sing; he lapsed into silence, gazing at the dark beams, the hanging hops, the bright array of the tankards and the groups of drinkers dotted about the room. At a neighbouring table two Germans were making a hearty meal, chumping the meat and smacking their lips in a kind of heavy ecstasy. He had but little German, but he caught scraps of the conversation. One man said: "Heavenly swine cutlets!" And the other answered: "Glorious eating!" "Nelly," said Ambrose, "I have a great inspiration!" She trembled visibly. "Yes; I have talked so much that I am hungry. We will have some supper." They looked over the list of strange eatables and, with the waiter's help, decided on Leberwurst and potato-salad as light and harmless. With this they ate crescent loaves, sprinkled with caraway seeds: there was more Munich Lion-Brew and more flowery drink, with black coffee, a _fine_ and a Maraschino to end all. For Nelly the kobolds began to perform a grotesque and mystic dance in the shadows, the glass tankards on the rack glittered strangely, the white walls with the red and black texts retreated into vast distances, and the bouquet of hops seemed suspended from a remote star. As for Ambrose, he was certainly not _ebrius_ according to the Baron's definition; he was hardly _ebriolus_; but he was sensible, let us say, of a certain quickening of the fancy, of a more vivid and poignant enjoyment of the whole situation, of the unutterable gaiety of this mad escape from the conventions of Lupton. "It was a Thursday night," said Ambrose in the after years, "and we were thinking of starting for Touraine either the next morning or on Saturday at latest. It will always be bright in my mind, that picture--the low room with the oak beams, the glittering tankards, the hops hanging from the ceiling, and Nelly sitting before me sipping the scented drink from a green glass. It was the last night of gaiety, and even then gaiety was mixed with odd patterns--the Frenchman's talk about martyrdom, and the statue of the saint pointing to the marks of his passion, standing in that dyed vesture with his rapt, exultant face; and then the song of final triumph and deliverance that rang out on the chiming bells from the white spire. I think the contrast of this solemn undertone made my heart all the lighter; I was in that odd state in which one delights to know that one is not being understood--so I told poor Nelly 'the story of Panurge's marriage to La Vie Mortale; I am sure she thought I was drunk! "We went home in a hansom, and agreed that we would have just one cigarette and then go to bed. It was settled that we would catch the night boat to Dieppe on the next day, and we both laughed with joy at the thought of the adventure. And then--I don't know how it was--Nelly began to tell me all about herself. She had never said a word before; I had never asked her--I never ask anybody about their past lives. What does it matter? You know a certain class of plot--novelists are rather fond of using it--in which the hero's happiness is blasted because he finds out that the life of his wife or his sweetheart has not always been spotless as the snow. Why should it be spotless as the snow? What is the hero that he should be dowered with the love of virgins of Paradise? I call it cant--all that--and I hate it; I hope Angel Clare was eventually entrapped by a young person from Piccadilly Circus--she would probably be much too good for him! So, you see, I was hardly likely to have put any very searching questions to Nelly; we had other things to talk about. "But this night I suppose she was a bit excited. It had been a wild and wonderful week. The transition from that sewage-pot in the Midlands to the Abbey of Theleme was enough to turn any head; we had laughed till we had grown dizzy. The worst of that miserable school discipline is is that it makes one take an insane and quite disproportionate enjoyment in little things, in the merest trifles which ought really to be accepted as a matter of course. I assure you that every minute that I spent in bed after seven o'clock was to me a grain of Paradise, a moment of delight. Of course, it's ridiculous; let a man get up early or get up late, as he likes or as he finds best--and say no more about it. But at that wretched Lupton early rising was part of the infernal blether and blatter of the place, that made life there like a long dinner in which every dish has the same sauce. It may be a good sauce enough; but one is sick of the taste of it. According to our Bonzes there, getting up early on a winter's day was a high virtue which acquired merit. I believe I should have liked a hard chair to sit in of my own free will, if one of our old fools--Palmer--had not always been gabbling about the horrid luxury of some boys who had arm-chairs in their studies. Unless you were doing something or other to make yourself very uncomfortable, he used to say you were like the 'later Romans.' I am sure he believed that those lunatics who bathe in the Serpentine on Christmas Day would go straight to heaven! "And there you are. I would awake at seven o'clock from persistent habit, and laugh as I realised that I was in Little Russell Row and not at the Old Grange. Then I would doze off again and wake up at intervals--eight, nine, ten--and chuckle to myself with ever-increasing enjoyment. It was just the same with smoking. I don't suppose I should have touched a cigarette for years if smoking had not been one of the mortal sins in our Bedlam Decalogue. I don't know whether smoking is bad for boys or not; I should think not, as I believe the Dutch--who are sturdy fellows--begin to puff fat cigars at the age of six or thereabouts; but I do know that those pompous old boobies and blockheads and leather-skulls have discovered exactly the best way to make a boy think that a packet of Rosebuds represents the quintessence of frantic delight. "Well, you see how it was, how Little Russell Row--the dingy, the stuffy, the dark retreat of old Bloomsbury--became the abode of miraculous joys, a bright portion of fairyland. Ah! it was a strong new wine that we tasted, and it went to our heads, and not much wonder. It all rose to its height on that Thursday night when we went to the 'Three Kings' and sat beneath the hop bush, drinking Lion-Brew and flowery drink as I talked extravagances concerning Panurge. It was time for the curtain to be rung down on our comedy. "The one cigarette had become three or four when Nelly began to tell me her history; the wine and the rejoicing had got into her head also. She described the first things that she remembered: a little hut among wild hills and stony fields in the west of Ireland, and the great sea roaring on the shore but a mile away, and the wind and the rain always driving from across the waves. She spoke of the place as if she loved it, though her father and mother were as poor as they could be, and little was there to eat even in the old cabin. She remembered Mass in the little chapel, an old, old place hidden way in the most desolate part of the country, small and dark and bare enough except for the candles on the altar and a bright statue or two. St. Kieran's cell, they called it, and it was supposed that the Mass had never ceased to be said there even in the blackest days of persecution. Quite well she remembered the old priest and his vestments, and the gestures that he used, and how they all bowed down when the bell rang; she could imitate his quavering voice saying the Latin. Her own father, she said, was a learned man in his way, though it was not the English way. He could not read common print, or write; he knew nothing about printed books, but he could say a lot of the old Irish songs and stories by heart, and he had sticks on which he wrote poems on all sorts of things, cutting notches on the wood in Oghams, as the priest called them; and he could tell many wonderful tales of the saints and the people. It was a happy life altogether; they were as poor as poor could be, and praised God and wanted for nothing. Then her mother went into a decline and died, and her father never lifted up his head again, and she was left an orphan when she was nine years old. The priest had written to an aunt who lived in England, and so she found herself one black day standing on the platform of the station in a horrible little manufacturing village in Lancashire; everything was black--the sky and the earth, and the houses and the people; and the sound of their rough, harsh voices made her sick. And the aunt had married an Independent and turned Protestant, so she was black, too, Nelly thought. She was wretched for a long time, she said. The aunt was kind enough to her, but the place and the people were so awful. Mr. Deakin, the husband, said he couldn't encourage Popery in his house, so she had to go to the meeting-house on Sunday and listen to the nonsense they called 'religion'--all long sermons with horrible shrieking hymns. By degrees she forgot her old prayers, and she was taken to the Dissenters' Sunday School, where they learned texts and heard about King Solomon's Temple, and Jonadab the son of Rechab, and Jezebel, and the Judges. They seemed to think a good deal of her at the school; she had several prizes for Bible knowledge. "She was sixteen when she first went out to service. She was glad to get away--nothing could be worse than Farnworth, and it might be better. And then there were tales to tell! I never have had a clearer light thrown on the curious and disgusting manners of the lower middle-class in England--the class that prides itself especially on its respectability, above all, on what it calls 'Morality'--by which it means the observance of one particular commandment. You know the class I mean: the brigade of the shining hat on Sunday, of the neat little villa with a well-kept plot in front, of the consecrated drawing-room, of the big Bible well in evidence. It is more often Chapel than Church, this tribe, but it draws from both sources. It is above all things shiny--not only the Sunday hat, but the furniture, the linoleum, the hair and the very flesh which pertain to these people have an unwholesome polish on them; and they prefer their plants and shrubs to be as glossy as possible--this _gens lubrica_. "To these tents poor Nelly went as a slave; she dwelt from henceforth on the genteel outskirts of more or less prosperous manufacturing towns, and she soon profoundly regretted the frank grime and hideousness of Farnworth. A hedgehog is a rough and prickly fellow--better his prickles than the reptile's poisonous slime. The tales that yet await the novelist who has courage (what is his name, by the way?), who has the insight to see behind those Venetian blinds and white curtains, who has the word that can give him entrance through the polished door by the encaustic porch! What plots, what pictures, what characters are ready for his cunning hand, what splendid matter lies unknown, useless, and indeed offensive, which, in the artist's crucible, would be transmuted into golden and exquisite perfection. Do you know that I can never penetrate into the regions where these people dwell without a thrill of wonder and a great desire that I might be called to execute the masterpieces I have hinted at? Do you remember how Zola, viewing these worlds from the train when he visited London, groaned because he had no English, because he had no key to open the treasure-house before his eyes? He, of course, who was a great diviner, saw the infinite variety of romance that was concealed beneath those myriads of snug commonplace roofs: I wish he could have observed in English and recorded in French. He was a brave man, his defence of Dreyfus shows that; but, supposing the capacity, I do not think he was brave enough to tell the London suburbs the truth about themselves in their own tongue. "Yes, I walk down these long ways on Sunday afternoons, when they are at their best. Sometimes, if you choose the right hour, you may look into one 'breakfast room'--an apartment half sunken in the earth--after another, and see in each one the table laid for tea, showing the charming order and uniformity that prevail. Tea in the drawing-room would be, I suppose, a desecration. I wonder what would happen if some chance guest were to refuse tea and to ask for a glass of beer, or even a brandy and soda? I suppose the central lake that lies many hundreds of feet beneath London would rise up, and the sinful town would be overwhelmed. Yes: consider these houses well; how demure, how well-ordered, how shining, as I have said; and then think of what they conceal. "Generally speaking, you know, 'morality' (in the English suburban sense) has been a tolerably equal matter. I shouldn't imagine that those 'later Romans' that poor old Palmer was always bothering about were much better or worse than the earlier Babylonians; and London as a whole is very much the same thing in this respect as Pekin as a whole. Modern Berlin and sixteenth-century Venice might compete on equal terms--save that Venice, I am sure, was very picturesque, and Berlin, I have no doubt is very piggy. The fact is, of course (to use a simple analogy), man, by his nature, is always hungry, and, that being the case, he will sometimes eat too much dinner and sometimes he will get his dinner in odd ways, and sometimes he will help himself to more or less unlawful snacks before breakfast and after supper. There it is, and there is an end of it. But suppose a society in which the fact of hunger was officially denied, in which the faintest hint at an empty stomach was considered the rankest, most abominable indecency, the most detestable offence against the most sacred religious feelings? Suppose the child severely reprimanded at the mere mention of bread and butter, whipped and shut up in a dark room for the offence of reading a recipe for making plum pudding; suppose, I say, a whole society organised on the strict official understanding that no decent person ever is or has been or can be conscious of the physical want of food; that breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper are orgies only used by the most wicked and degraded wretches, destined to an awful and eternal doom? In such a world, I think, you would discover some very striking irregularities in diet. Facts are known to be stubborn things, but if their very existence is denied they become ferocious and terrible things. Coventry Patmore was angry, and with reason, when he heard that even at the Vatican the statues had received the order of the fig-leaf. "Nelly went among these Manichees. She had been to the world beyond the Venetians, the white muslin curtains and the india-rubber plant, and she told me her report. They talk about the morality of the theatre, these swine! In the theatre--if there is anything of the kind--it is a case of a wastrel and a wanton who meet and part on perfectly equal terms, without deceit or false pretences. It is not a case of master creeping into a young girl's room at dead of night, with a Bible under his arm--the said Bible being used with grotesque skill to show that 'master's' wishes must be at once complied with under pain of severe punishment, not only in this world, but in the world to come. Every Sunday, you must remember, the girl has seen 'master' perhaps crouching devoutly in his pew, perhaps in the part of sidesman or even church-warden, more probably supplementing the gifts of the pastor at some nightmarish meeting-house. 'Master' offers prayer with wonderful fervour; he speaks to the Lord as man to man; in the emotional passages his voice gets husky, and everybody says how good he is. He is a deacon, a guardian of the poor (gracious title!), a builder and an earnest supporter of the British and Foreign Bible Society: in a word, he is of the great middle-class, the backbone of England and of the Protestant Religion. He subscribes to the excellent society which prosecutes booksellers for selling the Decameron of Boccaccio. He has from ten to fifteen children, all of whom were found by Mamma in the garden. "'Mr. King was a horrible man,' said Nelly, describing her first place; 'he had a great greasy pale face with red whiskers, and a shiny bald head; he was fat, too, and when he smiled it made one feel sick. Soon after I got the place he came into the kitchen. Missus was away for three days, and the children were all in bed. He sat down by the hearth and asked whether I was saved, and did I love the Lord as I ought to, and if I ever had any bad thoughts about young men? Then he opened the Bible and read me nasty things from the Old Testament, and asked if I understood what it meant. I said I didn't know, and he said we must approach the Lord in prayer so that we might have grace to search the Scriptures together. I had to kneel down close to him, and he put his arm round my waist and began to pray, as he called it; and when we got up he took me on his knee and said he felt to me as if I were his own daughter.' "There, that is enough of Mr. King. You can imagine what the poor child had to go through time after time. On prayer-meeting nights she used to put the chest of drawers against her bedroom door: there would be gentle, cautious pushes, and then a soft voice murmuring: 'My child, why is your heart so bad and stubborn?' I think we can conceive the general character of 'master' from these examples. 'Missus,' of course, requires a treatise to herself; her more frequent failings are child-torture, secret drinking and low amours with oily commercial travellers. "Yes, it is a hideous world enough, isn't it? And isn't it a pleasant thought that you and I practically live under the government of these people? 'Master' is the 'man in the street,' the 'hard-headed, practical man of the world,' 'the descendant of the sturdy Puritans,' whose judgment is final on all questions from Poetics to Liturgiology. We hardly think that this picture will commend itself to the 'man in the street'--a course of action that is calculated to alienate practical men. Pleasant, isn't it? _Suburbia locuta est: causa finita est._ "I suppose that, by nature, these people would not be so very much more depraved than the ordinary African black fellow. Their essential hideousness comes, I take it, from their essential and most abominable hypocrisy. You know how they are always prating about Bible Teaching--the 'simple morality of the Gospel,' and all that nauseous stuff? And what would be the verdict, in this suburban world, on a man who took no thought for the morrow, who regulated his life by the example of the lilies, who scoffed at the idea of saving money? You know perfectly well that his relations would have him declared a lunatic. _There_ is the villainy. If you are continually professing an idolatrous and unctuous devotion to a body of teaching which you are also persistently and perpetually disregarding and disobeying in its plainest, most simple, most elementary injunctions, well, you will soon interest anglers in search of bait. "Yes, such is the world behind the india-rubber plant into which Nelly entered. I believe she repelled the advances of 'master' with success. Her final undoing came from a different quarter, and I am afraid that drugs, not Biblical cajoleries, were the instruments used. She cried bitterly when she spoke of this event, but she said, too; 'I will kill him for it!' It was an ugly story, and a sad one, alas!--the saddest tale I ever listened to. Think of it: to come from that old cabin on the wild, bare hills, from the sound of the great sea, from the pure breath of the waves and the wet salt wind, to the stenches and the poisons of our 'industrial centres.' She came from parents who had nothing and possessed all things, to our civilisation which has everything, and lies on the dung-heap that it has made at the very gates of Heaven--destitute of all true treasures, full of sores and vermin and corruption. She was nurtured on the wonderful old legends of the saints and the fairies; she had listened to the songs that her father made and cut in Oghams; and we gave her the penny novelette and the works of Madame Chose. She had knelt before the altar, adoring the most holy sacrifice of the Mass; now she knelt beside 'master' while he approached the Lord in prayer, licking his fat white lips. I can imagine no more terrible transition. "I do not know how or why it happened, but as I listened to Nelly's tale my eyes were opened to my own work and my own deeds, and I saw for the first time my wickedness. I should despair of explaining to anyone how utterly innocent I had been in intention all the while, how far I was from any deliberate design of guilt. In a sense, I was learned, and yet, in a sense, I was most ignorant; I had been committing what is, doubtless a grievous sin, under the impression that I was enjoying the greatest of all mysteries and graces and blessings--the great natural sacrament of human life. "Did I not know I was doing wrong? I knew that if any of the masters found me with Nelly I should get into sad trouble. Certainly I knew that. But if any of the masters had caught me smoking a cigarette, or saying 'damn,' or going into a public-house to get a glass of beer, or using a crib, or reading Rabelais, I should have got into sad trouble also. I knew that I was sinning against the 'tone' of the great Public School; you may imagine how deeply I felt the guilt of such an offence as that! And, of course, I had heard the boys telling their foolish indecencies; but somehow their nasty talk and their filthy jokes were not in any way connected in my mind with my love of Nelly--no more, indeed, than midnight darkness suggests daylight, or torment symbolises pleasure. Indeed, there was a hint--a dim intuition--deep down in my consciousness that all was not well; but I knew of no reason for this; I held it a morbid dream, the fantasy of an imagination over-exalted, perhaps; I would not listen to a faint voice that seemed without sense or argument. "And now that voice was ringing in my ears with the clear, resonant and piercing summons of a trumpet; I saw myself arraigned far down beside the pestilent horde of whom I have just spoken; and, indeed, my sin was worse than theirs, for I had been bred in light, and they in darkness. All heedless, without knowledge, without preparation, without receiving the mystic word, I had stumbled into the shrine, uninitiated I had passed beyond the veil and gazed upon the hidden mystery, on the secret glory that is concealed from the holy angels. Woe and great sorrow were upon me, as if a priest, devoutly offering the sacrifice, were suddenly to become aware that he was uttering, all inadvertently, hideous and profane blasphemies, summoning Satan in place of the Holy Spirit. I hid my face in my hands and cried out in my anguish. "Do you know that I think Nelly was in a sense relieved when I tried to tell her of my mistake, as I called it; even though I said, as gently as I could, that it was all over. She was relieved, because for the first time she felt quite sure that I was altogether in my senses; I can understand it. My whole attitude must have struck her as bordering on insanity, for, of course, from first to last I had never for a moment taken up the position of the unrepentant but cheerful sinner, who knows that he is being a sad dog, but means to continue in his naughty way. She, with her evil experience, had thought the words I had sometimes uttered not remote from madness. She wondered, she told me, whether one night I might not suddenly take her throat in my hands and strangle her in a sudden frenzy. She hardly knew whether she dreaded such a death or longed for it. "'You spoke so strangely,' she said; 'and all the while I knew we were doing wrong, and I wondered.' "Of course, even after I had explained the matter as well as I could she was left to a large extent bewildered as to what my state of mind could have been; still, she saw that I was not mad, and she was relieved, as I have said. "I do not know how she was first drawn to me--how it was that she stole that night to the room where I lay bruised and aching. Pity and desire and revenge, I suppose, all had their share. She was so sorry, she said, for me. She could see how lonely I was, how I hated the place and everybody about it, and she knew that I was not English. I think my wild Welsh face attracted her, too. "Alas! that was a sad night, after all our laughter. We had sat on and on till the dawn began to come in through the drawn blinds. I told her that we must go to bed, or we should never get up the next day. We went into the bedroom, and there, sad and grey, the dawn appeared. There was a heavy sky covered with clouds and a straight, soft rain was pattering on the leaves of a great plane tree opposite; heavy drops fell into the pools in the road. "It was still as on the mountain, filled with infinite sadness, and a sudden step clattering on the pavement of the square beyond made the stillness seem all the more profound. I stood by the window and gazed out at the weeping, dripping tree, the ever-falling rain and the motionless, leaden clouds--there was no breath of wind--and it was as if I heard the saddest of all music, tones of anguish and despair and notes that cried and wept. The theme was given out, itself wet, as it were, with tears. It was repeated with a sharper cry, a more piteous supplication; it was re-echoed with a bitter utterance, and tears fell faster as the raindrops fell plashing from the weeping tree. Inexorable in its sad reiterations, in its remorseless development, that music wailed and grew in its lamentation in my own heart; heavy it was, and without hope; heavy as those still, leaden clouds that hung motionless in heaven. No relief came to this sorrowing melody--rather a sharper note of anguish; and then for a moment, as if to embitter bitterness, sounded a fantastic, laughing air, a measure of jocund pipes and rushing violins, echoing with the mirth of dancing feet. But it was beaten into dust by the sentence of despair, by doom that was for ever, by a sentence pitiless, relentless; and, as a sudden breath shook the wet boughs of the plane tree and a torrent fell upon the road, so the last notes of that inner music were to me as a burst of hopeless weeping. "I turned away from the window and looked at the dingy little room where we had laughed so well. It was a sad room enough, with its pale blue, stripy-patterned paper, its rickety old furniture and its feeble pictures. The only note of gaiety was on the dressing-table, where poor little Nelly had arranged some toys and trinkets and fantasies that she had bought for herself in the last few days. There was a silver-handled brush and a flagon of some scent that I liked, and a little brooch of olivines that had caught her fancy; and a powder-puff in a pretty gilt box. The sight of these foolish things cut me to the heart. But Nelly! She was standing by the bedside, half undressed, and she looked at me with the most piteous longing. I think that she had really grown fond of me. I suppose that I shall never forget the sad enchantment of her face, the flowing of her beautiful coppery hair about it; and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She half stretched out her bare arms to me and then let them fall. I had never known all her strange allurement before. I had refined and symbolised and made her into a sign of joy, and now before me she shone disarrayed--not a symbol, but a woman, in the new intelligence that had come to me, and I longed for her. I had just enough strength and no more." EPILOGUE It is unfortunate--or fortunate: that is a matter to be settled by the taste of the reader--that with this episode of the visit to London all detailed material for the life of Ambrose Meyrick comes to an end. Odd scraps of information, stray notes and jottings are all that is available, and the rest of Meyrick's life must be left in dim and somewhat legendary outline. Personally, I think that this failure of documents is to be lamented. The four preceding chapters have, in the main, dealt with the years of boyhood, and therefore with a multitude of follies. One is inclined to wonder, as poor Nelly wondered, whether the lad was quite right in his head. It is possible that if we had fuller information as to his later years we might be able to dismiss him as decidedly eccentric, but well-meaning on the whole. But, after all, I cannot be confident that he would get off so easily. Certainly he did not repeat the adventure of Little Russell Row, nor, so far as I am aware, did he address anyone besides his old schoolmaster in a Rabelaisian epistle. There are certain acts of lunacy which are like certain acts of heroism: they are hardly to be achieved twice by the same men. But Meyrick continued to do odd things. He became a strolling player instead of becoming a scholar of Balliol. If he had proceeded to the University, he would have encountered the formative and salutary influence of Jowett. He wandered up and down the country for two or three years with the actors, and writes the following apostrophe to the memory of his old company. "I take off my hat when I hear the old music, for I think of the old friends and the old days; of the theatre in the meadows by the sacred river, and the swelling song of the nightingales on sweet, spring nights. There is no doubt that we may safely hold with Plato his opinion, and safely may we believe that all brave earthly shows are but broken copies and dim lineaments of immortal things. Therefore, I hope and trust that I shall again be gathered unto the true Hathaway Company _quæ sursum est_, which is the purged and exalted image of the lower, which plays for ever a great mystery in the theatre of the meadows of asphodel, which wanders by the happy, shining streams, and drinks from an Eternal Cup in a high and blissful and everlasting Tavern. _Ave, cara sodalitas, ave semper._" Thus does he translate into wild speech _crêpe_ hair and grease paints, dirty dressing-rooms and dirtier lodgings. And when his strolling days were over he settled down in London, paying occasional visits to his old home in the west. He wrote three or four books which are curious and interesting in their way, though they will never be popular. And finally he went on a strange errand to the East; and from the East there was for him no returning. It will be remembered that he speaks of a Celtic cup, which had been preserved in one family for many hundred years. On the death of the last "Keeper" this cup was placed in Meyrick's charge. He received it with the condition that it was to be taken to a certain concealed shrine in Asia and there deposited in hands that would know how to hide its glories for ever from the evil world. He went on this journey into unknown regions, travelling by ragged roads and mountain passes, by the sandy wilderness and the mighty river. And he forded his way by the quaking and dubious track that winds in and out among the dangers and desolations of the _Kevir_--the great salt slough. He came at last to the place appointed and gave the word and the treasure to those who know how to wear a mask and to keep well the things which are committed to them, and then set out on his journey back. He had reached a point not very far from the gates of West and halted for a day or two amongst Christians, being tired out with a weary pilgrimage. But the Turks or the Kurds--it does not matter which--descended on the place and worked their customary works, and so Ambrose was taken by them. One of the native Christians, who had hidden himself from the miscreants, told afterwards how he saw "the stranger Ambrosian" brought out, and how they held before him the image of the Crucified that he might spit upon it and trample it under his feet. But he kissed the icon with great joy and penitence and devotion. So they bore him to a tree outside the village and crucified him there. And after he had hung on the tree some hours, the infidels, enraged, as it is said, by the shining rapture of his face, killed him with their spears. It was in this manner that Ambrose Meyrick gained Red Martyrdom and achieved the most glorious Quest and Adventure of the Sangraal. THE END BOOKS BY ARTHUR MACHEN THE HOUSE OF SOULS THE SECRET GLORY THE HILL OF DREAMS FAR OFF THINGS THE THREE IMPOSTORS (in Preparation) 
7496	----	Charles Franks [Illustration: THE THREE RIFLES SOUNDED AS ONE.] JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP Or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range BY CLARENCE YOUNG CONTENTS CHAPTER I. FUN AT WASHINGTON HALL II. JACK IN TROUBLE III. A THREATENING LETTER IV. A LESSON IN CHEMISTRY V. TURNING THE TABLES VI. A PLAN THAT FAILED VII. FOILING A PLOT VIII. THE BURGLAR SCARE IX. NAT'S INVITATION X. A MEETING WITH CHOWDEN XI. A GRAND WIND-UP XII. HO! FOR THE WEST XIII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE XIV. PROFESSOR PUNJAB'S TRICK XV. SHOOTING AN OIL WELL XVI. MR. POST'S ADVENTURE XVII. THE WILD STEER XVIII. THE OLD STOCKMAN XIX. A THIEF IN THE NIGHT XX. A STRANGE SEANCE XXI. FINDING ORION TEVIS XXII. JACK HEARS OF HIS FATHER XXIII. ON THE RANCH XXIV. THE OLD MAN XXV. THE COWBOY'S TRICK XXVI. JACK'S WILD RIDE XXVII. THE CATTLE STAMPEDE XXVIII. HUNTING MOUNTAIN LIONS XXIX. LOST ON THE MOUNTAIN XXX. A VIEW OF GOLDEN GLOW XXXI. JACK AND NAT PRISONERS XXXII. THE ESCAPE XXXIII. DOWN THE SLUICEWAY XXXIV. JACK'S GREAT FIND XXXV. THE ROUND-UP--CONCLUSION CHAPTER I FUN AT WASHINGTON HALL "Now then, are you all ready?" inquired a voice in a hoarse whisper. "Galloping grasshoppers! We're as ready as we ever will be, Jack Ranger!" replied one from a crowd of boys gathered on the campus of Washington Hall that evening in June. "Nat Anderson, if you speak again, above a whisper," said Jack Ranger, the leader, sternly, "you will have to play 'Marching Through Georgia' as a solo on a fine tooth comb seven times without stopping!" "Sneezing snakes! 'Nuff said!" exclaimed Nat, this time in the required whisper. "Playing combs always makes my lips tickle." "Now then, is every one ready?" asked Jack again. "If you are, come on, for it's getting late and we'll have to do this job quick and be back before Dr. Mead thinks it is time to send Martin the monitor after us. Forward march!" Then the crowd of boys, from the boarding school of Dr. Henry Mead, known as Washington Hall, but sometimes called Lakeside Academy, from the fact that it was on Rudmore Lake, in the town of Rudmore, started forth on mischief bent. It was Jack Ranger's idea,--any one could have told that. For Jack was always up to some trick or other. Most of the tricks were harmless, and ended in good-natured fun, for Jack was one of the best-hearted lads in the world. This time he had promised his chums at the academy something new, though the term, which was within a month of closing, had been anything but lacking in excitement. "Fred Kaler, have you got your mouth organ with you?" asked Jack, turning to a lad just behind him. "He always has his mouth-organ, or how could he speak?" asked an athletic looking lad walking beside Jack. "That's a poor joke, Sam Palmer," commented Jack, and he ducked just in time to avoid a playful fist Sam shot out. "Want me to play?" asked Fred. "Play? You couldn't play in a hundred years," broke in Nat Anderson, Jack's best chum. "But make a noise like music." "Play yourself, if you're so smart!" retorted Fred. "Simultaneous Smithereens!" cried Nat, using one of his characteristic expressions. "Don't get mad. Go ahead and play." "Yes, liven things up a bit," went on Jack. "Give us a good marching tune. We're far enough off now so none at the Hall can hear us." Fred blew a lively air and the score of boys behind him began to march in step. "What is it this time?" asked Sam in a low tone, of Jack. "You haven't let on a word." "We're going to administer a deserved rebuke to a certain character in this town," Jack answered. "You've heard of Old Smelts, haven't you?" "That fellow who's always beating his wife and hitting his little girl?" "That's the old chap. Well, I heard he just got out of the lock-up for being too free with his fists on the little girl. Now if there's anything that makes me mad it's to see a kid hurt, girl or boy, it doesn't matter. I've got a surprise in store for Mr. Smelts." "What is it?" "You've heard of the Klu-Klux-Klan, I suppose?" "You mean that southern society that made such a stir during the Civil War?" "That's the one. We're going to be Klu-Klux-Klaners to-night." "But we haven't got any uniforms." "You'll find them in yonder wood!" exclaimed Jack in tragic tones, and he pointed to a clump of trees just ahead. "What's this, amateur theatricals?" asked Nat, catching the last words. "Maybe," replied Jack. "Now Fred you can pay off your orchestra," he added. "I want to do a little monologue." The boys crowded around Jack, and he told them what he had related to Sam. "I have provided the necessary uniforms to enable us to take the part of Klu-Klux-Klaners," he said. "Old Smelts is a southerner and knows the significance of the thing. We'll throw a good scare into him, and maybe he'll let his wife and daughter alone. Now we're to put on the sheets and the tall white helmets, and you leave the rest to me. Do just as I do when we get to Smelts's house." "Hemispheres and hot handkerchiefs!" exclaimed Nat. "This is going some!" Jack went to the foot of a big hollow tree, from which he pulled a large bundle. This he opened and showed a number of ghostly uniforms. He distributed these among the boys, who at once donned them, making a weird looking band in the little glade. "Every one stand still until I put the finishing touches on," commanded Jack. With a bottle of phosphorous he outlined waving flame lines around the holes cut for eyes, nose, and mouth on each white-shrouded figure, "Now we're ready," announced the leader. "Smelts's house is just beyond this wood. Follow me, and, Fred, when you see me put my hand on my head that means I want slow tremulous music, like they have in the theater when, the heroine is dying." "Your wishes shall be obeyed," spoke Fred, in hollow tones, whereat the others laughed. "Silence!" commanded Jack. It was a good thing those in charge of Washington Hall could not see the pupils just then. If they had the prank would have cost the participators dear. But, after all, as Jack said, it was in a good cause. On they went until their leader held up a warning hand. "Arrange yourselves in a circle about me," he whispered. "I am going to beard the lion in his den." He walked up to a small cottage that stood some distance from any other dwellings on a lonely street in the village, and knocked loudly. "Who's there?" came a voice, in answer, a few seconds later from an upper window. "Tobias Smelts, come forth!" called Jack in deep tones. "We would hold speech with thee!" The boys could see a man thrust his head further out of the casement. "Come forth and linger not!" called Jack. "Oh! Oh! It's the Klu-Kluxers! It's the Klan! They're after me!" exclaimed Smelts. "Oh, what shall I do?" "Come forth if ye would not have us drag ye out!" cried Jack. "We have business with thee!" "What'll I do?" wailed Tobias. "Better go 'fore they come in here after ye," a woman's voice could be heard to say. "Remember what they did to Pete Baker in South Caroliny!" The head was drawn in, with many a groan. "Get ready, he's coming," whispered Jack. A few minutes later a very much frightened man, clad in his shirt and trousers came out on the front steps, around which the boys in their ghostly disguise were gathered. "Advance!" commanded Jack, and Tobias, his knees trembling, walked on until he stood in the midst of the frolicking students. "Bind him to the stake!" commanded the leader. A small, pointed stake had been prepared and with a hammer it was driven into the ground. Then the man was fastened to it with several coils of clothes line. "Now the faggots!" said Jack, and the boys dropped some pieces of wood at the victims feet. A second later Jack had emptied the phial of phosphorous over the wood, and the lurid light shone forth. "They're burning me alive!" yelled Tobias. "Save me!" "This is the fate dealt out to all who beat their wives and children!" chanted Jack. At the same time he raised his hand to his head and Fred played tremulous music on the harmonica, lending a weirdness to the scene. "Please don't kill me, good Mr. Klu-Klux-Klan men," begged Tobias. "I'll never do it again. I promise you I never will!" "Do you promise by the great seal of the United States?" inquired Jack, in sepulchral accents. "Yes, Oh yes; I'll promise anything!" "'Tis well! This was but the first trial by fire. The next time will be more severe!" and with that Jack kicked aside the phosphorous covered sticks and signaled to those holding the ends of the ropes to loosen them. Tremblingly Tobias crawled into the house. "Be ye dead, Tobias?" asked his frightened wife, yet she was not a little gratified that her husband had made the promise the mysterious visitors exacted. "Jest about," was the answer. "Oh, this is a terrible night!" "Hence, my brave men," spoke Jack solemnly. "We have work elsewhere. But remember, Tobias Smelts, if thou dost so much as raise a finger to a woman or child we shall hear of it through our ghostly messengers and will visit thee again." "I'll be good! Oh, I'll be good!" promised Tobias. Then at a nod from Jack the white-robed figures filed away into the darkness, Fred playing a dirge. "Say, that was the best sport yet," said Sam, when they were at a safe distance. "Yes, and it was a good thing," said Jack. "That old codger'll not beat his wife any more, I reckon." And it might be said in passing that he did not for a while. The visit of the masquerading Klu-Klux-Klan was a most effective remedy, and the whole village wondered what had cured Tobias temporarily at least, of his bad habit. "Say, but you're all right," remarked Bob Movel to Jack, as the boys rid themselves of the costumes in the woods a little later. "Towering tadpoles! I should say he was!" exclaimed Nat. "What will you do next?" "I guess we'd better be getting back to the Hall," said Jack. "Professor Grimm might take a notion to sit up late and spot us." While the boys were slipping quietly back to their rooms, having enjoyed a night's fun, which also had its useful side, we may take this opportunity of introducing them more formally to the reader. Those who read the first volume of this series, entitled "Jack Ranger's Schooldays; Or, The Rivals of Washington Hall," need not be told how it was that our hero and his friends came to be at that seat of learning. Jack was a bright American lad, who lived with his three maiden aunts, Josephine, Mary and Angeline Stebbins, in the village of Denton. Jack was to inherit some money when he became of age, but the conditions under which it was to come, as well as the secret of who his father was, bothered him not a little. In the first volume of the series I told of his life in Denton, and the lively times he and Nat Anderson had before they were sent to the Academy. There things were even more lively, and there occurs a sort of sequel to a strange occurrence that happened in Jack's town. At Denton, one night, Jack saw a man rob a jewelry store, but the only thing he took, as it developed, was a strange ring. It was one with a big moss agate, with the outline of a pine tree on it, and a lot of emeralds and rubies set around its center. This ring belonged to Jack's aunts, who had sent it to the jeweler's and when Jack told his relatives of the theft, and described the appearance of the man, they were much excited. However, they would tell him nothing. At the academy, after many other adventures, including aiding and abetting the fighting of a mock duel between Professor Garlach, the German teacher, and Professor Socrat, the French instructor, Jack made the acquaintance of one John Smith, a half-breed Indian who had come to the academy for instruction. John had considerable Indian blood in his veins, as he proved on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, he and Jack Ranger became great chums. One day John Smith disappeared. His friends found that his room had been entered at the school, and there were evidences of a hurried search having been made. Nat discovered, in John's absence, a curious ring under a steam radiator. It was the exact counterpart of the one the burglar stole in Denton. Jack was much puzzled at this, and more, when it developed that John had been kidnapped by some mysterious men. At last the semi-Indian lad was saved by Jack and Nat. John Smith told Jack as much of the secret as he knew. It appeared that his father had given him the ring just before his death, and told him if he was ever poor or in trouble to take it to a man named Orion Tevis, and state who the bearer was. Some time before that, the elder Smith had been in Oregon and Tevis came to him to get him to be a guide to a wild forest country in the far north. There he had bought five thousand acres of valuable land. Some schemers had stolen the papers connected with it and were making for the place, to take possession first, as that would give them a sort of title. Tevis was too sick to make the journey himself, and got Smith to go with some of his own companions. John's father took a man named Clark and one called Roberts with him. Mr. Roberts, or Robert Ranger, which was his real name, was Jack's father. Because of some strange circumstances he had not seen his son in many years. Roberts, for so he was known many years, Clark, and Smith succeeded in claiming the land for Tevis. He gave them each ten thousand dollars for their work and had three rings made as mementoes. They were like the one stolen from the jewelry store. In addition Tevis said that at any time the men or their relatives needed his help they could have it. Clark, later, was killed, John Smith's father retired on his little fortune and Jack's father got into trouble. It seemed that the land schemers offered him a large sum to help them contest Tevis's title. He refused, but learned that, if they could get him into court, they could throw the timber claim into litigation, and force Tevis to pay a large sum to compromise. Rather than do this Roberts told Smith he would become a wanderer over the earth. Mr. Ranger sent his money to his sisters, Jack's aunts, for the use of his son, and then disappeared. He knew that if he could evade legal service for eleven years he would be free, and that was why he never sought to see his boy or sisters. The Indian student believed that the man who stole Jack's aunts' ring, and those men who made an unsuccessful attempt to get his, thought they could, by use of the emblems send two boys, pretending to be Jack and John to Tevis, and get a lot of money from him. John Smith's only knowledge of Tevis was that his address could be secured from the Capital Bank, at Denver, Colorado, and that he was somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, in retirement. Jack having heard this story, resolved that he and John Smith, would, some day, go in search of Mr. Ranger. However, Jack's aunts said he must finish his term at the academy, and this time was nearly up. The students returning from their adventure were now approaching Washington Hall, and walking quietly along. Jack and John Smith were in the lead, and the others were strung out behind them. Suddenly around a bend in the road there swung a big touring automobile. No lights were on it, and only for the subdued roar of the motor the car's approach would not have been noticed. As it was, Jack did not see it until it was almost upon him. "Look out!" cried John Smith suddenly. At the same time he sprang forward and pushed Jack to one side. To do this he had to get almost in the path of the car, and was struck by one of the projecting springs. He was knocked to one side, but not before he had pushed Jack out of harm's way, the latter being hit only a glancing blow. "Why don't you look where you're going?" called an angry voice, as the car sped on. "Are you hurt, John?" cried Jack, springing to pick up his friend. "No, only bruised. They have nerve to go running without lights and then ask us where we're going. I wonder who they were." "I have an idea." said Jack. "That voice sounded like Adrian Bagot's." "What, that sporty new student?" "That's who." "Well, he'd better go a bit slow, I'm thinking." CHAPTER II JACK IN TROUBLE The boys crowded around Jack and John, anxious to know if they were hurt. All were loud in their indignation when they learned what had happened. "Let's pay that snob back!" suggested Dick Balmore. "Make him sleep with you one night," suggested Fred, for Dick was so tall and thin that he had been christened "Bony" by his chums. "Dry up!" exclaimed Dick. "I'd rather be thin than a wandering minstrel like you." "Easy now!" suggested Jack. "No noise, we are too near quarters. Ouch! I think I've sprained my ankle, or that auto did it for me." He tried to walk but had to limp, and was forced to accept the aid of Sam and John, on whose arms he leaned. In this manner he entered the Hall just as the monitor was closing up for the night. The other boys slipped to their rooms, but Jack had to be helped upstairs. As the trio were passing through the corridors they met Professor Grimm. Now, Mr. Grimm was an old enemy of Jack's, since Jack had once caught him smoking, a violation of the school rules. "Ha! More skylarking!" the instructor exclaimed. "What does this mean, Ranger?" "I sprained my ankle," replied our hero. "What are you doing out at this hour? And what are the others doing?" "We had permission to go to the village," replied Jack, truthfully enough, for Dr. Mead had allowed the boys to go; though the object of the trip, of course, had not been disclosed to the master. "Go to your rooms," commanded Professor Grimm. "I will look into this." "I wish he hadn't seen us," said Jack, when his two chums had taken him to his dormitory. "Why?" asked Sam. "Where's the harm?" "I have a sort of queer feeling that something is going to happen," Jack replied. "I want to finish out the term with a good record, for my aunts' sakes. If there are any pranks played tonight, Grimm will be sure to suspect me." "Don't cross a bridge until it trips you up," said Sam. "Now, let's have a look at that ankle." They found it was not as bad as Jack had feared. "I've got a bottle of arnica somewhere," he said. "I think I'll put some on." His chums found the bottle, and were rubbing the swelling with the medicine when there came a knock at the door. "Who's there?" asked Jack. "Professor Grimm," was the reply. "I want to see if you are really in your room." Sam opened the door and the cross-grained professor entered. "So you're not fooling this time, eh?" he sneered, as he smelled the arnica and saw the swelling on Jack's ankle. "It's a good thing you were not." "Nice old party, isn't he?" murmured Sam, when the teacher had withdrawn. "Well, I think I'll say good-night, Jack. Hope you sleep good. Say, but that Klu-Klux business was the limit!" and chuckling over the night's fun, he went to bed, leaving Jack and the Indian student together. "A few weeks more and we'll not have to sneak around this way to have a little fun," said Jack. "Vacation will soon be here. I hope I can carry out a plan I have in mind, John." "What is it, Jack?" "I want to go out west and search for my father. I ought to be with him in his trouble. Besides, the time must be almost up, so he could come back to civilization again." "I hope you do find him," said the semi-Indian. "I wish you could help me, John." "I wish so, too. Perhaps I can. But you'd better get to bed now. We don't want Grimm coming around again." Jack fell asleep dreaming he was crawling through a deep canyon after his father, who was being carried away captive in a birch bark canoe by Indians. But in spite of this he slept so soundly that he did not hear a number of unusual noises under his window. Perhaps it was as well for his peace of mind that he did not. It was about half past seven o'clock the next morning when Jack awoke with a start. "I wonder what's the matter," he said to himself. "It seems as if something had happened. Oh, I know, I haven't heard the morning bell." It was the custom at the academy to awaken the students by ringing the big bell in the tower every morning, and Jack had come to depend on it as a sort of alarm clock. "I wonder what's the matter," he went on. "Can Martin have forgotten to sound the tocsin? It's the first time he ever slipped up." A little later there came the sound of persons moving in the hall, and then voices could be heard calling one to the other. He got out of bed, finding that his ankle was much better and looked from the window. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. He turned toward his door, just as a loud knock came on the portal. "Who's there?" he asked. "Martin, the monitor," was the reply. "Dr. Mead wants to see you at once in the office." "Trouble! I knew it!" exclaimed Jack to himself. "Well, I wonder what it is now. Hope word of that Klu-Klux-Klan business hasn't reached here already. But I'm not afraid of that. Even Dr. Mead will admit we acted from a right motive. All right, Martin," he called. "I'll be there as soon as I dress. Anything special?" "I'm afraid it is," replied the monitor, as he hurried down the hall. Jack made a hasty toilet and then went to the office of the head of the academy. He found a number of the teachers gathered there, including Professor Grimm, who looked more angry than usual. The latter was speaking as Jack entered: "This positively has to stop, Dr. Mead," he said. "I will put up with this no longer. Either Ranger or I must leave." "What have I done now?" asked Jack. "Something more serious than usual, Ranger, if it turns out that you are guilty," answered Dr. Mead. "Of course he's guilty," burst out Mr. Grimm. "Haven't I proof?" "Last night," said Dr. Mead, speaking slowly and sternly, "the big bell was taken from the tower. It was carried and placed in front of Professor Grimm's room, and tied to his door so that when he opened it the bell was pulled into his room. In this way some valuable sea shells he had on the floor were broken." "What makes you think I did it?" asked Jack. "I was laid up with a sprained ankle." "That's just how I know it was you and some of your chums," cried Professor Grimm. "Tied on the bell, where it had been used, so the sharp edge would not cut one's fingers, was this rag. There it is. Smell of it. What does it smell like?" and he thrust it under Jack's nose. "Why--why--it smells like arnica," replied our hero, wondering what was coming next. "Arnica! Yes, I guess it does. What was it you were pretending to put on your ankle last night, Ranger? Arnica, wasn't it? Of course it was. I've caught you this time! The evidence is all against you! You didn't think you dropped that rag, and that the arnica would figure in the evidence. Dr. Grimm, I repeat, Ranger must leave or I shall!" CHAPTER III A THREATENING LETTER For a few seconds there was a silence following Professor Grimm's ultimatum. Jack was so surprised he did not know what reply to make. The suddenness of the accusation, with the experience of the night before, and the upset over his sprained ankle, combined to make him hesitate before he made answer. "What have you to say, Ranger?" asked Dr. Mead, in a sterner voice than he had ever before used toward Jack. "I know you will tell the truth, for I have never yet known you to lie. But I must tell you that if I find that you are guilty it will go hard with you this time. I have put up with a good deal from the students, but this is too much." "I--I don't know what to say, sir," replied Jack, in a sort of daze. "I'm not guilty, I can assure you of that!" "It's one thing to say so and another to prove it," snapped Professor Grimm. "The evidence is all against you." "It's all circumstantial," interrupted Jack. "But rather conclusive," went on the irate professor. He detailed how he had seen Jack and his friends out late, how he had come upon them using arnica, and mentioned some of their pranks in the past, including the mock duel arranged between Professor Socrat the French teacher and Professor Garlach, the German instructor. "I admit I have played pranks in the past," said Jack frankly, "but I'm not guilty this time. All I ask is a chance to prove that I had no hand in this." "You don't deserve a chance!" exclaimed Mr. Grimm. "That's hardly fair," spoke Jack indignantly. "Don't talk back to me!" burst out the angry teacher. "I think your request is a fair one, Ranger," went on Dr. Mead. "I will give you twenty-four hours in which to prove that you had no hand in this. That is all now; you may go." Dr. Mead was a man of few words, but Jack knew he would be absolutely fair. So, bowing to the head of the school, and without a glance at his accuser, Jack left the office. "Whew!" exclaimed the youth, as he got outside. "I seem to be up against it harder than ever. Twenty-four hours to prove something that may take a week. Well, I've got to get busy, that's all." "Hello!" exclaimed a voice as Jack was walking along the corridor toward his room. "Whasmatternow? Betcher Ic'nguess!" and the voice evolved itself into a good-natured looking lad, who stretched a big wad of gum from his mouth, and slowly got it back again by the simple but effective process of winding it about his tongue. "Hello, Budge Rankin!" exclaimed Jack, as he saw the queer, bright lad who had lived near him in Denton, and for whom Jack had secured the place of second janitor at the school. "So you think you know what the trouble is?" "Betcherlife," replied Budge, who had a habit of running his words together, a habit which his gum-chewing did not tend to relieve. "What is it?" "Accused you takin' that bell," went on Budge more slowly. "Hu! Wanterbe a detective?" "How did you know it?" asked Jack, a little surprised at Budge's remark. "Easy. Heard 'em talk. Transom open," was his answer. "What do you mean about me turning detective?" "Lookerthis," Budge said, quickly holding out a small object to Jack. "Found it in Grimm's room, 'sIsweptout." "You found it in Mr. Grimm's room as you swept it out?" inquired Jack, not certain he had heard aright. "'Smatter!" exclaimed Budge, that being his short-hand way of stating that was what was the matter. "A spark plug from an automobile," mused Jack. "Well, that doesn't seem to give me much of a clue." "Gotermobe?" asked Budge. "No, of course I haven't an automobile," replied Jack. "Knowoas?" "Do I know who has? Why--By Jove! I believe I see what you mean. Say, it's lucky you found this. I'll turn detective for awhile now. I wonder how this got into Grimm's room." "Rolled under door, I guess," replied Budge, speaking more rationally as he threw away his cud of gum. "From hall, maybe." "That's it!" exclaimed Jack. "I see it now. Thanks Budge. I hope I succeed. I'm much obliged to you." "'Sallright!" exclaimed Budge, as he hurried away to attend to some of his duties. When Jack got back to his room he found quite a gathering of his chums there. "In for it on account of that Klu-Klux business?" asked Sam Chalmers. "Not exactly that," answered Jack, "though if I'd stayed at home It wouldn't have happened." "Ha-ha-ha-has it g-g-gg-got anything t-t-t--" began Will Slade. "Whistle it!" exclaimed Bony Balmore. "Sing it!" came from Fred Kaler. "Here I'll help you out," and he began to play on his harmonica. "Whole-wheat-whangdoodles!" cried Nat Anderson, "but tell us, Jack. Don't keep us in suspense." "It's the bell," said Jack. "I'm accused of taking it down and putting it in Grimm's room. They found a rag with arnica on it near the ding-dong, and Old Grimm jumped to the wrong conclusion, basing his belief on what he saw here last night in the first-aid-to-the- injured line. I've got until to-morrow to prove that I didn't do it." "We can prove it easily enough," said Sam. "Not so easily as you think," spoke Jack. "Grimm saw us out late, you remember, and if all of you joined in saying it wasn't I who did it, they wouldn't believe you. I guess they want to make an example of someone. No sir, I'm going to do some sleuthing on my own hook. I've got a good line and a bit of evidence to start with. I'm pretty sure I can make some folks around here sit up and take notice about this time to-morrow." "Good for you, Jack!" exclaimed Dick. "If you want any help call on us!" "Thanks," replied Jack. "Now I guess we'd better get ready for breakfast." His chums left him to complete his dressing, and, when they were gone, Jack carefully laid aside the spark plug Budge had given him. "First link," he said. During the noon intermission Jack had a short but earnest talk with Socker, the school janitor. The latter nodded his head vigorously several times during the conversation. "I'll get it for you," he said as he and Jack parted. At the close of school that afternoon the janitor went to Jack's room with a large bundle. "Any trouble?" asked our hero. "Not a bit," replied Socker. "He was out and I found it rolled up in a corner, just where he had thrown it. He hasn't even cleaned it." "So much the better," said Jack, as he gave Socker a small sum of money. "I'll keep quiet about this, don't worry." "I hope you will," the janitor went on. "It's against the rules for me to do what I did, but I want to oblige you, and have you come out all right." "Which I think I will," Jack added. When he was alone he opened the bundle Socker had brought. It was a linen duster, and, as Jack saw several brown spots on it he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. With his knife he scraped some substance from the garment, and placed the particles in a test tube. Then, taking this with him, he went to the laboratory, where he remained for some time. Late that afternoon Jack, who had avoided his chums, took a walk around the campus. As he came near a small building, where some of the students kept their motor cycles, one or two small automobile runabouts, and a few of the more well-to-do, their ponies, Jack assumed a slow and halting gait. He seemed to be limping from the effects of his sprained ankle. "I wonder if he's around," he muttered to himself. "Socker said he was going to take a spin this afternoon, and it's about time for him to start, by all accounts." As Jack neared the entrance to the combined garage and stable he saw a group of students approaching from an opposite direction. His limp became more decided than before. "He's there!" he said softly to himself. "Hello, Ranger!" exclaimed a number, as Jack passed them. He knew them fairly well, but was not intimate with them as they belonged to the "fast set," a good-enough crowd, but lads who had more spending money than was good for them. "Hello!" called Jack in reply. "What's the matter?" came several inquiries as the students noticed Jack's limp. "Turned on my ankle," was the reply. "A bit stiff yet." The crowd had nearly passed by this time, and, owing to the fact that Jack had the middle of the sidewalk, and did not turn to one side, the little group separated. Some went on one side, and some on the other. Just as Jack came opposite a tall, elaborately dressed youth, he seemed to stumble. To save himself from falling Jack threw out his hand and caught the tall student on the wrist. As he did so the well- dressed youth uttered a cry. "Clumsy! You hurt my sore wrist!" "I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Jack, struggling to recover his balance, but still keeping his hold of the other's hand. "Awfully careless of me!" There was quite a little jostling among the students, several trying to help Jack recover his balance. Then Jack straightened up. "I'm all right now," he said. "I bore down on it a little too hard." He limped on, thrusting one hand hurriedly into his pocket. As he did so, the tall student cried. "There! I've lost the rag off my sore wrist! I sprained it cranking my auto yesterday." Several of his companions began a search for it, but as Jack hurried on, as fast as he could, while still pretending to limp painfully he said to himself: "I guess you'll look a long while, Adrian Bagot, before you find that rag. Maybe I can get even with you for running me down last night," and Jack pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket and smelled of it. "That's the evidence!" he exclaimed, as he turned down a side street. Whether it was this change, or whether it was because his ankle suddenly healed, was not in evidence, but Jack began to walk with scarcely the semblance of a halt in his step as soon as he was out of sight of the students. The lad hurried back to his room. There he spent a busy half hour, poring over some books on chemistry. He got several test tubes, and his apartment took on the appearance of a laboratory, while many strange smells filled the air. While Jack was engaged in pouring the contents of one test tube into another there came a knock at his door. "Who's there?" he called. "It's me, Sam," was the reply. "Say, Sam, excuse me, but I can't let you in," Jack answered. "I'm working on something that I can't leave. I may have a surprise for you in the morning." "All right," Sam answered. "Here's some mail, that's all. I'll shove it under the door." There was a rustling of paper and several letters came beneath the portal. Jack laid aside his test tube and gathered them up. One was from his aunts at home, another from Judge Bennetty regarding the payment of certain bills Jack had contracted, while the third was in unfamiliar handwriting. "I wonder who that's from," said Jack. "The best way to find out is to open it." He ripped the envelope down, and, as he did so, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Picking the missive up, Jack read: "It's a long lane that has no turns. I'll get even with you for having me suspended and sent away from the Hall. My time will come yet. "Jerry Chowden." "Jerry Chowden," murmured Jack. "So he's trying to scare me, eh? Well I guess he'll find I don't scare." Jack slowly folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. He glanced at the postmark, and saw it was stamped "Chicago." "Wonder how he got out there," he mused. "Well, I'm glad he's far away," and he gave little more thought to the matter of the bully, a nephew of Professor Grimm's, whose vain attempt to cast disgrace on Jack, in the matter of painting a pipe on the professor's portrait, had rebounded on his own head. He had been suspended for two months for the escapade, which Jack was accused of, but which our hero managed to prove himself innocent of, and, since leaving the Hall, nothing had been heard of him. "Maybe I'll meet him if I get out west on that strange hunt of mine," thought Jack, as he went on with his chemical tests. He worked far into the night, and when he put out his light he said to himself: "I think I've got things just where I want them." CHAPTER IV A LESSON IN CHEMISTRY Jack was awakened next morning by a knock on his door. "Who's there?" he asked. "Martin, the monitor," was the reply. "Dr, Mead wishes to see you at once." "Great Scott! I've overslept!" exclaimed Jack, as he jumped out of bed and saw it was after eight o'clock. "No wonder, being up half the night. Tell Dr. Mead I'm sorry and I'll be right down," he went on. Jack almost made a record for dressing, and went to Dr. Mead's office, where he found the same gathering that had confronted him the previous morning. "Well, Ranger," began the head of the school, "the time you asked for has expired. Have you anything to say?" "I have, sir," replied Jack. "But first I would like to request that this hearing be adjourned to the laboratory. I also request that Sam Chalmers, Dick Balmore, Fred Kaler, Budge Rankin and Adrian Bagot be summoned." "Do you accuse all of them?" asked Dr. Mead, in some astonishment. "I accuse no one," Jack replied. "I want to make a demonstration, and let the facts speak for themselves." "This is all nonsense!" exclaimed Professor Grimm. "This boy is guilty and he knows it. He is only seeking to delay matters. I demand his expulsion!" "I think it only fair to grant his request," said Dr. Mead. "Professor Gales, will you kindly summon the students mentioned. Professor Hall, please see that the laboratory is opened." In a few minutes Jack was leading the way to the latter room. He carried several bundles, while Socker, the janitor, bore a rack of test tubes he had taken from Jack's room. The lads mentioned attended, wondering what had happened. "What's this all about?" demanded Adrian, haughtily. "I haven't had my breakfast yet." "The time was up an hour ago," said Dr. Mead sharply, glancing at the new student, who seemed disposed to take life as easily as possible. "May I speak?" asked Jack, of Dr. Mead. "Since you are the accused it is but fair that you be given a chance to clear yourself," was the reply. "But as you have given a certain publicity to this matter, I shall tell these other students what it is all about." Dr. Mead then explained the charge against Jack. There was an uneasy movement among the other boys, and Adrian Bagot was seen to shift about. He even started to walk around as though to leave the room, but the monitor stood at the door and Adrian did not want to make any confusion by forcing past him. So young Bagot remained in the laboratory. "When Professor Grimm accused me of playing this trick I denied it, as I am innocent," Jack said, when Dr. Mead had finished and looked at him as if inviting him to speak. "Perhaps if the matter has been made public the fellows who took the bell would have come forward and admitted it. As it is I asked twenty-four hours to prove that I did not do it. I believe I have succeeded. "In the first place," Jack went on, "I wish to exhibit this garment," and he held up to view a long linen coat, commonly called a duster. "You will observe," he went on, "that there are several brown lines on it. I have measured these and they are exactly the shape and size that would be made by the sharp rim of a bell, if it was rested on the garment when some one was wearing it." "You will have to have better evidence than that," sneered Professor Grimm. "I think I will have," announced Jack quietly. "Of course those marks might have been made by any sharp, rusty object. Now the bell metal rusts scarcely at all, but the iron clapper of a bell does. The rust from that runs down inside a bell, and gets on the edges. I took some iron rust from the clapper of the stolen bell and placed it in a test tube. I assumed, for the purpose of experimenting, that I did not know that it was iron rust, but only suspected it. I applied the proper chemical tests, and I got the results that showed me there was iron present in the test tube. Here, I will show you." Jack mixed a few chemicals and soon the brown mixture in the tube turned red. "That is from the bell clapper," the young chemist went on. "Here is a solution made from scraping the lines on the duster. I will apply the test and see what happens." While the others looked on anxiously Jack dropped some of the mixture into the second tube. In an instant it turned red. "There!" exclaimed Jack, holding up the two tubes, side by side. "The same color coming in both mixtures from the same strength of chemicals that I used, shows that the iron rust on the duster and that on the bell clapper are the same." "What does that prove, except that you might have worn the duster?" asked Dr. Mead. "That is all, as yet," Jack admitted. "But I will prove that the duster is not mine, and that I never wore it. I have something else here," he went on. From among a pile of things on the laboratory table Jack took a white object, with brown spots. Walking rapidly across the room he handed it to Adrian. "The rag off my sprained wrist!" exclaimed the sporty student. "Where did--" Then he stopped, seeming to realize he had said too much. "I will ask Professor Grimm to smell of that," Jack continued, thrusting the rag under the teacher's nose. "Arnica!" exclaimed the instructor. "The same that you used, and which enabled me to discover it was you who played the trick." "It is arnica," Jack admitted, "but it happens I was not the only one who used it that night. I have also to show this article, which was picked up in your room, Professor Grimm," and Jack extended the spark plug Budge had given him. "Ha! What is that?" asked Mr. Grimm. "It is some part of an automobile," Dr. Mead said. "Who, of our students, has one. Ah! I begin to see," he added. "Adrian Bagot, I will return your duster to you," Jack went on, walking forward and passing the rust-stained automobile garment to young Bagot. "I had to borrow it from your room, but I am through with it now. You may also have your spark plug, and this rag I had to take from your wrist rather unceremoniously last night." "You're a thief!" burst out Adrian, but Jack stopped him with a gesture. "I'll not take that from you or any one else," exclaimed Jack. "Dr. Mead," he went on, "I ask that you inquire of my friends, Sam Chalmers, Dick Balmore and Fred Kaler when they last saw Adrian in his auto." "When did you?" Dr. Mead asked the boys. "The night the bell was stolen," answered Sam, and the others agreed with his testimony. Jack told the story of the collision and how his ankle was injured. "Is there anything else?" asked Dr. Mead. "I think not," was our hero's answer, "unless Bagot has something to say." "So you did it, eh?" asked Professor Grimm, turning to the new student. "I demand that he be punished, Dr. Mead," and Mr. Grimm did not even take the trouble to beg Jack's pardon for having falsely accused him. "What have you to say, Bagot?" asked the head of the academy. "Circumstances point strongly to you," Bagot mumbled something about it being only a harmless joke, and seemed quite confused. "I will not ask you to tell on your companions," Dr. Mead went on sternly. "There must have been several of them. If they choose to come forward and admit their part, well and good. I will go no further with this, since the chief culprit is known. Ranger, you are fully vindicated, and I congratulate you on the effective manner in which you have proved your innocence." "As for you, Bagot, seeing that it is your first offense, I will be lenient. I will suspend you for one week, and you are to make up all the studies you lose in that time. That is all." With a scowl on his face, and an angry look at Jack, Adrian shuffled from the laboratory. The teachers followed Dr. Mead out, while Jack's friends gathered around to congratulate him. "Didn't know you were such a chemist," spoke Sam. "I'll have to play a march of victory on the jew's-harp and mouth organ at the same time!" burst out Fred Kaler. "Well," admitted Jack, "it came out about as well as I expected." "Betcherwhat!" exclaimed Budge, as he walked off, stretching his gum out at arm's length. The news soon spread that Jack had been vindicated, and there was an impromptu celebration in his room. "Lopsided lollypops!" exclaimed Nat Anderson. "We ought to do something to get even with Bagot, Jack." "Oh, I'm satisfied, let it go as it is." "But we're not," Sam Chalmers put in. "You got vindicated all right, but an insult to you is one to all this crowd you travel with. I'll bet Dr. Mead has a sort of idea that some of us had a hand in the joke. We may not be able to prove we didn't, but we can get even with that sneak Bagot for making all the trouble." "L-l-l-lets puncture h-h-h-is t-t-t-t-ti--" sputtered Will Slade. "What's that about his necktie?" asked Sam with a grin. "W-w-w-who s-s-s-said n-n-neck t-t-ti-?" "I thought you were trying to, and I wanted to help you out," replied Sam. "I-I-I-I ni-m-m-meant his autototototo--" "Toot-toot!" sung out Fred. "All aboard! Where does your train stop, Will?" "I know what you mean," put in Jack, coming to Will's relief. "But I don't want to do anything like bursting his auto tires. That's not my way." "We can easily enough find a plan," Sam went on. "Will you join us, Jack?" "You know I'm always ready for anything that's going." "Then I'll try and think up something," Sam concluded. "But we'd better hustle now. Chapel bell will ring in five minutes." CHAPTER V TURNING THE TABLES For several days after this there were review examinations so that all the students at the academy were kept busy, and there was little time for anything but study. At the end of the week Adrian Bagot returned from his period of suspension. He did not seem to have suffered much, and the boys heard him boasting of having ridden nearly a thousand miles in his auto. One evening Sam and some of his chums paid a visit to Jack Ranger. "Got anything on to-night?" asked Sam. "Nothing special, why?" "Well, I'll not tell you the particulars, and then, if anything happens you can truthfully say you never knew a thing about it. But if you want to see something, put on an old pair of slippers, so you can walk through the corridors softly, and follow us." "Some fun?" asked Jack. "Well, we wouldn't go to all this trouble if it was work or study," replied Sam with a grin. "But say nothing, only saw wood and come on." Jack, nothing loath, did as he was told. He got an old pair of felt slippers, and noticed that the others were also wearing similar foot-gear. "First to Professor Socrat's room," whispered Sam when the boys, including Will Slade, Fred Kaler and Bony Balmore were out in the corridor. "He's not going to fight a duel with Professor Garlach, is he?" asked Jack, recalling an occasion when the two teachers nearly did. "Not this time," replied Sam, "but there may be a fight in it." With Sam in the lead the boys went to the room of the French professor. "Now stay back in the shadows," advised the leader. "You can see and listen, but keep quiet." Sam knocked on the door, and, in his most polite tones said: "I was asked, my dear professor, to leave this with you with the compliments of the sender." "Ah, I zank you extremely, sir," said Professor Socrat, bowing low, "I zank ze giver, an' I zank you for ze most polite attention you have bestowed on me." "You are very welcome, I'm sure," murmured Sam, as he hurried away to join his waiting comrades. "I don't see anything funny about that," said Jack. "Wait until he opens it," whispered Sam. A few seconds later the hidden boys heard the door of the French teacher's room open, and saw him come out. "It is some meestake," they heard him murmur. "Zis ees for Professor Grimm. I will take it to heem," and he walked along the corridor toward the elderly instructor's apartment. "Act one," whispered Sam. "Now for the second." Silently in their slippers the boys followed the French professor to Mr. Grimm's room. "What is it?" asked the latter when the Frenchman had knocked. "I come wiz a package, left by mistake wiz me," Mr. Socrat remarked, in his usual polite way. "It is addressed to you inside, but ze outside wrapper was wiz my name inscribed. I ask your pardon." "Thanks," said Mr. Grimm shortly, as, with a polite bow, Mr. Socrat went back to his room. Professor Grimm left his door open a little way, and the boys could see him quite plainly. They saw him take off the wrapper, and disclose a small white box. This he opened and, as he took the cover off, there dropped out something that gave a musical clang. "A bell!" exclaimed Jack in a whisper. "Hush!" cautioned Sam. "Let's hear what he says." "Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Grimm. "So this is a joke, eh, Mr. Frenchman? Well, we'll see about this!" He grasped the bell, which was a small one, by the handle, and started down the corridor, a scowl on his face, as the boys could see by a flickering gaslight, as they were hidden around the corner. "Now back to Mr. Socrat's room for the third act," said Sam. "Come on." Without the formality of a knock, Mr. Grimm entered the French teacher's room. "So this is your idea of a joke, eh?" he cried, shaking the bell under Professor Socrat's nose. "I'll report you to Dr. Mead for this. You frog-eater you!" "Sir-r-r-r!" fairly shouted Professor Socrat. "You call me a frog- eater-r-r-r-r?" "Yes, and a donkey also!" exclaimed Mr. Grimm. "You knew how I've felt since that bell joke, and you dare to send me a miniature one!" "I sent nossing!" "Didn't I see you just bring this?" demanded Mr. Grimm, holding out the bell. "It was addressed to you on ze paper!" "Yes, and you did it!" "I did not!" "I say you did!" "Zen you mean zat I tells a lie?" "If you want to take it that way!" "Zen I say you also are one who knows not ze truth!" "Don't call me that name or I'll--" What the excited professor meant to say was not disclosed as, at that moment, in shaking his fist at Professor Socrat he let slip the bell, which, with a clang struck the French teacher on the chest. "A blow! I am insult!" Mr. Socrat exclaimed. "It must be wiped out wiz ze blood of my insulter!" He caught up a book to throw at Mr. Grimm, and let it fly, just as Adrian Bagot entered the room. The sporty student caught it full in the face. "Pardon, my dear young friend!" exclaimed the French teacher, seeing his missile had gone wide of one mark, though finding another. "What does this mean?" demanded Adrian, as he saw the two belligerents. "Leave the room, sir!" ordered Professor Grimm. "This is none of your affair!" "I was asked to come here," said Adrian. "Ha, so this is another part of your plan to play a joke on me," cried Mr. Grimm, glaring at the Frenchman. "You ask this student, who was responsible for the original trouble to come here to see a repetition." "Your talk, it ees of ze incomprehensible!" exclaimed Mr. Socrat. "I have sent for no one." "I got a note, signed with your name, asking me to call at your room at eight o'clock," said Bagot. "Hold me, some one, before I die laughing," whispered Sam to his chums. In fact they were all laughing so that only the excitement on the part of the three in Mr. Socrat's room prevented the boys from being discovered. "Let me see ze writing," said the French teacher. Adrian showed it to him. "I nevair wrote that, nevair, nevair, nevair!" exclaimed the representative of France. "But you brought me the bell," put in Mr. Grimm. "I did, because your name, it was on ze covair of ze box. I not write heem." "Then if you didn't, who did?" asked Mr. Grimm. "I am no readair of ze mind," replied the Frenchman. "I'll bet it is one of Jack Ranger's tricks," said Adrian. "It is just like him." "Are you sure you had no hand in it?" asked Mr. Grimm suspiciously, turning to Bagot. "You don't think I'd risk another suspension with graduation so near, do you?" asked Bagot. "I guess you're innocent this time," admitted Mr. Grimm unwillingly. "If I discover who did this I'll settle with him." "You've got to catch 'em first," murmured Sam. "Well I guess I'll go," went on Mr. Grimm. "I have been insult, I demand satisfaction," said Mr. Socrat, drawing himself to his full height and glaring at the other teacher. "Will you name a friend, sir, to whom I can send my representative?" "You--you don't mean to fight a duel, do you?" asked Professor Grimm, nervously. "Of a certainly yes! I have been struck! I have been insult! I must have ze satisfaction!" "If it comes to that so have I," said Adrian, rubbing his face where the book had hit him. "I have apologized to you. I beg your ten thousand pardons, my young friend," said Mr. Socrat, bowing low. "I know when I am at fault. It was all an accident. Still, if you demand satisfaction I am bound to give it you. I will send ze--" "Oh, I accept your apology," said Adrian, hastily. "But I have been called ze eater of ze frogs, an' I have been struck by--by a--person!" exploded the Frenchman. u I must see ze blood flow, or--" "Oh, I'll apologize, if it comes to that," said Mr. Grimm, rather awkwardly. "I didn't mean to hit you with the bell. As for calling you names, why--why I was all excited. I beg your pardon." "Zen you have made ze amend honorable, an' I accept it," said the Frenchman, bowing almost to the floor. "We will regard ze incident as closed." "I'll not, by a long shot," murmured Bagot. "I want satisfaction from whoever got me into this and I'll find out sooner or later." "Mostly later," murmured Sam. "Where did you get the package?" asked the sporty student of Mr. Socrat. "It was brought to me a little while ago, by one of ze students. It was dark in ze hallway and I could not see ze face of heem." "Luck for me," murmured Sam. "I see my name on ze wrappair," went on Professor Socrat. "Zen I open it an' I see ze name of Mr. Grimm. I go to heem. Ha! Zings begin to what you call happen--after zat!" "Vamoose!" whispered Sam. "I guess we've seen all the fun. They'll disperse now. Everyone to his room and undress. Be studying in bed. If there's an investigation we can't be accused." A little later the boys heard Professor Grimm tramping to his room, muttering dire vengeance on his tormentors. They heard him open his window and throw something out. It fell with a tinkle to the ground. "The bell," whispered Sam, as he hurried to his room. "How did you manage it?" asked Jack an hour or so later when Sam had entered his chum's apartment, matters having quieted down. "It was too easy," explained Sam. "I did up the bell, and left it with Socrat. I purposely addressed it double. I figured out what would happen. Then I sent a fake note to Bagot, telling him Socrat wanted him. It came out better than I expected." "I hope there's no trouble over it," Jack said. There was none, for neither of the professors cared to have the facts made public, and Bagot did not want to let it be known that he had been fooled. CHAPTER VI A PLAN THAT FAILED One afternoon Dr. Mead announced that there would be an evening lecture, in preparation for final examinations, and he stated that he expected every student to be present. "The only excuse that will be accepted for non-attendance," he said, "will be illness. As there are no students sick now, I shall regard with grave suspicion any reports of indisposition between now and the time for the lecture." "What do you say to a swim?" asked Sam, of Jack, as they filed out from the auditorium where Dr. Mead had made his announcement. "I'll go," replied Jack. "Any of the other fellows going along?" "Dick, Nat and Bill Slade are coming," said Sam. "I left them going for their suits. Come on." "Wait until I get mine," spoke Jack, and he hurried off, to join Sam a few minutes later. On the way to a quiet spot in Rudmore Lake, where the boys were in the habit of taking their swimming exercises, Jack and Sam were joined by the others. "Did you hear the latest?" asked Bony Balmore, making his anatomy rattle in a way peculiar to himself. "No, what is it?" asked Jack. "Two new students arrived," went on Bony. "They're chums of Sport Bagot's I guess, 'cause I saw them walking with him." "Who are they?" asked Sam. "Ed Simpson and John Higley," replied Sam. "I heard they were regular cut-ups, and got fired out of one school. Their guardians sent them here to finish the term. I s'pose they'll try some funny work." "L-l-l-l-et 'em t-t-t-try it!" spluttered Will. "I-i g-g-g-guess we c-c-c--" "Oh, whistle it!" exclaimed Sam. "Pzznt!" exploded Will, which seemed to get his vocal cords in shape again. "We'll fix 'em if they try any tricks!" "Now you're talking," said Jack. The boys lost little time in getting into the lake. They were splashing about in the water, when Jack, who happened to swim near shore, was startled by a cautious hail. He looked up, to see Budge Rankin half hidden in the grass, making signals to him. "What is it?" asked Jack. "Geasynow!" exclaimed Budge, in a hoarse whisper, tossing aside a wad of gum that he might talk more plainly. "Go easy about what?" asked Jack. "They're going to play a trick on you," said Budge. "Who?" inquired Jack, while the other boys, attracted by the conversation drew near. "Adrian Bagot and the two new students," went on Budge. "They're on their way here. Goin' t' steal your clothes an' make you late for th' lecture. I heard 'em talkin' about it. Thought I'd warn you. 'Sthmatterithfoolinem?" Budge had taken a fresh chew of gum, which accounted for the way in which he inquired what was the matter with fooling the enemy. "True for you!" exclaimed Sam. "How we going to do it?" Jack pondered a moment, idly splashing the water with his opened hand. Then he exclaimed: "I have it! How long before they'll be here, Budge?" "'Bout ten minutes I reckon." "Long enough. Come on boys." "What you up to?" asked Nat. "Say nothing but follow me," was all Jack replied. He scrambled up the bank to where he had left his clothes. Catching up the garments into a bundle he placed them further along the bank, on a little bluff that overlooked the edge of the lake. The clothes were in plain sight. "They'll see them there," objected Fred. "That's what I want," Jack replied. "Do as I do." Wondering what was up the others obeyed. Jack then ran to a small boathouse, close to the swimming place, and returned with three long, thin ropes, used to tie the craft to the dock. For a few minutes Jack's fingers flew nimbly. Then he placed three rope circles, hiding them well in the grass, each one just in front of each of the three piles of clothes. He carefully carried the long ends of the ropes down the bank and into the water. "Oh, I see!" exclaimed Sam, with a chuckle. "Say, this is great!" "Now, Budge," said Jack, when he had finished his preparations. "You hide in the bushes. When you think it's time, you toss a stone into the water. Do you understand?" "Betcherlife!" replied Budge, shortly. "Get down under the bank, then, fellows," said Jack to his companions. "Keep well in shore, and when you hear the stone splash, pull. That's all!" "But they may take our clothes," objected Will, who did not seem to understand. "I don't believe they will," replied Jack, grimly. The boys entered the water again, and, crouched close under the bank, sinking down so that only the tip of their noses were above the surface. It was almost impossible to tell they were there. Had any one been up on the bank a few minutes later he would have observed three lads come creeping along, as if they were afraid of being seen. Adrian Bagot was in the lead. "I don't see them" spoke one of the trio. "Keep quiet, Ed Simpson," cautioned Adrian. "That Ranger chap has sharp ears. Do you see 'em, John?" "There's their clothes in little piles, just ahead," replied John Higley. "They couldn't have left 'em better for us. Come on; we'll hide 'em, and then we'll see what happens." "Guess they won't be so fresh after this," spoke Bagot. Slowly the trio crept forward. Well might Jack and his chums worried for the fate of their garments had they seen the three conspirators. But Budge was on the watch. Just as the three sneaks were about to reach down and gather the swimmers' clothes, a stone sailed through the air, and fell with a splash into the water. An instant later there was a wild scene on the bank. Three youths went flying toward the edge of the lake as though propelled by unseen hands. They seemed to have ropes attached to their legs, ropes which were being pulled from below. Then three well-dressed lads were struggling in the water, while five other youths stood up in the shallows looking on. "I guess we turned the tables that time," remarked Jack. CHAPTER VII FOILING A PLOT "Save me! Save me!" yelled Adrian Bagot. "I'm drowning!" screamed Ed Simpson. "I'm sinking!" shouted John Higley. The three conspirators were floundering about in the water. Because of the rope nooses about their feet their efforts to stand upright were not entirely successful. "Who did this?" inquired Bagot angrily, as he tried to get rid of a mouthful of water. "If--if I-I die they'll hang for this!" spluttered Ed Simpson. "No danger of your drowning, you're too mean," said Jack. "Besides it's only up to your knees. Stand up and wade out." By this time the three lads, their clothing dripping with water, had managed to stand upright. They reached down under the dancing wavelets and loosened the nooses. "You'll pay for this, Jack Ranger," shouted Adrian, shaking his fist at our hero. "All right, I'm ready whenever you are," was the cool answer. "Come on, fellows, we don't want to be late for the lecture," and he started from the water, followed by his chums. "I'll have you arrested for damaging my clothes," exclaimed Ed. "And I suppose you'd tell on the witness stand about what you intended to do to ours," went on Jack. "I guess you'll cry 'quits,' that's what you'll do. You tried to play a trick on us, but you got left. So long. Don't miss the lecture." He scrambled ashore, his comrades doing likewise, while the three lads who had taken such an unexpected bath waded out as best they could. They were sorry looking sights. "But I don't exactly un-d-d-d-erstand how it it h-h-h-appened?" stuttered Will, who had not had hold of one of the ropes. "I just made slip nooses, and placed them where they'd have to step into them before they could lay hands on the clothes," explained Jack. "Budge gave me the signal when they were inside the ropes." "And then we just pulled," put in Nat. "Wow! It was a corker, Jack! How did you think of it?" "It just happened to come to me. Say didn't they come down off that bank sailing, though?" "I pulled as if I was landing a ten pound pickerel," said Fred. "I wonder who I had." "Didn't stop to notice," Jack said, as he slipped on his coat. "They all came together. What a splash they made!" By this time the three conspirators had crawled up the bank. They were so soaking wet that it was hard to walk. Their shoes "squashed" out water at every step. They sat down on the grass, took them off, and removed some of their garments, which they proceeded to wring out. "Better hurry up," advised Jack, as he finished dressing. "Lecture begins in about two hours, and you're quite a way from home." "I'll--" began Ed Simpson, when Adrian stopped him with a gesture. "Sorry we have to leave you," Sam went on. "If you'd sent your cards we would have had the water warmed for you. Hope you didn't find it too chilly." The three cronies did not reply, but went on trying to get as much water as possible from their garments. Leaving them sitting on the grass, as the afternoon waned into evening, the swimmers hurried back to the academy. When the roll was called at the evening lecture, which was at an early hour, Jack and his friends replied "here!" For a week or more after the episode at the lake, matters at the academy went on in a rather more even tenor than was usual. One night Sam, who finished his studying early went to Jack's room. "Boning away?" he asked. "Just finishing my Caesar," was the reply. "Why, anything on?" "Nothing special," replied Sam. "Do you feel anything queer in your bones?" "Not so much as a touch of fever and ague," replied Jack with a laugh. "Do you need quinine?" "Quit your fooling. I mean don't you feel as if you wanted to do something?" "Oh I'm always that way, more or less," Jack admitted. "I'm not taking anything for it, though." "I'd like to take a stroll," said Sam. "I think that would quiet me down. I feel just as if something was going to happen." "Probably something will, if we go out at this hour," Jack said. "It's against the rules." "I know it is, but it wouldn't be the first time you or I did it. Come on, let's go out. Down the trellis, the way you did when you discovered Grimm smoking." "I don't know," began Jack. "Of course you don't," interrupted Sam. "I'll attend to all that. Come on." Needing no more urging, Jack laid aside his book, turned his light low, and soon he and Sam were cautiously making their way from Jack's window, along a trellis and drain pipe to the ground. "There!" exclaimed Sam, as he dropped lightly to the earth. "I feel better already. Some of the restlessness has gone." "Keep shady," muttered Jack. "Some of the teachers have rooms near here." They walked along under the shadow of the Hall until they came to a window from which a brilliant light streamed forth. It came from a crack between the lowered shade and the casement. It was impossible to pass it without seeing what was going on inside the apartment. At the same time they could hear the murmur of voices. "Adrian Bagot, and his two cronies up to some trick!" whispered Jack, as he grasped Sam by the arm. The two friends saw the three new students bending over a table, containing a pot of something, which they seemed to be stirring with a long stick. "What are they up to?" whispered Sam. "Experimenting with chemicals, perhaps," said Jack. "Don't you believe it," retorted Sam. "They're up to some game, you can bet. I wonder if we can't get wise to what it is." Cautiously they drew nearer to the window. They found it was open a crack. "Will it make much of an explosion?" asked Ed Simpson. "Hardly any," replied Higley. "Only a puff and lots of smoke, but it will leave its mark all right, and I guess those fresh friends of Jack Ranger's will laugh on the other corner of their mouths." "I'd like to get even with them before the term closes," put in Adrian. "We'll do it all right," went on Ed. "Don't be too sure of that," whispered Jack. It did not require much effort on the part of Jack and Sam to understand what the three conspirators were up to. Their conversation, which floated through the opened window, and their references to certain localities put the two listeners in possession of the whole scheme. "Well, if that isn't the limit," said Jack in a whisper. "I wouldn't believe they'd dare to do it." "How can we foil their plans?" asked Sam. "Hark, some one is coming," said Jack, dropping down on his hands and knees, an example which Sam followed. Then came a cautious signal, a whistle. "It's John Smith, my Indian friend!" exclaimed Jack. "He must have just got back," for the half-breed had been away for a few weeks, as one of his relatives was ill. Jack sounded a cautious whistle in reply, and soon the Indian student was at his side. There were hurried greetings, and Jack soon explained the situation. "Let me think it over a minute," said John Smith. "It takes me rather suddenly." For a few seconds John remained in deep thought. Then he exclaimed: "I think I have it. Have you any chemicals in your room, Jack?" "Plenty," was the answer. "I've been boning on that lately, and I got a fresh supply from the laboratory the other day to experiment with." "Then I think we'll make these chaps open their eyes." The three friends hurried to Jack's room, where they were busy for some time, behind carefully drawn shades. At the end of about two hours, Jack, who had been keeping watch from a window, exclaimed: "There they go with the stuff. It's time we got a move on." "They'll not set it off until midnight," spoke Sam, "That's what they said. We'll have time enough to do what we are going to." The three friends worked hurriedly. When they had finished they had several packages. Down the trellis they went and out on the campus, which was shrouded in darkness. They made their way to the foot of a statue of George Washington, which stood on a broad base in front of the school. There stood the Father of His Country, with outstretched arms, as if warning invaders away from the precincts of learning. "They've been here!" said Sam in a whisper. He pointed to some straggling black lines at the base of the figure, and to a thin thing like a string: which led over the grass toward the room of Adrian Bagot. "They've put our initials in powder here," said Jack. "Trying to throw the blame on us when it goes off." "We'll soon fix that," replied Sam. The three boys made some rapid movements around the statue, and then cut the thin thing which led to the room of young Bagot. "I guess when he touches off that fuse he'll wonder what has happened," observed John Smith. "Have you enough of the other fuse?" asked Jack. "Plenty," replied the Indian student. "Have you changed the initials?" "Every one," said Sam. "Then I think we can go back," said John. "Take care of my fuse. Don't get tangled up in it." The boys made their way quietly to a spot just under the window of Bagot's room. There they placed what seemed to be a piece of board. "Now back to your room, and wait until they start the fun," said John. The three friends had not long to wait. A little after midnight they heard Bagot's window cautiously open. There was the sound of a match striking, and then Sam called to Jack: "Let her go!" A second later a thin trail of fire spurted along the ground from the sporty student's room. It was followed by a larger one from the foot of the trellis by which Jack had descended. A few seconds later it seemed as if a Fourth of July celebration was in progress. Sparks of fire ran along to the statue of the first President. Then there was a puff of smoke, and in front of the hero of the Revolution there shot up dancing flames. At the same time there sounded several sharp explosions, as though the British were firing on the Minute Men at Lexington, and the latter were replying as fast as they could load and discharge their flintlocks. Windows began to go up here and there, and heads were thrust forth. "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "Are there burglars?" were some of the cries. Brighter now burned the fire at the foot of the statue, which was enveloped in a cloud of flame and smoke, and, had the original been alive he must have delighted in the baptism of gunpowder. Then there came a louder explosion. It was followed by a shower of sparks, and a trail of sparks began running along the ground, toward the college. An instant later there blazed forth on a board as on an illuminated sign, in front of the room of Adrian Bagot the words in letters of fire: WE DID IT. Underneath, in smaller characters were the initials; "A.B. E.S. J.H." "Wait until Dr. Mead sees that," said Jack, as he looked out on the campus, which was now a scene of brilliancy. CHAPTER VIII THE BURGLAR SCARE The whole academy was now aroused. Several students and teachers, in scanty attire, had come from their rooms and were hurrying down to see if the place was on fire. For several minutes the blazing words and initials shone out amid the darkness. Then they died away in a shower of sparks, and windows could be heard being put down. "That's excitement enough for one night," remarked John Smith. "It succeeded better than I thought it would." "That was a great idea," said Jack. "Glad you think so," the Indian went on. "I've seen soldiers at the Canadian forts play all sorts of tricks with gunpowder and slow fuse so I just adopted some of them. It was easy enough, after they laid the powder train, with the initials of you, Sam, and Bony, to change them into a general serpentine twist with their initials in the midst of it. By ramming some of the powder down into the holes in the foundation it exploded with quite a noise." "Lucky you had those chemicals in your room, Jack, or I'd never been able to make that board with the words 'We did it' on and stick it up in front of Adrian's window. I used part of their own long fuse, and it was a good one." "Seemed to do the work all right," agreed Sam. "It sure did," observed Jack. "I wonder what they thought when they saw the fire coming their way?" "Hush! Here comes some one!" exclaimed Sam. and the boys put out their light, which was burning low. "It's Dr. Mead; I know his step," said Jack. "I'll bet he's on his way to Bagot's room," spoke Sam. "Cracky! I'm glad it isn't me." "It's only good luck it isn't!" put in Jack. "If we hadn't gone out they might have exploded their powder, and, in the morning our initials would have been found at the bottom of the statue, burned in the stone." A little later loud talking was heard from the direction of Adrian's room. It quieted down, after a while. But there was a strenuous session at chapel the next morning, and Adrian and his cronies were given extra lessons to do. For a week or more after this all the students had to buckle down to hard study, as the annual examinations were approaching. Jack and his chums had little time for sports of any kind, as they had a number of lessons to master in addition to their regular work. But by diligence they kept up with the requirements, and, about two weeks before the time set for the closing of the school, they found themselves on even terms. "I'm ready for some fun," announced Jack, one evening. "I've been good and quiet so long I can feel my wings sprouting." "Better go easy," cautioned John Smith. "I'm going to; as easy as I can," replied Jack. "But I've got to do something or break loose." "Shivering side-saddles!" exclaimed Nat Anderson. "Let's have a burglar scare." "How?" asked Sam. "I'll think of a plan," Nat went on. "Howling huckleberries, but I too am pining for a little excitement, Jack." "Well, trot out your plan," Jack said. "We haven't got much time." "Let me think a minute," begged Nat, and, while he assumed an attitude as though he was trying to solve a problem in geometry, Fred drew out a little tin fife and played such a doleful air that Nat cried: "How do you expect me to think with that thing going?" and, with a quick grab he snatched it from Fred's hand and sent it spinning across Jack's room. "I have it!" Nat exclaimed, when the excitement had somewhat subsided. "You all know what timid creatures Professors Gale and Hall are. They room together, and I believe they'd scream if they saw a mouse. Not that they're a bad sort, for they have both helped me a lot in my lessons. But men ought not to be such babies. Now what's the matter with a couple of us disguising ourselves as burglars and going into their rooms about midnight? The rest of us can hide and hear the fun." "Maybe they'll shoot," suggested Sam. "Shoot! They'd be afraid to handle a revolver," was Nat's comment. "Well, as long as it won't do any real harm, and as we positively have to have something happen, let's go on with it," said Jack. "Who'll be the burglars?" "Nat'll have to be one," spoke John Smith, as he proposed it." "Ll-l-let me be t-t-the o-o-o-other," said Will Slade haltingly. "What? And when you demand their money or their lives how would you say it?" asked Sam. "Nice sort of a burglar you'd make. 'G-g-g-give m-m-m-me y-y-y-your m-m-mon--'" Sam stopped suddenly and dodged back, as Will aimed a blow at him. In doing so he stumbled over a pile of books and went down in a heap. "Serves you right," said Jack. "Just for his making fun of Will I vote we elect Will as one of the burglars." The others agreed, even Sam, and Will regained his good nature. "How about masks?" asked Sam. "I'll make some," replied Jack, and, from some pieces of black cloth, he quickly cut two false-faces. "I-I-I-I've g-g-got t-t-t have a g-g-g-g--" came from Will. "Are you trying to say a pair of gum shoes?" asked John Smith. "I'll lend you a pair of moccasins." "I guess he means gun," volunteered Nat. "But these will do just as well," and he got a couple of nickel-plated bicycle pumps from a drawer. "They'll shine in the dim light just like revolvers," he went on. "Guess I'll take a stroll down the corridor and see how the land lies," said Jack. "We don't want to burglarize a room that has no one in it, and they may not be in when the second story men get there." "That's so, how are we going to get in?" asked Nat. "Easy," replied Jack. "Their room is on the ground floor, and you can just raise the screen up and drop in. They always leave their window open a bit, as they're fresh air fiends." While Jack went to take an observation, the two amateur burglars made their arrangements. They turned their clothing inside out, and, with the two pieces of black cloth across their faces, while ragged caps were drawn down close over their foreheads, they looked the part to perfection. Jack soon returned, to report that the coast was clear, and that both assistants were in the room. "Gales is reading Shakespeare, and Hall is manicuring his nails," the spy reported. "But it's too early yet. Let's go take a stroll and about midnight will be the right time. We can hide in the bushes opposite the room and hear 'em call for help. Then we can rush up and pretend we came to the rescue. That will be a good excuse in case we're caught watching the game." Both assistants retired early, and the boys knew that twelve o'clock would find them both sound asleep. After a stroll about the college grounds, taking care not to venture into the light but keeping well in the shadows, Jack announced it was the hour for the show to commence. "Better let Nat do the talking," Jack advised Will. "Have you got anything to disguise your voice, Nat?" "I can talk down in my throat." "Better put a peanut in your mouth," Jack went on passing over several. "That will make you sound more like a desperate villain." Accordingly, Nat stuffed one of the unshelled nuts into his cheek, and then, seeing that Will was ready, he led the way from the shadow of the bushes toward the window of the room where the assistants slept. It was a dark night, which was favorable to their plans. As Jack had said, the only bar to entrance was a light screen in the casement. Nat raised this, and, listening a few seconds, to make sure the teachers were asleep, he crawled into the room. Will followed him. For a moment after they had entered the boys did not know what to do. They were unaware of the method of procedure common among burglars. They were in doubt whether to announce their presence, or wait until the sleepers discovered it. Chance, however, took charge of matters for them. In moving about Will hit a book that projected over the edge of a table. It fell down, bounced against a cane standing in one corner, and the stick toppled against a wash pitcher, making a noise as if a gong had been rung. "Now be ready to throw a scare into 'em!" whispered Nat to Will. "That's bound to rouse 'em." It did. They could hear the sleepers sitting up in bed. Then Mr. Hall demanded: "Who's there?" "Don't move as you value your life!" exclaimed Nat, in his deepest tones. "We-we-we!" began Will forgetting the instructions to let Nat do the talking. His companion, however, silenced him by a vigorous punch in the stomach. "We're after money!" Nat went on. There was a sudden click and the room became illuminated. Mr. Hall had pulled the chain that turned on the automatic gaslight. The two teachers were sitting up in their beds, staring at the intruders. Nat drew his bicycle pump, and Will followed his example. "Money or your life!" exclaimed Nat, in dramatic accents. "Why--why--I believe they're burglars!" cried Mr. Gales. "The impudence of them!" almost shouted Mr. Hall. The next instant he sprang out of bed and advanced on Nat and Will with long strides. This was more than the boys had bargained for. Seizing Nat, Mr. Hall, who proved much more muscular than his build indicated, fairly tossed the boy out of the window. Fortunately he fell on the soft grass and was only shaken up. "Get out of here, you scoundrel!" exclaimed the athletic teacher, making a rush for Will. "D-d-don't h-h-h-hurt me!" pleaded the bold burglar. "I-I-I-I we--" As Mr. Hall grabbed him the black mask came off and the instructor, seeing the lad's face cried out: "It's Will Slade!" He was about to send the burglar flying after his companion, but this discovery stopped him. At the same instant, the hidden crowd, thinking it was about time to do the rescue act, had started forward. "Keep back!" cried Nat. "It's a fizzle!" and he limped from under the window as fast as he could. CHAPTER IX NAT'S INVITATION The boys needed no other warning to make themselves scarce. They had reckoned without their host in planning the trick on the two teachers. "Where's Will?" asked Jack of Nat. "I guess they've caught him," the limping "burglar" said. "That means trouble," put in Sam. "How did it happen?" The conspirators were now some distance away from the Hall, and out of hearing distance. "It happened because they weren't the milksops we thought them," said Nat; rubbing his elbow. "The way he grabbed me felt as if I was being hugged by a bear." "Then they didn't get frightened?" "Not a bit. Came right at me." The boys looked back. The brilliantly lighted window of the teacher's room shone out plainly amid the blackness of the night. As the boys watched, they saw a figure climb over the sill. "There comes Will," spoke Sam. "I wonder if they're not going to report us," said Jack. "Say, It will be the first time a teacher didn't take an opportunity of getting even." As soon as Will found himself on the ground he set off on a run, toward where he supposed his friends to be in hiding. Jack gave the usual signal-whistle of his crowd, and Will, hearing it, came up quickly. "What happened?" "Didn't he make a row?" "Are they going to report it?" "How'd you get away?" These were some of the questions to which the throng of boys demanded answers. "I-I-I--c-can't t-t-tell h-h-h--." "Here! you quit that!" exclaimed Jack sternly, thinking to frighten Will out of his stuttering. The rebuke had the desired effect, and, for once Will forgot to mix his words and letters. "When he saw it was me," he explained, "he didn't seem to know what to say. Then he laughed and Gales laughed, and I felt pretty foolish; I tell you. "Gales asked me who was with me, but Hall cut in and said he didn't want me to tell. I wouldn't anyhow, only it was white of him not to insist." "It sure was," murmured Jack. "Oh, I can see trouble coming our way." "Well," went on Will. "He looked at me a little longer, and I heard Gales mutter something about 'boys will be boys,' then Hall made a sign to him, and Gales went back to bed." "What did you do?" asked Jack. "Why, Hall motioned to me to climb out of the windows and I did, mighty quick, you can bet" "Wait until chapel to-morrow morning," said Nat. "Maybe we won't get it! Never mind, the end of the term is almost here, and they can't do any more than suspend us. Though I hate to have the folks hear of it." There were several anxious hearts beating under boyish coats when the opening exercises were held the next morning. The burglar schemers watched the two assistants file in and take their usual places on the raised platform. "How do they look?" whispered Nat to Jack. "Don't seem to have an awful lot of fire in their eyes," was the answer. "Wait until Dr. Mead begins," whispered Sam, a sort of Job's comforter. But to the boys' astonishment, there was no reference to the night's prank. The exercises went off as usual, though every time Dr. Mead cleared his throat, or began to speak on a new subject, there was a nervous thrill on the part of the conspirators. "I have one more announcement to make, and that will end the exercises for the day," the head of the Academy said. "Here it comes," whispered Jack. "Will Slade and Nat Anderson are requested to meet Professors Hall and Gales after chapel," was what the doctor said. There was a little buzz of excitement among the students, for the story of the escapade had become generally known. "Glad I'm not in their shoes, but I suppose we'll all come in for it," said Sam, as he and the others filed out of the assembly room. Will and Nat remained, their spirits anything but pleasant. Their companions stayed out on the campus, waiting for them, instead of dispersing to their rooms to prepare for the first lesson period. As the minutes dragged away there was a general feeling of apprehension. "Don't s'pose they'll get a flogging do you?" asked Sam. "Against the rules of the institution," replied Jack. "Here they come," announced Fred Kaler. "I don't know whether I ought to play a funeral march or 'Palms of Victory.'" "Probably the former," put in John Smith. "Well?" asked Jack, as the two "burglars" came within hailing distance, "what did they do to you?" "It's all right!" exclaimed Nat. "Say, they're bricks all right, Gales and Hall are! They took us to Dr. Mead's little private office, and we thought sure we were in for it. I didn't know how they recognized me until Gales gave me my handkerchief, which I had dropped in the room. It had my name on it." "Skip those details!" interrupted Sam. "Get down to business. Did they fire you?" "Not a bit of it," replied Nat. "They asked me if I was hurt in the-- er--the--jump I took from the window. I said I wasn't. They then made some remarks about the night air being bad toward the end of the term, and they told us to go to our classes. Not a word about it. I call that white, I do." "Right you are!" came in chorus from the others. "We ought to send 'em a vote of thanks," suggested Sam. "No, I think I'd let it rest where it is," came from Jack. "They want to show that they could have made trouble if they wanted to. We'd better let it drop. I wonder if Dr. Mead knows it?" "I don't believe they told him," was Nat's opinion. "You see there wasn't much of a row, and it was all over in a little while. But it certainly is one on us." To this they all agreed. Yet one good thing came of it, for the boys had a better understanding of the characters of the two instructors. They felt an increased respect for them morally as well as physically, and there came a better spirit between Jack's crowd and the two professors. The latter never even referred to the burglar incident, and, whenever any of the other students spoke in rather slighting terms of either of the instructors, Jack and his friends were ready defenders. On account of preparations for examinations there was only a half day's session, the boys being given the afternoon off. After dinner Jack accepted an invitation from John Smith to go out in the Indian student's canoe on the lake. They paddled about for several hours, and were on their way back to the boathouse, when a rowing craft, in which two youths were seated, came swiftly toward them. "Look out!" called Jack. "Do you want to run us down?" Whether the rowers intended that or not was not evident, but they certainly came within a few inches of smashing the frail canoe. Only John's skill prevented it. As the rowboat swept past one of the oars fairly snatched the paddle from Jack's hand. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded angrily. The only answer was a mocking laugh, and, as the boat was now far enough past to show the faces of the rowers, Jack looked to see who they were. "Jerry Chowden!" he exclaimed. "I thought he was in Chicago," and he recalled the threatening letter. "Guess he's here to see the closing exercises," remarked John. "Who's that with him?" "Adrian Bagot" replied Jack. "Well, they're a nice team. I shouldn't wonder but there'd be some trouble for some one if they stay long." "Not many more days left," John observed. "Grab your paddle," and he swung the canoe around to where the broad blade floated. In his room that evening Jack's meditations as to what Chowden's return might mean were interrupted by the entrance of Nat Anderson. He seemed quite excited and was waving a letter over his head. "Great news," he exclaimed. "What is?" asked Jack. "Some one left you a thousand dollars?" "No, it's an invitation from my uncle, Morris Kent, who has a big ranch near Denville, Colorado, to come out and spend the summer vacation with him." "Fine!" cried Jack. "But that isn't the best part," added Nat. "He says I can bring two chums with me, and I want you to be one." "Do you mean it?" asked Jack. "Sure." "Who else will you take?" There was a noise in the corridor. CHAPTER X A MEETING WITH CHOWDEN "Studying or talking?" asked a voice in the hall outside of Jack's room, and the door was pushed open to admit John Smith. Jack and Nat looked at each other. The same thought seemed to come to both of them. "Him!" they exclaimed together. "What's this, a game, or a joke?" "A little of both," Jack said. "Tell him about it, Nat." Nat explained the receipt of his uncle's invitation. "We were just wondering who would make the third member of the party, when you came in," he said, "and we both decided on you." "It was very kind of you to invite me," John said. "I guess I can arrange to go. Where is this ranch?" "Near Denville, Colorado," replied Nat. John started and looked at Jack. "Nothing the matter with that place, is there?" asked Jack. "No. On the contrary it couldn't be better," replied John. "That's where we want to go to settle the mystery--" He stopped, evidently on account of Nat's presence. "Oh, Nat knows all about it," said Jack. "I see what you're driving at." "Yes," went on John. "Denville is not many miles from Denver, and at the latter place, you remember, we can go to the Capital Bank, and get the address of Orion Tevis." "Yes, and then maybe we can locate my father," Jack exclaimed. "Say, Nat, this couldn't have happened better. It's fine of you to think of me." "The same here," put in John. "Well, I don't know of any fellows I'd rather have than you two," replied Nat. "Thanks," his two friends answered. "I'm going to write a reply at once," Nat went on. "I'll go to town and mail it to-night. I guess Dr. Mead will let me." "Let's all three go," suggested Jack. "I'll ask permission. We've not been caught in any scrapes lately, and our records are fairly good. It's early." Dr. Mead readily gave permission for the three chums to go to the village where the post-office was. "But you must be in by eleven o'clock," he stipulated. "I shall instruct Martin to watch out for you, and if you are not in at that hour it will mean demerits all around. I would not let you go, only you have had very good records of late." On their way to the village the three chums talked of nothing but the proposed trip. To Nat it was enough excitement to think of merely going west. But to Jack, who wanted to solve the mystery of his father it meant much more. He hoped since the eleven years of voluntary exile were almost up, to induce his father to come east and make his home. "That is, if I can find him," thought Jack. "I hope I can. First I'll have to locate Orion Tevis, to see what he knows." "I'll be glad to get out on a range once more," said John Smith. "I've got enough Indian blood in me to feel cooped up in a house. It will be sport out there, riding ponies and seeing the cattle." The boys reached the post-office about nine o'clock and Nat mailed his letter. "It's early to go back," said Jack. "Isn't there something that we can do?" "There's a moving picture show in town," said John. "Let's go to it for awhile." This was voted a good idea. The boys enjoyed the scenes thrown on the screene, and were particularly taken with a depiction of a cowboy roping a steer. "That's what we'll soon see in reality," whispered Nat. They started through the village, and, as they turned down a quiet street that led toward Washington Hall, Jack saw a dark figure sneaking along on the opposite side, in the shadow of some buildings. "Looks as if some one was following us," said Jack to himself. As our hero pulled out his handkerchief there flew out with it a letter. The sight of it reminded him that he had promised Professor Hall to mail it that evening. It had slipped his mind, even though he had been in the post-office. "I'd better run right back with it," said Jack. "Mighty stupid of me. Well, there's no help for it, and I don't want to disappoint Hall. He's a good friend of ours." He picked the letter up, and held it in his hand to insure that it would not be forgotten again. "I say!" called Jack to his companions, who were now some distance ahead of him. "I've got to run back and mail a letter. Go on and I'll catch up to you." "All right," said John. "We'll walk slow." Intent on rectifying his forgetfulness, Jack turned back on the run. He did not see three figures sneaking into the shadow of a dark doorway just as he turned. "We'll have him just where we want him," whispered one of the youths who had been following the students. "You're not going to be three to one, are you?" asked one of the trio. "No, I guess Jerry Chowden is a match for Jack Ranger any day," was the answer. "You two can look on, and see me wallop him." Jack made good time back to the post-office, and came hurrying along the street, whistling a lively tune. In the meantime the three plotters had walked ahead, taking care not to get too near Nat and John. The latter, however, had walked faster than they intended, so that they were a good quarter of a mile ahead of Jack. As the latter came opposite the last building that stood on the edge of where there were a number of vacant lots, he was surprised to hear a hail. "Hold on there!" someone cried. "Who are you?" asked Jack, looking around. Then, as three figures emerged from the shadows and blocked his path, he exclaimed: "Oh, it's you, is it, Jerry Chowden? Well, what do you want?" "I want to get square with you," replied the bully, in an angry tone. "And you bring two of your toadies along to help you, I suppose," said Jack, unable to keep a sneer from his voice. "Look here!" exclaimed one of Jerry's companions. "I don't know who you are, except by name, but I'm not going to have you insult me. Jerry is a friend of mine--" "Sorry for you," interrupted Jack cooly. "None of your lip!" exclaimed the other strange youth. "Jerry says he has a bone to pick with you," the one who had first addressed Jack went on. "He told us he was going to have it out with you, and invited us along. We're not going to take any part, you can rest assured of that, and there'll be fair play. But if you're afraid, why that's another matter." "Who said I was afraid?" demanded Jack hotly. "You seem to act so." "I don't know that I ever did you any harm, Jerry Chowden," Jack said, more quietly, "but if you feel so why I can't help it." "I do, and I'm going to get even," spoke Jerry, advancing closer to Jack. "Stand aside," demanded Jack, as the bully almost brushed against him. "Not until you've given me satisfaction." "What do you mean?" "You know well enough what I mean." "Do you want to fight?" asked Jack calmly. "Certainly I do!" exclaimed the bully, aiming a blow at the lad in front of him. Jack stepped quickly back, Jerry nearly lost his balance and just saved himself from falling. "You're a coward!" cried Jerry angrily. "I am, eh?" cried Jack. "Well, if I must fight I'm going to do it for all I'm worth!" The next instant he had his coat off, and was ready to defend himself. Jerry, nothing loath, closed in, and there in the darkness, illuminated only by the stars, the fight began. Jerry was well built and strong, but he had little science. On the contrary, though Jack was not as muscular nor as heavy as his antagonist, he more than made up for it in his quickness and his ability to hit hard. Jerry came up with a rush, and aimed a vicious blow at Jack's face. Jack cleverly dodged it, and countered, landing on Jerry's chin with a force that made the bully see stars. "I'll pay you for that!" he cried. He would have done better to have kept quiet, since he took his attention from Jack's fists, which, in the darkness, were hard enough to see at best. A second later Jerry found his nose stopping a solid blow, straight from the shoulder. "Ow!" yelled Jerry, in spite of himself. Then he clenched with Jack, and the two went at it rough-and-tumble. Jack got in a number of good blows, and Jerry tried his best to get away and deliver some in return. He did manage to punch Jack on the body, causing that worthy's breath to come in gasps. Back and forth went the fighters, the two spectators dancing about to see all they could of it, They kept their word not to interfere, and it was a fair struggle between Jack and Jerry. Though Jack did his best he could not avoid getting some severe blows, and one, on his eye, he felt had done considerable damage. But he more than paid Jerry back for it, and, in a little while the bully was fairly howling for mercy. "Help!" he cried. "He's not fighting fair." "Don't be a baby!" Jerry's friends called to him, somewhat disgusted with his actions. "Give it to him!" Jerry made one more effort to deal Jack a blow that would win the victory, but in his eagerness he lowered his guard. Our hero shot out a swift left, and it landed full on Jerry's chin. He staggered for a second, and then went down in a heap. He was up again in a couple of seconds, not much the worse, but all the fight was gone out of him. He held his head in his hands for a while, and then fairly ran up the dark street, while his two friends, surprised at the sudden outcome of the fight, followed more slowly. "I'll get even with you yet!" Jerry called back. "Well, if you do I still will have the satisfaction of knowing that I trounced you good and proper," Jack said, as he held a cold stone to his bruised eye. Just then, from across the lots there came a hail: "Hey, Jack! Where are you?" "Coming," was Jack's reply. He heard some one running toward him as he began to pick up his coat, and put on his hat. CHAPTER XI A GRAND WIND UP "What's the matter?" demanded John Smith, as he and Nat joined their comrade. "Did you get lost?" asked Nat. "No, only sort of delayed," answered Jack. "What makes you talk so funny?" inquired John. "I expect it's because my lips are swollen," was the reply. "Did some one hold you up and try to rob you?" cried Nat, in alarm. "Well, it was a hold-up, but no robbery," said Jack, and then he related what had happened. "Why didn't you yell for help?" asked John. "We'd have come back." "I didn't need any," replied Jack. "It was a fair fight enough. I guess he'll not forget that one on the chin in a hurry," and he laughed in spite of his swollen lips and blackened eye. "Much damaged?" asked Nat. "I'm afraid I've got a shiner," Jack replied. "They're sure to notice it at the Hall, and what will I say?" "Steal their thunder," advised John. "Let's hurry back, and report at once to the doctor." "Good idea," spoke Jack. They made good time back to the academy, and arrived a little before eleven. "Dr. Mead says I'm to mark down just the time you come in," said Martin, the monitor. "That's right," agreed Jack. "Is the doctor in his study?" "I believe he is." "We want to see him," went on Jack. "Been fighting." said Martin to himself. "My, my! What boys they are! Always into something!" "Come in!" called the head of the Academy in answer to Jack's knock on his door, and the three lads entered. "Ah, Ranger! And Smith and Anderson. Well, what can I do--Ha! Fighting, eh!" and the tone that had been a genial one became stern. "Yes, sir," admitted Jack boldly. "I came to tell you all about it, before you heard a garbled report from some one else." Then he related exactly what had happened, Nat and John confirming what he said. The boys' stories were so evidently true that Dr. Mead could but believe them. "That's enough," he said when Jack had finished. "I believe you. Don't let it--well, there, I don't suppose it was your fault. Fighting is a bad business--but then--well boys, now get to bed. You have plenty of hard work before you go in the next week with all the examinations. Good night!" "Good night!" echoed the lads. "That was the best way out," agreed Jack, when they were in the corridor. "Now I've got to get some vinegar and brown paper for this optic or I'll look a sight to-morrow." Examinations held sway for nearly a week thereafter. But "it's a long lane that has no turning" and, at last there came a time when the boys could say: "To-morrow's the last day of school." The term was at an end, and the whole academy was in a ferment over it. The students were busy packing their belongings, the graduates had already departed, and there was almost as much excitement as at the annual football or baseball games with a rival institution. The night before the day of the closing exercises, Jack's room was a gathering place for all his chums. Fred Kaler was so excited he tried to played a mouth organ, a jews'-harp and a tin flute, all at the same time, with results anything but musical, while Will Slade stuttered as he never had before. "What will we do for a final wind-up?" asked Sam. "Let it be something worthy of the name of Washington Hall," exclaimed Jack. "We ought to work Professors Garlach and Socrat into it somehow," suggested Bony. "They're more fun than a bunch of monkeys." "Get 'em to fight another duel," put in Sam. "They'd suspect something leading up to that," spoke John Smith. "Let's see if we can't make one outdo the other in politeness." suggested Jack. "I have a sort of scheme." "Trot it out!" demanded Sam. "I'll get Garlach to write Socrat a note," said Jack. "Where's the fun in that?" asked Bony. "Then I'll have Socrat send a little missive to Garlach." "What's the answer?" demanded Nat. "Garlach will write in French and Socrat will pen a few lines in German, and I'll tell 'em what to write," Jack went on. "Do you see my drift, as the snow bank said to the wind?" "Good!" exclaimed Sam. "Go ahead." The boys soon got together over the plan, and Jack was given plenty of suggestions to perfect it. He made up a number of sample notes, and then, being satisfied, he announced: "Now I'm going to start in. Just hang around, you fellows, and see what happens." It was about nine o'clock, but as it was the night before the last day of school, hardly any of the teachers or the pupils had thought of going to bed. Jack went to Professor Garlach's room. He found the instructor busy packing up his books preparatory to the vacation. "Ach! It iss young Ranger!" exclaimed the German instructor. "Velcome. Come in. It is goot to see you." "Thanks, Professor," said Jack. "I suppose you are all ready for the long rest?" "Sure I am, Ranger." "Well, we all are. I saw Professor Socrat packing up as I came past." At the mention of the French teacher's name Professor Garlach seemed to bristle up. There was always more or less ill feeling between them on account of their nationalities, but of late it was especially acute. "Ach! Speak not of him!" growled Garlach. "I think he wants to make friends with you," went on Jack, trying not to smile. "In fact he said as much to me. He said he would like to write you a farewell note and apologize for anything that might have given you offense." The German's manner changed. Jack was speaking the truth, though he had been instrumental in bringing the matter about. He had previously paid a visit to Socrat, and, broaching the subject of the cold feeling between the two teachers had suggested that it would be a fine thing if Mr. Socrat would say he was sorry for it, and would do all in his power to heal the breach. It was no easy task to bring this about, but Jack had a winning way with him, and really made the Frenchman believe it was more a favor on his part to apologize than it was of Mr. Garlach to accept it. In the end Professor Socrat had agreed to write a little note to his former enemy. "Only I know not ze Germaine language," he said. "That's all right, I'll do it for you," said Jack. "I can fix it up." "Then write ze note and I sign heem," said the Frenchman. "So he vill my pardon ask, iss it?" inquired Mr. Garlach when Jack had explained to him. "I believe that's his intention. Why can't you two meet out in the chapel and fix things up. Exchange letters so to speak. He's going to write to you in German, and you can write to him in French." "I know not de silly tongue!" grunted Mr. Garlach. "I'll write it for you," Jack said, turning aside his head to conceal a grin. "I'm pretty good at French." "Den you may do so," said Mr. Garlach. "I haf no objections to accepting his apologies, and being friends mit him." "Then here's the note," said Jack, handing over one he had prepared. "Sign it and be in the chapel in ten minutes. Mr. Socrat will be there, and we'll have a sort of farewell service." "Fine!" exclaimed the German. "Und we vill sing 'Der Wacht am Rhein!'" "And maybe the 'Marseilles,' too," added Jack softly as he went to deliver a note written in German to Mr. Socrat. The missives had cost him and the other boys no little thought. "Now, you fellows want to lay low if you expect to see the fun," cautioned Jack to his chums, when he returned and told of his success. "Garlach and Socrat will be here in about ten minutes. There must be only a few of us around. Bony, I'll depend on you to act when I give the signal." "I'll be there," promised Bony. A little later all but a few of the boys had concealed themselves behind benches in the chapel. Jack was out of sight but could see what was going on, A few students stood conversing in one corner. Mr. Socrat was the first to enter. He came in, holding a note in his hand. "It is now zat I prove ze politeness of ze French," he murmured. A moment later Mr. Garlach entered from the other side. "Goot effning, Herr Socrates," he said, with a stiff bow. "Bon jour!" exclaimed Mr. Socrat. "Only, if it pleases you my dear Professor Garlick, my name ees wizout ze final syllable." "Und mine it iss Garla-a-ach, und not like de leek vat you eat!" exclaimed the German. "They're off!" said Jack in a whisper to Sam. "Your pardon!" came from Mr. Socrat. "I am in error. But I have here a note in which I wish to greet you wiz the happiness of parting. It iss in your own language!" "Ach! So! I too have a missive for you," went on Mr. Garlach, somewhat modified. "It iss in your tongue as I belief, but I am not so goot in it as perhaps you are." "It is charming of you," spoke Mr. Socrat, bowing low. The two professors exchanged notes, and then stepped over to a flaring gaslight where they could read them. "Now watch out!" exclaimed Jack. "Ha!" cried the German. "Vas ist dis?" "Pah!" cried Mr. Socrat. "Diable! I am insult!" "Dot Frenchman iss von pig-hog!" came from Mr. Garlach. "See! So I will treat ze writair!" exclaimed Mr. Socrat, tearing the note to shreds and stamping on the pieces. "I vill crush the frog-eater as I do dis letter!" muttered Mr. Garlach, as he twisted the slip of paper into a shapeless mass and tossed it into the air. "Scoundrel!" hissed Mr. Socrat "Vile dog vat you iss!" came from Mr. Garlach. Then, unable to restrain their feelings any longer they rushed at each other. "Ready!" called Jack, and the next instant the lights went out, leaving the chapel in darkness. CHAPTER XII HO! FOR THE WEST! For a few seconds there was the sound of a confused stumbling about. Blows were struck, but they seemed to land on desks and tables. Mingled with them were the murmurs of strong French and German words, and the heavy breathing of the two teachers. Then, as the door at the farther end of the room opened, allowing light from the hall to come in, a voice asked: "What's the matter?' "Matter enough! I am terrible insult!" exclaimed Mr. Socrat from behind a table where he was crouching. "I must be apologized by alretty!" muttered Mr. Garlach, in deep tones. "What is this all about?" demanded Dr. Mead, who had made the first inquiry. "What does it mean?" "Ach! I vill tell you!" spoke the German teacher. "I will leave at once razzer zan stay where he iss!" came from the Frenchman. "Come to my office," said Dr, Mead. "I am afraid it's another of the boys' pranks." The two Instructors, muttering against each other, followed the head of the academy down the corridor. "Now's our chance to sneak!" exclaimed Jack. "Say, it was the best ever!" "What was in the notes that made them so mad?" asked Sam. "Why, the one Garlach got stated that the Germans were a race of thieves and robbers and would never be anything better. Professor Garlach, on the other hand, seemed to have written to his French friend that the latter nation was nothing but a lot of long-legged frog-eaters, who were more ladies than they were men!" "No wonder they went up into the air!" exclaimed Bony Balmore. "It was like a match to gunpowder." "Lucky we could turn the lights out," commented Nat Anderson, "or they'd be fighting yet." "Maybe they will have a duel," suggested John Smith. But in some way Dr. Mead managed to patch matters up. Nor was any punishment visited on the boys. The doctor evidently made allowances for the closing of school, and the consequent slacking of discipline that was bound to occur. The next day, though the French and German professors glared more darkly than usual at each other, there was no reference to the notes. The closing exercises were soon over and then, after a few formal words of farewell for the term from Dr. Mead, Washington Hall was declared closed until the fall. "Whoop!" yelled Jack, as he came with a rush from chapel where the final program had been rendered. "Hold me down, someone!" "I will!" exclaimed Nat, jumping on his chum's back, and bearing him to the earth. "I'll help!" cried several, and soon half a dozen had piled upon Jack, in the middle of the campus. "Down!" he cried, half smothered. "That's enough!" "Fall in line for a grand march!" shouted Fred Kaler, as he tooted on a tin fife. "L-l-M-let m-m-m-me--l-l-l--Pzzant!" spluttered Will. "Let me lead!" "Too late!" cried Sam, as he ran out and got at the head of the impromptu procession. "Came on and get Socrat and Garlach in line!" called Jack. "We'll make 'em march side by side and forget all their troubles." The idea was received with shouts of laughter. Off the lads started on a run for the rooms of the two professors. "Come on!" cried Jack to Mr. Garlach. "Ach! Vat iss it now?" inquired the instructor, vainly struggling against the hold Jack had of him. "You boys vill drive me to distraction!" "Got to take part in the grand march!" went on Jack. Before Mr. Garlach knew what was happening, he found himself being hustled out of his chambers and fairly carried along in a rush of the students. Sam Chalmers had in the meanwhile gone to Professor Socrat's study. "Come on!" he cried. "Take part in the grand salute to the French flag." "La belle France!" cried the teacher. "Vive l' Republic!" "That's the cheese!" fairly shouted Sam. "Hurry up!" And, before Professor Socrat could catch his breath he found himself being hurried along the corridor and out on the campus. "Hurrah for France!" cried a score of voices. "My compliments!" exclaimed Mr. Socrat, bowing low to the assemblage of students. "Long may the German flag wave!" came another cry. "Ach! Dot is goot to mine heart!" said Mr. Garlach. "Zat is an insult to me!" spluttered the Frenchman, as Sam hurried him on. "Don't mind 'em. They don't know what they're saying," was Sam's comment. "Vy do they shout for dot frog-eating nation?" inquired Mr. Garlach of Jack. "Mistake I guess," was the reply. "The boys are not very good on language yet." Then, before either of the instructors could protest, they found themselves side by side, being carried along in a press of students who marched around the academy, singing at the top of their voices, and each one rendering a different air. "Whoop! Isn't this great!" shouted Jack in Nat's ear. "The best ever!" was the answer. "It only happens once in a lifetime!" But all things must have an end, and at last the grand march came to a close. The students fairly outdid themselves, and had to halt every now and then to rest from the combined exertion of laughing and leaping as they paraded. "Three cheers for Washington Hall!" called Jack. The volume of sound was deafening. "Now three for Professor Garlach!" How the boys did yell. The professor looked as pleased as a lad with his first pair of trousers, and bowed low to Mr. Socrat whom he had detected in the act of cheering for him, "Three cheers for Professor Socrat!" yelled Jack. Mr. Garlach joined in the cries for his late enemy, and then the two teachers shook hands, while the boys cheered again. "Now good loud ones for Dr. Mead and all the rest of the teachers!" called Jack, and by this time the cheering habit was so implanted that the lads cheered everything they could think of from vacation to Socker the janitor. Now the crowd began to break up. Several students found they must catch trains, and there were general leave takings. Good-byes were being said on every side, and there were many promises to write letters and keep up new friendships or cement old ones. Jack found so many wanting to bid him farewell for the term that he was kept busy shaking hands, and the number of boys he promised to let hear from him during vacation would have kept two private secretaries busy. Finally, however, matters began to quiet down. Most of the students had left the campus to pack up their belongings while a number had already departed for home. Jack, Nat Anderson and John Smith found themselves alone at least for a few minutes. "Well, this is like old times," said Jack. "Wow!" exclaimed John in true Indian tone. "Heap big time!" "Reminds me of a circus broken loose," commented Nat. "But say, Jack, our train goes in an hour. Are we going to take it or stay over--" "Not on your life!" exclaimed Jack. "Washington Hall will be as lonesome as a desert island in about an hour and I'm off." "I think I'll go also," said John. "Now, about our western trip," put in Nat. "Where will we connect with you. John?" "Well," replied the Indian student. "I am going up to Canada to pay a short visit to some friends of my father's, who were very kind to him before he died. I think I will be with you in a week, and I can come on to Denton." "That will do first-rate," said Nat. "Jack and I will be on the lookout for you. We'll be ready to start in a week, I guess." "The sooner the better for me," put in Jack. "That's so, I forgot you are anxious to solve the mystery of your father's disappearance," Nat said. "Well, perhaps we can hurry a bit." "No, I guess that time will be about right," Jack went on. "I'll have to spend some time with my aunts, and I want to have a talk with Judge Bennett and get some further details. I guess we'll let it stand at a week." "Well, good-bye until then," said John, shaking hands with his two friends, and he was soon on his way to the Rudmore station. The others followed a little later. Several hours' riding found Jack and Nat at Denton. "I wonder if they'll have the brass band out to meet us," suggested Jack. "Perpetual porous plasters! They would if they only knew what a reputation we have achieved!" exclaimed Nat, as the train rolled in. "Hello, there's some of your folks!" "That's so! My three aunts!" cried Jack, as he saw from the window the three maiden ladies with whom he had lived so long. Aunt Mary caught a glimpse of him, and waved her handkerchief, an example that was followed by the other two. The next instant Jack was being hugged and kissed as though he had been away ten years instead of a few months. "We were so afraid the train would be late, or that you wouldn't come until the night one," said Aunt Josephine. "Couldn't think of staying away from you any longer," Jack replied, his eyes a trifle moist as he realized the love his aunts bore toward him, and he hugged and kissed them in turn. "So long!" called Nat, as he walked up the station platform. "I'll see you later. Got to pack for our trip." The next few days were busy ones for Jack. In the first place he had to tell his aunts all about his school experience, that is such parts of it as he thought they might care to hear and this took time. Then he had to see Judge Bennett, and the family lawyer explained further details about Jack's father. Jack also asked the judge for the curious ring, as he thought he might have to use it on his western trip. "You must take good care of it, Jack," the lawyer said. "No telling what may hinge on it." "If anyone gets it away from me he'll have the hardest proposition he ever tackled," Jack said earnestly. In fact our hero was kept so busy, between this, arranging for his trip, and renewing his acquaintances with the town boys, that he was all unprepared when, one day, John Smith rang the door bell. "Well, where in the world did you come from?" asked Jack. "Straight from Canada. Didn't you get my letter?" "By Jove! So I did, but I clean forgot to-day was Friday. Come right in." Jack's aunts graciously received John, whom they welcomed for the part his father had played in the life of Mr. Ranger. It was decided that the Indian student should stay at Jack's house until Monday, when the start for the west was to be made. Jack's aunts had, after an effort, given their consent to his making the western trip. More particularly as they felt it might lead to the discovering of his father. Once they got to this point it was clear sailing and they helped Jack to pack up. There were final instructions from Judge Bennett to Jack. There were good-byes, said over a dozen times, from the aunts. There were farewell calls from a host of boys who envied Jack, Nat and John the experience they were about to have. At last, though it seemed it moved on leaden feet, Monday came, and, at least an hour before train time, the three boys started for the depot. They had valises with them, but their trunks had been sent on ahead. "Bounding buffaloes and copper-colored cowboys!" exclaimed Nat, as the whistle of the train sounded. "Here she comes!" "Well, I'm glad of it," observed Jack. "I was getting tired waiting for it." "It will seem good to get out on a range again," spoke John. "I'm counting on it." "Westward ho!" cried Jack, as he jumped aboard the train, and waved his hand in farewell to his aunts, while the other two boys shook their hats in the air in salute to several lads who had come to see them off. CHAPTER XIII AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE The boys, under the advice of Judge Bennett, had planned to go to Chicago. From there they would take a train on another road, which made connections with the line that would land them in Denver. From Denver they had to change to still another railway to get to Fillmore, the nearest station to Denville. Nat's uncle had promised to meet them there a week from the day they started, since he wanted to allow them plenty of time to get to Colorado, and there were sometimes delays in connecting with trains. From Fillmore the lads were to be driven about twenty miles to where Mr. Kent's ranch was located. He had written to Nat that in case he was not in Fillmore when the boys arrived they were to put up at a hotel and wait for him. Also, in case they missed connections and were late in getting there, he would wait for them. "We want to try and find where Orion Tevis is located," said Jack, "and to do this we will have to go to the Capital Bank in Denver. That may take a little time, as we may have to prove our identity." "Ought to be easy to do that with the rings you and John have," answered Nat, the Indian student having secured his gold circlet from Dr. Mead, who had been keeping it for him. "It may be and it may not," John said. "There are a lot of things mixed up in this affair, and no one can see how it will turn out. But I don't expect any trouble in getting Mr. Tevis's address. The hard part will be to find him." "I'll find him if it's possible," Jack put in. "I want to end my father's wanderings and bring him back with me." "And I'll help all I can, and I know my uncle will, too," said Nat, with ready sympathy. The boys had arranged themselves comfortably in the train, which, by this time, had speeded several miles from Denton. The car was not well filled as it was early and no large cities had been reached. As station after station was passed, however, passengers began to take the seats until the cars were comfortably filled. The boys had taken passage in a through sleeper to Chicago, and got their meals in the dining car ahead. They had supper in Scranton, where the train waited about half an hour to connect with another. As the boys came back to their seats in the sleeper, which had not yet been made up, they saw several new passengers. One was a tall, rather rough looking man, who seemed to have suddenly acquired wealth. His clothes were good but did not fit him well, and he seemed ill at ease in them. There was a big diamond in his shirt front, and he had a heavy gold chain across his vest. "Guess I'm entitled to the best that's goin'," he said in a loud tone as he sat in one seat and put his big feet up in the one opposite. "I've paid for this whole section an' I'm going to use it. I ain't worked hard all my life for nothing. Just sold my share in a coal mine," he said to the boys, whose seats were near his. "Now I'm going to enjoy myself. Going to the 'Windy City'! that's what I am. Got friends in Chicago that'll be glad to see me an' my pile," and he pulled out a big role of bills. "My name's Josh Post, an I'm set in my ways," he added. The boys did not make any answer, but, at the sound of the big man's voice a passenger in the seat ahead of him turned and looked to see who was speaking. As he did so the former mine owner happened to be displaying his money, and the eyes of the other passenger gleamed in a dangerous sort of way. As he turned around to get a glimpse of the miner, Jack got a look at the face of the passenger who had shown such curiosity. The boy started. "Where have I seen him before?" he thought to himself. "I can't seem to place him." Then he leaned over and whispered to Nat. "Make an excuse to go to the end of the car, and on your way back take a look at the man in the first seat." "All right," said Nat, who did not ask the reason. A little later he sauntered to the water cooler. He could hardly repress a start as he passed the man Jack had mentioned. "Know him?" asked Jack, when his chum had regained his seat. "Sure, in spite of his disguise, his new way of wearing his hair, and the fact that he has shaved off his moustache." "Marinello Booghoobally?" asked Jack, in low tones. "Otherwise known as Hemp Smith," whispered Jack. "I wonder what he's up to now." "I shouldn't be surprised if he would like to annex the roll of one Mr. Josh Post," observed Nat. "We'd better keep our eyes pealed. Put John next to the game." Thereupon the Indian student was told the story of the man who had posed as an Oriental mystic and a professor of whatever he thought he could delude people into believing, as it suited his fancy, and netted him cash. "We certainly got the best of him in the haunted house affair," said Jack. "Guess the professor won't tackle another job like that in hurry," and he silently laughed as he thought of the trick (told of in the first volume) the students played on the fakir when a phonograph was used to produce ghostly noises. "Yes, sir, I'm out for a good time," said Mr. Post, as if some one had doubted his word. "Where you boys going?" "Out west," replied Jack, thinking it would do no harm to reply civilly to Mr. Post. "Excuse me for coming into this conversation," spoke Marinello Booghoobally, otherwise Hemp Smith. "I'm going out west myself, and if I can do anything to help you boys or you, Mr. Post, I'll be only too glad to do so." "Help yourself to our money and his too, I guess," murmured Jack. "Well now, that's kind of you, stranger," said Mr. Post, who seemed ready to accept any one as a friend. "What might your name be?" "It might be almost anything I guess," muttered Nat. "Let's hear what he says. I wonder how he got here, anyhow." "I'm Professor Punjab," replied Hemp Smith. "As you can understand by my name I am from East India, but I have been here so long I have acquired some of the habits." "Most of the bad ones," said Jack, under his breath. "What do you work at?" asked Mr. Post. "Work? I do not work," replied the fakir. "I am what you might call a mind reader, a mystic, a foreteller of future events." "Ain't no mesmerizer, are you?" asked Mr. Post. "Yes, I can do that also," replied Professor Punjab. "Shall I give you a sample?" "I'd rather have you give me a sample of your fortune telling," said the miner. "What's going to happen now?" Professor Punjab seemed to go into a deep thought trance. Then he gave a sudden start. "The train is going to stop quickly because there is an obstruction on the track!" he exclaimed. An instant later, to the surprise of the boys, no less than Mr. Post, there was a quick application of the air brakes, so much so that the passengers were nearly thrown from their seats. Then with a grinding and shrieking the train came to a stop. "What did I tell you?" inquired Professor Punjab. "Well I'll be horn-swoggled!" exclaimed Mr. Post. "What's the matter?" asked several travelers. The boys had hurried to the front of the car. They were met by a brakeman. "Don't be alarmed," he said. "There is no danger." "What was the trouble?" asked Jack. "There was some obstruction on the track, a couple of ties, I believe, that fell from a passing flat car," the brakeman explained. "The engineer saw it and stopped just in time." Professor Punjab pulled a book from his pocket and began to read, as if prophesying that trains would suddenly stop was the most natural thing in the world. CHAPTER XIV PROFESSOR PUNJAB'S TRICK "Well, I call that goin' some," spoke Mr. Post. "If you can do that just sitting still I wonder what you can do when you begin moving" "A mere trifle," said Professor Punjab. "I will be pleased to give you a further evidence of my powers later on. But now I am fatigued. I have studied hard to-day on the great mystery of the future life, and I find I must take a little nourishment,--very little. A bit of cracker and a glass of water," and with that he went forward to the dining car. "Yes, I'd just like to see him get along with a cracker and a glass of water," murmured Jack. "I'll bet corned beef and cabbage is more in his line." "But how do you suppose he knew the train was going to stop?" asked Ned speaking aloud. "That looks queer." "He's a wonder, that's what he is," said Mr. Post. "I want to see some more of him," and he got up to go back to the smoking compartment, leaving the three boys alone in the forward part of the car. "Maybe he just made a guess at it," put in John Smith. "I've seen some of our Indian medicine men pretend to prophesy and it turned out they only made good guesses." "Perhaps he did." Nat admitted. Jack had moved over to the seat vacated by Professor Punjab. He pressed his face close to the window and looked ahead. As he did so he uttered an exclamation. "Come here, John and Nat!" he said in a low tone. "This will explain how it was done." The two boys took turns looking from the window. "See it?" asked Jack. "Sure!" they chorused. "We were just rounding that curve," Jack went on. "He happened to look from the window and he saw the ties on the track. Any one could as the electric light from that freight station is right over them. He knew the engineer would stop in a hurry, and, sure enough, he did. It's easy when you know how, isn't it?" "But it certainly was strange enough when he made that statement, and then to have the train slack up," spoke Nat. "I was beginning to believe that, maybe, after all, he had some strange power." "He's a fakir clear through," was Jack's opinion. "You wait a bit and you'll see him try some trick on this miner. He's after his money." "We ought to put a stop to that," said Nat, "Galloping greenbacks! But we don't want to see the man robbed, even if he isn't as nice and polite as he might be." "And we'll not, either," remarked Jack. "We'll be on the lookout, and maybe we can make Professor Hemp Smith Punjab wish he hadn't traveled on this line." The ties on the track were soon cleared away and the train resumed its journey. The porter came in to make up the berths, and while this was being done the three boys had to take seats in other sections of the car. In the meanwhile Professor Punjab returned. He was picking his teeth as though he had dined more substantially than on a mere wafer and a sip of water. "You boys going far?" he asked. "Quite a way," replied Jack in a low voice. He was afraid the former experience the man had passed through might be recalled to him if he heard the voices of the students, and so did not use his natural tones. But Professor Punjab did not seem at all suspicious. Besides he had never had a good look at the boys, and there was so much talking going on the time they played the trick on him it is doubtful if he remembered any one's voice. "Where are you from?" the fakir asked next, but Jack was spared the necessity of replying by the return of Mr. Post from the smoking compartment. "Well, well, Professor," the miner said, "that certainly was a slick trick of yours. Haven't any more of 'em up your sleeve, have you?" "That was no trick," returned the "professor" in an injured tone. "I do not descend to tricks. If I am gifted with certain powers I must use them. I can not help myself. There is something within me--some spirit--that moves me. I saw that the train would have to stop and I had to announce it." "You bet you saw it all right," muttered Jack. "So could any one else who had been sitting in your seat. It was easy." "No offense, no offense, Professor," muttered Mr. Post, seeing he had made a mistake. "I'm much interested in this thing." "I welcome real interest in my work," the fakir went on, "I will be happy to illustrate matters to you as far as my poor talents enable me to. You have perhaps heard of the celebrated Indian manifestation of making a plant grow in a few hours?" "Not guilty," said Mr. Post solemnly. "Then these young gentlemen have," the professor went on, turning to the three boys. Jack nodded silently. "It is a strange power that we mystics have over the forces of nature," the pretended philosopher went on. "We have but to plant a seed in the soil, and, lo! a plant bearing fruit shoots up." "That would be a good thing to sell to farmers," said Mr. Post. "It can not be sold. Only an adept can perform it," said Professor Punjab. "I would do it for you, only the conditions are not just right here. But I can, perhaps, show you something you probably never saw before." With a flourish he drew from his pocket a large black handkerchief. This he shook to show there was nothing in it. He spread it over his extended left arm, which was crooked at the elbow. Then he placed his right hand under it, and brought out a large orange. "Well I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Mr. Post. "Ain't got any more of 'em there, have you, Professor?" "There is only one," was the reply, as the man returned the handkerchief to his pocket and passed the orange to Mr. Post. "It is difficult to produce one, I assure you." "Not when you have them concealed in your coat, where you probably put it when you were in the dining car," was Jack's comment, made to himself. "Well you're a wonder," exclaimed the miner. "I'd like to take lessons off you." "I can impart the secrets to only those of the inner circle," said the professor, with an air of great wisdom. "But I am allowed to show those who appreciate my doings some of the workings of my art. Perhaps you would like to see a little more of what I am able to do." "I sure would," replied Mr. Post. "What I am about to do," Professor Punjab went on, "is so remarkable that I am allowed to show it to but one person at a time. Therefore I invite you, Mr. Post, into the smoking compartment with me. Later I will be glad to show my young friends, one at a time." "Not any for mine," muttered Jack, as the miner, who was much interested in what he had seen, followed the fakir to the compartment he had recently left. "I wonder what he's up to," said Nat, when the two were out of hearing. "Something crooked, on the professor's part, you can make up your mind," Jack answered. "Let's find out what it is," suggested Nat. "How?" inquired Jack. "I think I can manage it," put in John Smith. "I have very good hearing, and I can move around easily. Suppose I go and hide near the compartment. Maybe I can hear what they say." "Good!" exclaimed Jack. "Then you come back and tell us, and we'll see what we can do in the way of tricks." John put on a pair of moccasins he had in his valise, and moved through the aisle, now completely hemmed in with the curtains from the various berths. The other boys began to undress within their narrow sections but they did not take off all their clothes, so as to be in readiness for whatever should happen. Jack managed to get into an unoccupied berth next to the smoking compartment. By placing his ears to the partition he could just distinguish what the professor was saying to Mr. Post. "Well, that's about the limit!" John exclaimed softly to himself. "I think we can spoil that proposition for him." Having learned all he wanted to know, the Indian lad returned to his friends. "Professor Punjab is planning to get possession of the miner's money," he said in whispers, as the three boys held an impromptu conference in the lavatory, where Nat and Jack had gone to clean their teeth before retiring. "How's he going to do it?" asked Jack. "He has told Mr. Post that he has the power of making money increase over night," John explained. "He says if a certain sum is put in a mysterious box which he has, it will be doubled in the morning." "And the miner believed him?" asked Jack. "Sure. He agreed to put his roll in the box the fakir has, and it is to be placed under Mr. Post's berth. He is not to open it until morning." "And when he does it will be full of brown paper," said Jack. "I've read about such tricks." "It won't if we can help it," put in Nat. "I guess here is where we get busy." The boys held a further conference and agreed on a plan of action. They went back to their berths, and, a little later, they heard the fake professor and Mr. Post coming back from the smoking room. "Do I put it at the head or foot?" they heard the miner ask. "At the foot," replied the plotter. "So he can get it easier," muttered Jack. Nat's berth was right opposite that of Mr. Post, so it was arranged he was to do the main work. In a little while the sleeping car became a quiet place, and deep breathing from one berth after another told that the occupants were slumbering soundly. Pretty soon Nat heard a snore from the berth of the miner. "I'd better do it now, before Professor Punjab gets busy," he thought. Then with his umbrella, which had a crook for a handle, Nat reached out between the curtains and began to feel around under Mr. Post's bed for the box. He had to work cautiously, but at length his efforts were rewarded. He felt the umbrella crook fasten on the object, and he pulled it across the aisle toward him. When it was near enough he reached his hand down and took it up into his berth. "Have you got it?" asked Jack in a whisper from the next sleeping compartment. "Sure," replied Nat "Take out the money and put in our messages," Jack added, and Nat did so. Then he placed the box back where he had found it. In a short time the three boys, who were watching from behind their berth-curtains, saw a hand protrude from beneath the hangings around Professor Punjab's bed. The hand felt around a bit, and then went under Mr. Post's berth. In a few seconds it came out and the box was in it. A moment later it moved back again, and seemed to replace the box. "That's where he put a dummy in place of what he thinks is the one with the bills in," thought Nat, who was watching closely. "He'll skip out soon, I guess." His conjecture was right. A few minutes later Professor Punjab, who had not undressed, stole from his berth and walked softly to the end of the car. "I wonder if he'll jump off," thought Nat. But the fakir had no such intentions. The train began to slacken speed, as he probably knew it would, having to stop at a station, which fact he could ascertain by consulting a time-table. The cars came to a halt, with a grinding noise of the brakes, and Nat leaned over toward the window of his berth. He could see the station platform, and caught a glimpse of Professor Punjab as he jumped from the sleeper. Then, while the boy watched, the fakir opened the box he had in his hand. All he pulled out were three cards, on which were written the names of the three boys. "Fooled!" exclaimed Nat as the train started off leaving the professor, a picture of rage, on the platform. CHAPTER XV SHOOTING AN OIL WELL The professor made a move as though he was about to jump back on the train, but evidently thought better of it. He gave another look at the cards, and then put them into his pocket. "Looks as if he wanted to remember us," thought Nat. By that time the train moved so far ahead that the professor was no longer to be seen. "How about it?" asked Jack, sticking his head through his curtains over toward Ned's berth. "He was mad enough to bite a ten-penny nail in two," said Nat. "Did he find out he was fooled?" asked Jack, who had not been able to see the fakir from the car window. "I guess yes," spoke Nat, and he told Jack the details, which were related to John, who was in the berth beyond. "Had we better tell Mr. Post?" asked Nat. "Wait until morning," suggested Jack. "Keep the money safe though." "Right you are," came from Nat, and then the three boys quieted down and went to bed, though it was some time before they fell asleep, so full of excitement were they. They awoke early, and, without dressing kept watch on the berth where Mr. Post was sleeping. They thought he would soon awaken to see if his money had increased as he had foolishly taken the fakir's word that it would. It was hardly daylight before the boys saw a hand emerge from the miner's berth and grope under his bed. "Where is it?" they heard Mr. Post mutter. Then, as his fingers closed on the box which Professor Punjab had put in place of the one the miner had originally left, they could hear him exclaim: "Here's where I double my money!" About three seconds later there arose such a yell from Mr. Post's berth that the porter came running from his quarters in alarm. "Who's bin done committed murder?" the darky demanded. "Murder!" exclaimed Mr. Post. "I'll murder some one, that's what I will! Look out! I'm a bad man when I'm mad, and I'm mad clear through now!" "What's de matter?" asked the frightened negro. "Who done sumfin to yo', boss?" "Matter?" cried the miner. "I've been robbed, that's what's the matter. Did you take my money, you black rascal?" and Mr. Post leaped from his berth and made a jump for the porter. Just as he grabbed the negro by his kinky wool the conductor, who had been asleep in his berth, emerged. He was struck squarely by the porter, and the two went down in a heap in the aisle, with Mr. Post on top of them. "What's this all about?" inquired the conductor, as soon as matters had quieted down a bit. "I've been robbed, that's all," replied Mr. Post, who had partly dressed. "Tell me about it," demanded the conductor, and then the miner, realizing that he had been a bit foolish, explained the circumstances. "Serves you right for trusting a stranger," said the conductor. "But he said he was able to double my cash," protested Mr. Post. "I've got to have it back. It will ruin me to lose it." "Here it is," said Nat, who, with the other boys, had donned his clothes. He thought matters had gone far enough. "We had it for safe keeping," he explained. "Well douse my safety lamp! Where did you get it?" asked Mr. Post, his eyes big with wonder. Nat explained briefly, telling how he and his chums had watched Professor Punjab, and had fooled him. "Say, you boys are all to the good!" exclaimed the miner. "Saved my money for me, that's what you did. I didn't know I could be so foolish until I tried. Well, it will take a slick one to beat me again." Mr. Post began counting over his roll. Meanwhile the other passengers had gathered around, and the story became generally known. "Smart lads, them," commented an elderly man. "Ought to get a reward." "And that's what they will, too," put in the miner, overhearing the words. "Nobody can say Josh Post forgot a good action. Here's a couple of hundred for you." "No, thanks," said Nat firmly, and his companions shook their heads. "We can't take money for that. Besides, it was pay enough to fool the professor. We've had dealings with him before." Mr. Post tried to force the money on the boys, but they refused to listen to him, and he finally understood that there was a higher standard than cash to repay kindness. "Then shake hands!" he cried heartily, and the boys were almost sorry they consented, for the miner's grip was anything but a light one. However, he showed how much in earnest he was. "I'll never forget you boys," he said. "Josh Post never forgets a favor, and if ever you want a friend just you call on me." The boys thought little of this at the time, but there was an occasion when they remembered it and profited by it. The excitement over, the boys went to breakfast. Mr. Post insisted on going with them, and in fact he did not seem to want the boys out of his sight. He was continually referring to his narrow escape at the hands of the fake professor. The boys got to like him better as the hours passed, for he showed that he had a good heart, beneath a rather rough and repelling exterior. At noon the train arrived at the center of the Pennsylvania oil region. The evidences of the great industry were on every hand, and the sight of the tall derricks, the refineries, the storage tanks, and the pipes where natural gas was continually burning, were such interesting ones that the lads never grew tired of looking from the windows. They delayed longer than usual at a small station, and some of the passengers going out to see what the trouble was, reported that the locomotive had broken down and that it would take three hours to repair it. "Here's a chance to get out and see the country," suggested Jack. "What do you say?" "Fine," replied John. "I've always wanted to see an oil well." "Any objection to me going along?" asked Mr. Post, who had overheard the talk. "Guess not," replied Nat heartily. "Come along." The four had no sooner alighted from the train than a roughly-dressed man rushed up to the miner, grasped him by the hand, clapped him on the back with a sound like a small explosion, and exclaimed: "Don't tell me this is Josh Post!" "All right, Jim Baker, then I'll not do anything of the sort if you don't want me to," was the answer. "Well land of living! Where'd you come from?" asked Jim Baker. "Where you going?" demanded Mr. Post, not answering. "Going to do what I've been doing for the last ten years," was the reply. "Shoot a well." "So you're not dead yet?" asked Mr. Post. "The day isn't over," was the answer, "and I've got two big holes to drop the go-devil down." Then the two friends began to discuss old times with a vengeance, until the miner, suddenly remembering himself called a halt and cried: "Jim Baker, let me introduce you to three of the best friends I got. They saved a fool from being parted from his money," and, introducing the boys he explained what he meant. "You'd better get a nurse," said Mr. Baker sarcastically as his friend finished. "I've put an advertisement in for one. Got to be a good one though, to keep me straight." "Do you really shoot oil wells, with nitroglycerine, the way I've read about?" asked John Smith of Mr. Baker. "I sure do, son. Want to see me?" "I would like to, very much." "Excuse me," put in Mr. Post. "I think I hear some one calling me," and he made as if to hurry away. "There's not a bit of danger," called Mr. Baker. "Hold on, Josh, better come along." "Guarantee you'll not blow us up?" "Sure I will." "What, give the guarantee or blow us up?" asked Jack with a laugh. "I guess Josh knows he can trust me," said the well-shooter. "Now if you want to come along I've got room in the wagon, and the first well is only about a mile out. You'll have time to see it before they get the engine fixed." The boys at once decided they would go. It was a new experience, and, though they realized the danger, they felt comparatively safe with Mr. Baker. "I'll bring the wagon right around," said the shooter. "Wait here." In a few minutes he reappeared with a big two horse vehicle, containing two wide seats. "Get aboard!" he called, and the boys and Mr. Post scrambled up. The horses started off slowly, Mr. Baker driving, and they turned from the single street of the little village and emerged into a country road. Arriving at the well which was to be shot the boys saw a number of men. They had just finished using the borer, and had gone down a number of hundred feet without striking oil. It was, therefore, decided to "shoot it," that is, tin cylinders, containing in all about two hundred pounds of nitro-glycerine, were to be lowered into the hole, one on top of the other. Then a heavy cylindrical weight was to be dropped down on them. The concussion would set off the explosive. The powerful stuff, it was expected, would blow a hole down through the sand and rock, and release the imprisoned oil. Mr. Baker lost no time in getting to work. Carefully as though he was handling eggs, he lowered the tins of nitro-glycerine into the deep but narrow hole. The boys, as well as Mr. Post and the workmen, had moved a safe distance away. The final arrangements were made, and then all was in readiness for dropping the "go-devil," as it is termed. Mr. Baker gave a last look around to see that all were far enough back. Then, with a wave of his hand he stooped over the hole. The next instant he was running like a deer. "He's dropped it!" exclaimed Mr. Post. "Watch it now!" It seemed as if the running man would never get to a place of safety. The boys watched with their hearts in their mouths. Suddenly there sounded a subdued roar. Then came a curious trembling of the earth, a shaking of the solid ground. Two seconds later there spouted from the hole a column of black liquid that seemed to envelope the derrick which had not been taken down. At the same time there was a roaring, whistling noise. Suddenly Mr. Post, who was watching the spouting well, shouted: "Run boys! Run for your lives! Follow me!" CHAPTER XVI MR. POST'S ADVENTURE For an instant Jack Ranger and his two comrades did not realize what Mr. Post was saying. They could see no danger near them. "What's the matter?" asked Nat. "Don't stop to ask questions! Run! Run! Run!" yelled the miner. The boys needed no further urging, but set off at top speed after Mr. Post. He halted his run to allow the boys to catch up to him. Then, as he gave a glance backward, he yelled: "Too late! Duck!" The boys found themselves being pushed forward. They stumbled and fell, and it seemed as if some heavy weight toppled on top of them. Then came an explosion that sounded like a thirteen-inch gun being set off close to their ears. They were stunned by the shock and frightened half out of their wits by the unknown terror. An instant later it was as if the sky was raining gravel, stones and sand. "You can get up now," Jack heard Mr. Post saying. "That was about as narrow a squeak as I ever had, and I've been in some pretty tight places." "What's it all about?" asked John Smith, as he rose and began brushing the dirt from his hair. "That's what I want to know," put in Jack. "Snooping sand fleas! But I feel as if I had been digging a tunnel!" cried Nat. "Mighty lucky you didn't get blown down into one, or an oil hole," said Mr. Post. "Anybody hurt?" asked Mr. Baker, running up at that moment. "My! I thought you'd all be killed!" "More good luck than good management that we weren't," replied the miner. "How could you do it, Jim?" "First time I ever was so careless," replied the well-shooter. "You can bet it'll never happen again." "What was it?" asked Nat. "Just an explosion of about twenty pounds of nitro-glycerine about as close to us as I ever care to have it," said Mr. Post. "Yes, and if it hadn't been for Josh, I don't know where you boys would be now," put in Mr. Baker. "He saved your lives, all right. That's what he did." "It wasn't anything," the miner interposed. "You see." he went on, "Jim sort of got careless and left one of his cans of nitro-glycerine lying on the ground. I didn't notice it, and I guess he didn't either, until he shot the well. Then, when I saw the shower of rock and stones, shooting up with the oil, and bearing right over toward where the can of juice lay, I figured out there was going to be trouble. That's why I yelled to you to run. "I knew if any stones fell and hit that can we had a first-class passage to kingdom come all bought and paid for, with through tickets. I could see a lot of stones hurling up in the air, and I knew, there wasn't anything to stop them from coming down. And the majority of them were headed right for that can of death and destruction." "That's all right, as far as it goes," said Mr. Baker, when the miner had ceased. "But he hasn't told you all. When Josh saw there was going to be an eruption, then and there, for one big stone was almost on top of the can, he just shoved you boys ahead of him, and then fell on you to shield you with his body. That's what I call being a hero." "Hi! You drop that!" exclaimed Mr. Post, making a grab for his old friend. "I didn't do any more than any one would have done. It was all your fault, anyhow, Jim Baker." "I know it was," admitted Mr. Baker, in contrite tones. "But that don't alter what I said, Josh." "Well if I ever hear you making any remarks about it, I'll inform the oil well authorities how careless you're getting and you'll lose your job," put in the miner. "Now I reckon you boys have seen enough for one day." "Well, I guess we have," said Jack. "Besides our train will leave pretty soon." By this time quite a number of oil workers had gathered around. There was considerable excitement, as it had been rumored a number were killed. As soon as matters quieted down men began attending to the oil well, which was spouting away at a lively rate, the thick oil running in many directions. The hole was piped, and then the stream of crude petroleum was turned into a channel whence it flowed into a reservoir. It had been a successful shooting. As they walked back to the wagon, having brushed the dirt from their clothes, the boys saw a big hole in the ground, not far from where Mr. Post had protected them from injury by sending them on the run out of danger. "What did that come from?" asked Nat. "Nitro-glycerine," replied Mr. Baker. "The juice is powerful stuff." The boys agreed with him. "Call in and see me any time you're in this direction," said the well-shooter, as he shook hands at parting with Mr. Post and the boys. "I will," replied the miner, "when you've gone into the grocery business or taken an agency for a life insurance company. Otherwise it's too risky." When the travelers got back to the station they found the engineer putting the finishing touches to the repairs he and the fireman had been making. The train was about to start. "Where have you been?" asked the conductor as the boys and the miner got aboard. "We've been having a race with death and it nearly won," replied Mr. Post, more solemnly than he had yet spoken. "What's the matter with him? Is he one of those religious fanatics?" asked the conductor, as the miner hurried into the car. "Not much," answered Jack. "We had as narrow a call as I ever want to experience." While the train was getting under way he told the ticket-taker what had happened. The next stop of importance which was reached early the next morning was at Cleveland, and there the boys learned they would have to wait seven hours for another train, as there had been some change in the schedules. "Couldn't be better," said Mr. Post, when he heard about it. "I've always wanted to see a big body of water and here's my chance. What do you boys say to a trip out on Lake Erie? The trolleys go there, I heard a brakeman say." The three chums, who had learned to like their new acquaintance more and more, thought it would be a fine trip to pass away the time. Accordingly after dinner, they boarded an electric car which took them in the direction of the lake. "Shall we go inside or ride on the platform?" asked the miner, as he paid the fares. "Let's stay outside," suggested Nat. "Tumbling trolley cars! But this is quite a town. Let's see all we can." So the four remained on the rear platform. It was not crowded, but, in a little while a number of men got on. The boys and Mr. Post were obliged to move back into the corner. Still they could see well from there. One of the men who was standing close to the miner was smoking a large cigar. He seemed particular of the ashes, and appeared to be trying for a record in the matter of the length of them. They extended from the burned part of the rolled tobacco more than an inch, and at every lurch of the car, the smoker was quite solicitous lest they be knocked off. At length the man standing in front of him jostled against him, as the car gave a sudden jerk. The ashes flew in a shower over Mr. Post, who was standing directly behind the smoker. "What's the matter with you? Don't you know how to ride on a car?" demanded the man with the cigar, of the one who had jostled him. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said the other humbly. "It was not intentional, I assure you." "You're a clumsy fellow," the other went on, in a loud voice. "Look here; you've made me knock ashes all over this gentleman," and he turned to Mr. Post. "That's all right," the miner said pleasantly, for he felt sorry for the other man. "He couldn't help it." "He ought to be made to help it," the smoker went on, as if very indignant. "People who don't know how to ride on cars ought to keep off. I shall write a letter to the papers about it. Allow me to dust the ashes off your vest." The man drew from his pocket a large white handkerchief, with which he began wiping the cigar ashes from Mr. Post's clothing. "Awfully careless of me, too," he murmured. "Hope you take no offense." "Not at all," the miner was saying. "It was all an accident, I'm sure. You--" Then, the miner's tone, which had been mild, suddenly changed. He made a grab for the hand of the young man who was dusting his vest off, and cried: "No, you don't, you scoundrel! Now I see what your game is! Let go my diamond pin or I'll shoot you!" and he made a motion toward his pocket, while the other passengers on the platform made hasty movements to get off. CHAPTER XVII THE WILD STEER Mr. Post had the cigar smoker tightly by the wrist. The young man tried to break away, but as there were other persons between him and the car steps he was hemmed in. He made a rapid motion toward the passenger whom he had so berated for jostling him. "Ah, I thought so!" exclaimed the gray-haired man, who had remained a quiet spectator of the excitement. "It's about time I took a hand in the game." He made a rapid motion, intercepted the hand of the smoker which had been extended to the original cause of the disturbance, and grabbing something from it said: "There's your diamond, stranger. Take care of it until I put the nippers on these thieves!" The gray-haired man tried to edge his way around the crowd to get close to the two men who seemed to be the principal actors in the adventure. As he did so, the man who had been smoking--making a flying leap over the back platform railing, darted up the street. At the same time the man who had been accused of causing the cigar ashes to scatter over Mr. Post's vest, slipped from the steps and made a hurried run for the sidewalk. "After him, some one!" cried the gray-haired man. "I'll get the other chap. He's the main one. The other is only a confederate," and he was off in a trice. The car did not stop, though several men, understanding what it was all about, called the conductor. "Can't delay," replied the knight of the bell-rope. "If you want to see the fun, get off. Pickpockets are too common to stop the car for." "Well, I reckon I blocked his game that time," said Mr. Post, as he looked at the diamond which had lately adorned his shirt front. "I don't read the newspapers for nothing, and they'll find Josh Post is hard to beat." "What did he do to you?" asked some of the passengers. "Tried to frisk me out of my sparkler," replied the miner. "It's a new way of working an old trick, but I read about it in a New York paper last week." "How did he do it?" asked Jack. "There were two of 'em," Mr. Post went on. "That fellow had his cigar, with lots of ashes on it, already for me. Then the other fellow bunked into him, and he flicked the ashes on me. Of course he made a play to pretend it was the other fellow's fault, and he started to brush me off. But while he was doing it with his big handkerchief, he was taking out my diamond. I caught him just in time." "But who was the man who chased him, and gave you back your diamond?" asked Jack. "Detective, I reckon," replied the miner. "They're often riding on the cars on the lookout for just such things as that." "That's who he was," the conductor explained. "There's been a lot of pickpockets here lately, and the detectives are riding back and forth all day. Hope he catches that fellow." "Don't worry me any," said Mr. Post "I've got my diamond back," and he placed the sparkling stone in his pocket for safe keeping. Whether the detective ever caught the slick thief the boys never learned. They made the trip out to Lake Erie, and when they had looked at the big body of water and taken a short trip in a launch they returned to the station to find it was nearly the hour set for the departure of their train. "Things seem to be coming our way," remarked Mr. Post after they had been riding half an hour. "We've had lively times since we met, boys. But I'll have to leave you in Chicago." "Perhaps we'll see you again," said Nat. "Have you ever been out west?" "In my younger days," replied the miner. "I had a friend once named Travers--um--no--that wasn't exactly his name either. Travis-- Trellis--Tennis--" "Tevis!" exclaimed Jack, struck by a sudden inspiration. "That's it!" cried Mr. Post. "I knew it was something that sounded like a grape vine. He and I used--" But what Mr. Tevis, or Trellis, used to do was not told then, for a second later there sounded a grinding crash and every one in the car was thrown from his seat while above the sound of hissing steam arose the shrill cries of several women. "Wreck!" yelled Mr. Post, struggling to his feet and starting up the aisle of the car, which was tilted at a steep angle. "We've hit something!" By this time, most of the other passengers, who had been thrown here and there, had extricated themselves from more or less undignified positions. There were anxious inquiries on every side, and a number of women fainted. For a while there was a lot of excitement, one lady going into hysterics at the sight of the bloody hand of a man, who was cut by a broken window. Mr. Post had hurried from the car. He came back in a little while, just as the boys, who were feeling themselves to discover if any bones were broken, had made up their minds to follow him and learn what the trouble was. "What is it?" half a dozen asked the miner. "We side-swiped a freight car," was the answer. "Side-swiped?" inquired John Smith, who was not so well up on Americanisms as the others. "Why a car projected over the end of a switch," explained Mr. Post. "Our train came along full tilt, and the engine hit it a glancin' blow, or a side-swipe, as the railroad men call it." "Much damage?" asked an elderly gentleman. "Well, they can't use that freight car without sendin' it to the hospital," replied Mr. Post, with a smile. "And our engine suffered minor bruises and contusions, as the papers say when a man is hurt. I reckon we'll be delayed a bit and it's somethin' I didn't count on." Mr. Post looked at his watch, and then consulted some papers he took from a big wallet. "I've got to be in Chicago at five o'clock to-morrow night," he said to the boys, "and at the rate we've been delayed I'm going to be late. It will mean a big loss to me, too, for I counted on putting a deal through with a friend of mine, Lemuel Liggins. He's to meet me in the stock yards. I don't suppose you boys are in any great rush, are you?" "Well," remarked Jack, "it doesn't make any great difference when we arrive, but we're supposed to be in Denville at a certain time. A little delay more or less will not hurt us, but I have something to do in Denver, and I may need more time than I'm likely to get now." "Then I'll tell you what I'm going to do," said Mr. Post, "I'm going to transfer to another line." "Then we'll do the same," said Jack. The Chicago train on the other line was on time, and the four passengers boarded it and were soon being pulled toward the great city of the Lakes with more comfort than they had experienced on the other train. "Ever see the Chicago stock yards?" asked Mr. Post, as they pulled out of the last station before reaching the big city. "It's a sight worth looking at," and he went on as the three chums admitted they had not. "I may not get a chance to show 'em to you, but if you want to you can get out there with me, and look at 'em on your own hook. Then you can go into the city." The lads decided this would be a good plan, and arranged to have their baggage go to a hotel where they were to stop over night. Mr. Post prevailed on the conductor to stop the train at a way station, close to the stock yards, and, when this was reached, he and the three boys alighted. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and Mr. Post found he was a little ahead of time. He hired a two-seated carriage in which he and the boys drove to where he was to meet Mr. Liggins. Soon after leaving the way station the boys were aware of a curious roaring sound that filled the air. It sounded like distant thunder. "What is it?" asked Jack. "It's the cattle in the stock yards," said Mr. Post. "There's thousands of 'em, and they keep that noise up all the while. Look ahead, and you can see some of the pens." The boys looked. In a net work of railroad tracks they saw fenced-in yards that seemed filled with a living brown mass. From them came impatient bellows and a shuffling, stamping sound, that told of the movement of innumerable cows and steers. "Drive over that way," said Mr. Post to the coachman. "That's where Lem said he'd meet me." They were now in the midst of the stock yards. The pens extended on every side, and the strong odor of the cattle, the noise and seeming confusion, the tooting of engine whistles, the puffing of locomotives, the movement of trains, and the wild notes of the imprisoned animals made a scene the boys never forgot. "There's my man!" exclaimed Mr. Post. "Hello, Lem! I'm right on time!" "So I see," remarked a tall lanky individual, who was standing near what seemed to be a small office in the midst of the stock yards. "A little ahead. It's only half past four." "Everything all right?" asked Mr. Post. "Sure thing. Who are your friends? Come along to see fair play?" "Some boys who are going out west," replied Mr. Post. "Now let's get down to business. Excuse me for awhile, boys. Make yourselves to home, and I'll be with you after a bit. Look around all you like." Mr. Post and his friend Lemuel Liggins retired into the small office. The boys alighted from the carriage, which drew up under a shed, and then the lads began to take in the various strange sights about them. "I didn't suppose there were so many cows and steers in all the world," said Jack. "Galloping grasshoppers! Neither did I," admitted Nat. "You've just begun to see the west," said John Smith. "It's a great place, and a big place." "Well, we're likely to see some of it in the next few weeks," said Nat. "I reckon Colorado is a good place to get a wide view from." "None better," admitted John. "It has a fine climate, and when we get there--" At that instant the attention of the boys was attracted by a loud shouting behind them. They turned, to see a crowd of men and boys running after a big brown animal. "One of the cows has got loose," said Nat. "Cows?" exclaimed John. "It's one of the wild steers, and it looks like a dangerous one. Better duck for cover." With a bellow the steer, which had broken from one of the pens, made straight for the boys. In close chase came the crowd. Suddenly the pursuing party throng parted, and, with a yell, a horseman, waving a lasso above his head, galloped after the beast. He was close to him when the steer, which was near the small office where Mr. Post and his friend were, turned sharply and darted off to the right. The horse man, at that instant had made a throw, but the rope went wild, and, a second later, trying to turn his horse quickly the steed stumbled and fell. The steer, with a mad bellow, turned around and started back for the crowd, that had halted. With lowered head, armed with long, sweeping, sharp horns, the angry animal leaped forward. CHAPTER XVIII THE OLD STOCKMAN "Someone will get hurt!" cried Jack. "Here, hold my coat and hat!" exclaimed John, as he thrust those articles of wearing apparel into Nat's hands. "What are you going to do?" asked Jack. "I'm going to rope that steer!" yelled the Indian lad. He ran to where the cattleman had fallen from his horse. The rider's leg was caught, and when he tried to stand, as John helped him up, it was seen that it was broken. "Is the horse a fast one?" John asked, pulling in the lariat, and coiling it. "He sure is," was the answer, while the man stretched out on the ground to wait for aid, which was on the way. A moment later John had mounted the horse and was off on a gallop after the steer, which was circling around in a wild endeavor to escape into the open. It's wild bellows were producing a panic among the other animals, that were dashing about in the pens, in imminent danger of knocking the sides down. As John, who seemed to be perfectly at home in the saddle, rode at the animal, it gave a snort and dashed off down a railroad track. Just ahead of it a freight train was coming, but the steer did not see it, as it dashed on, with lowered head. Straight down the track after the steer, raced John, urging the horse to top speed. Above his head swung the lasso, which the boy handled almost with the skill of a veteran. "Come back!" yelled Mr. Post. "Don't you see the train?" Evidently John did see, but he was not going to stop. He realized that unless he stopped the maddened steer it would dash ahead on into the locomotive. While it could not do the ponderous machine any harm, there was every chance of derailing it, if the wheels ground over the lifeless body, and a wreck might follow. "He's a plucky fellow!" exclaimed the cattleman, as some of his friends came to carry him to a place where his injured leg could be set. The pony John was riding entered into the spirit of the race. It was work for which he had been trained, and, though chasing after wild steers down a railroad track was not like doing it out on the plains, it was "all in the day's work." With nimble feet the pony leaped from tie to tie, on and on and on after the maddened brute. The engineer of the freight was blowing the whistle in frantic toots to warn the steer from the track, but the animal did not heed. "He'll never make it," exclaimed Jack. "Timbuctoo and turntables!" cried Nat. "He's a brave one. Never knew he could ride like that." John dug his heels into the pony's side to urge it to another burst of speed. Then, with a shout, he whirled the lasso in ever widening circles about his head. Suddenly he sent it whirling straight ahead. Like a thin snake the rope hissed forward, and then fell in coils about the neck of the steer. John had taken a turn or two about the pommel of the saddle, and, true to its training, the little pony settled back on its haunches. The next instant it seemed as if the steer had met a cyclone. It went down in a heap, a wild mixture of horns and flying hoofs. And, not a second too soon, for, as it rolled from the track, being fairly snatched from the rails by the taut-ness of the rope, the train came gliding up, though under reduced speed, and severed the lariat. Then John, with a motion of his wrist, guided the pony from the path to the train, which the engineer was doing his best to bring to a stop. The boy and steed easily got out of the way, and then, turning the pony, John rode to where he had left his companions. The steer, all the desire for fight gone, stood dejectedly beside the track, and a number of men, who had hurried up, took charge of it. [Illustration: IT SEEMED AS IF THE STEER HAD MET A CYCLONE-Page 154] "Say, that was the best bit of work I ever saw done!" commented Mr. Post, as he came from the office where he and Mr. Liggins had been talking. "I watched you through the window. Put it there, pardner," and he extended his hand, which John grasped. "Where'd you learn to ride, young man?" asked Mr. Liggins, in business-like tones. "Some of my Indian relatives taught me," replied John modestly, as he dismounted. "I'm not very good at it though. Haven't had any practice." "You don't need it!" exclaimed Mr. Liggins. "Say, young fellow, I'd like to hire you. I need you out here. We have accidents like this every day, only not so sensational, and if you can save a steer that way once in a while you'd more than earn your salary." "Much obliged," John said, "but I can't take your offer." "Why didn't you tell us you could rope a steer and handle a cow pony?" inquired Jack, "You never asked me," was John's reply. "You see I have some Indian traits in me, even if I am only a half-breed." "Well, you certainly can throw a rope," Jack admitted. "Wish I could do half as well." "Rollicking rattlesnakes! But I'm going to learn as soon as we get out on the ranch," put in Nat. "I guess you'll both have plenty of opportunity," John remarked. "Well, what are you boys going to do now?" asked Mr. Post. "I'm through with my business, and I've got to stay in town a few days, but I'll be so busy I'm afraid I'll not get much chance to see you. Besides you're going right on, aren't you?" "That's our plan," said Jack. "Well, I'll leave you then," went on the miner, "got to see another man in the yards. I may meet you again, some day, and I may not. This world's an uncertain place. Anyway, I'm glad I met you, and if you ever get into trouble and I can help you, why just wire me. My general address, for a year or two, will be Chicago, care of Lemuel Liggins. He'll see that you get into the city from here, all right, and will take good care of you. Now I'm off," and shaking hands with the boys and with Mr. Liggins, the miner hurried away down the maze of stock yards. "Come inside the office and rest a bit," invited Mr. Liggins. "You've got lots of time, and I'll drive you to town later." "Wait a minute!" cried Jack, darting after Mr. Post. He ran from the office and started down the maze of tracks in the direction the miner had taken. But Mr. Post was not to be seen. He had either met some acquaintance and gone into one of the numerous small offices and shacks that dotted the yards, or else was lost in the crowds. Jack soon came back, looking disappointed. "What did you want of him?" asked Nat. "I wanted to find out more about Orion Tevis," replied Jack. "You remember he spoke of him just before the accident when we collided with the freight, and I meant to ask him if he knew the man on whom the finding of my father may depend. But I forgot about it in all the excitement. Now it's too late." "Who did you want to inquire about?" asked Mr. Liggins, coming forward. "Excuse me, but I happened to hear you mention a strange sounding name." "Orion Tevis," said Jack. "Do you know anything about him, Mr. Liggins?" "Do I? Well I guess I do. Me and him didn't work as mining pardners for ten years for nothing. I reckon I do know Orion Tevis. So does Josh Post." "Where is he now?" asked Jack eagerly. "I must find him. He may know where my father is, who is in hiding because of the scheming of some wicked men." "Well, now you have got me," Mr. Liggins said. "I haven't seen Tevis for some years, not since he retired from active work. He speculates in cattle now and then, and I had a letter from him a few months ago." "Where is that letter now?" asked Jack, his voice trembling with eagerness. "Land live you! I guess I burned it up," replied Mr. Liggins. "I never save letters. Get too many of 'em. But it was from some place out in Colorado. A little country town, I reckon, or I'd have remembered the name." "Try to think of it," pleaded Jack. "A lot may depend on it. I may be able to get Mr. Tevis's address from the Capital Bank in Denver, but they may refuse to give it to me, or may have lost it." "Wish I could help you, son," said Mr. Liggins, sympathetically. "But I reckon I lost that letter. Hold on, though, maybe I can fix you up. You say his address is at the Capital Bank?" "That's what I understand." "Well, I wouldn't be surprised. Come to think of it now, he did write me he transacted all his business through them. More than that he sent me a sort of card to use in case I ever got out there, and wanted to see him. Said there was reasons why he didn't want every one to know where he was, so he instructed the bank to give his address to only those who showed a certain kind of card. I reckon I kept that card as a sort of curiosity." "I hope so," murmured Jack. The stockman began looking through a big wallet he pulled from his pocket. It was stuffed with papers and bills. "Here it is!" he exclaimed, as he extended a rather soiled bit of pasteboard. "Queer looking thing." Indeed it was. The card had a triangle drawn in the center. Inside of this was a circle, with a representation of an eye. In each of the angles were, respectively, a picture of a dagger, a revolver and a gun. On top appeared this: "_In Medio tutissimus ibis_" "Don't seem to mean anything as far as I've ever been able to make out," Mr. Liggins said. "Looks like a cross between a secret order card and a notice from the vigilance committee. And them words on the top I take to be some foreign language, but I never went to school enough to learn 'em." "They're Latin," said Jack, "and mean, literally, 'you will go most safely in the middle,' or, I suppose, 'the middle way is safest.'" "That's like Orion Tevis," commented the stockman. "He was always a cautious fellow, and rather queer here,"--he tapped his forehead. "But now I don't mind giving you that card. It may be no good, and it may help you. If it does I'll be glad of it. I owe you a good turn. That was one of my steers that broke away, and I'm glad it didn't cause a freight wreck." "I'll take good care of this," said Jack, as he put the card in his pocket, "and send it back to you." "Well, if you find Tevis, just do as he says about it," the cattleman answered. "Now I'll drive you back to the city." Jack was much pleased at getting the card. He felt it would help him in his strange quest after his father. "It will be additional evidence, for us" he said to John. "Mr. Tevis might think the rings were spurious." "Not much danger of that," the Indian answered. "Still, the card may come in handy." Mr. Liggins drove the boys to the hotel where they were to stay over night. They consulted the time-tables in the lobby, and learned that their train did not leave until the next afternoon. "Now for a good night's sleep," said Jack, as he and his chums were being taken up in the elevator to their rooms that night. At the sound of the lad's voice a tall, dark man, in the corner of the car started. Then, as he caught a glimpse of the boys' faces, he turned so his own was in the shadow. "Well, well, luck has certainly turned things my way," he murmured. "Here's where I get even for the trick they played me on the train." Little imagining they were menaced by one who felt himself their enemy, the three chums went to their rooms, which adjoined. "Very good," whispered the dark man, who had remained in the corridor as the boys walked it. "I think I will pay you a visit to-night." CHAPTER XIX A THIEF IN THE NIGHT The boys were so tired from their day's adventures, and their travel that they did not need a bit of paregoric to make them sleep, as Nat expressed it, while he was undressing. They left the connecting doors open between their rooms, and, after putting their money and valuables under their pillows, soon fell into deep slumbers. It was about two o'clock in the morning when a dark figure stole along the corridor and came to a halt outside the door leading to Jack's room. "Doesn't make much difference which one I go in, I s'pose," was a whispered comment from the man, who was the same that had ridden up with the boys in the elevator. There was a slight clicking about the lock. Then something snapped. "No go that time," whispered the man. "Try another key." He selected one from among a bunch he held in his hand, and inserted it in the lock of the door leading to Jack's room. This time there was a different sort of click, "That's the time I did it," the intruder remarked softly. "Now to see if I can't get some of the money they made me lose on that other deal." Cautiously the man pushed open the door a few inches. It did not squeak, but, even when he had ascertained this, the thief did not enter at once. He paused, listening to the breathing of the three boys. "Sound asleep," he muttered. "No trouble. This is easy." On tiptoes he entered the room. The lights were all out but enough illumination came in from the street lights through the windows, to enable the intruder to see dimly. He noted that the connecting doors were open. "Easier than I thought," he muttered. "Now if they're like other travelers they have everything under their pillows. If they only knew that is the easiest place to get anything from! Pillows are so soft, and you can get your hand under one without waking up the slightest sleeper, if you go slow and careful." Up to the bedside of Jack the man stole. At every other step he stopped to listen. He moved as silently as a cat. "I fancy the laugh will be on the other side this trip," the man murmured. "I ought to get considerable from all three of them." By this time he had come so near to where Jack was sleeping that he could put out his hand and touch the bed. An instant later his fingers were gliding under the pillow. They grasped a leather pocketbook. Had it been light enough a smile of satisfaction could have been seen on the face of the thief in the night. "Number one," he remarked in a soft whisper. He moved into the next room, taking care not to stumble over a chair or stool. He easily secured Nat's valuables, and then ventured into John's apartment. "Ten minutes more and I'm through," the burglar thought. When he got to John's bedside, he listened for a few seconds. The Indian student could be heard breathing in his slumbers, but at the sound the man hesitated. "A slight sleeper," was his unspoken comment. "Liable to wake up on the slightest alarm. I've got to be careful." His trained observance, despite the evil purpose to which it was put, had at once told the intruder that John was a light and nervous slumberer. Nevertheless the thief decided to risk it. He moved his hand, inch by inch, under John's pillow. A shadow would have made no more noise. It took him nearly twice as long as it had to get the pocketbooks from Nat and Jack, but at length he was successful. Holding the three in his hand he made his way to the door whence he had entered. "I think I'll just take a look at what sort of a haul I made, before I leave here," the man said. "No use carting a lot of useless stuff away." There was a dim light burning in the hall, nearly opposite Jack's door. Half concealed by the portal the man paused just within the room and looked over the contents of the pocketbooks. "Plenty of bills," he observed. He took the money out and made it into one roll, and this he held in his hand. Rapidly he went through the other compartments of the wallets. He came across the queer card which Mr. Liggins had given Jack. "Might as well take that along," he said to himself. "No telling what it is, but it might come in handy. I might want to pretend I belonged to the order, for it looks like a lodge emblem. I'll stow that away." The thief laid the wallets and the money down on the floor, while he reached in a pocket to get a card case in which he carried his few valuables. He placed the odd bit of pasteboard inside this. "Now to toss the wallets aside and skip with the cash," he murmured, and suiting the action to his words he began to move softly into the corridor. It was a good thing that nature had endowed John with a nervous temperament, and had made him a light sleeper. For, at that instant, or maybe a little before, some peculiar action on the Indian's nerves conveyed a message to his brain. It was not a clear and definite sort of message, in fact it was rather confused--in the same shape as a dream. John seemed to be riding a big cow pony down a steep incline, after a big buffalo on whose back sat a dark, smooth-shaven man. The same man, John thought in his dream, he had seen in the elevator that evening. And while John was riding for dear life after the buffalo, he thought he saw the strange man turn back and go to where the three boys had left their coats on the grassy bank of Lake Rudmore. John fancied he gave up his pursuit of the buffalo to leap off and run to where the thief was stealing his own and his comrades' possessions. The shock of leaping from the back of a swiftly running pony, and rolling head over heals as a result, awoke John, or, rather, the peculiar action of his dream did. He sat up in bed with a jump, just in time to see the thief putting the money into his pocket, and, with the three wallets, steal out into the corridor. It must have been the continuance of the dream that made John act so quickly. He leaped out of bed, half asleep as he was, and, with a yell that sounded enough like an Indian warwhoop to startle his two companions, he made a dash for the man. Out of the room and down the dimly lighted hall dashed the Indian student. Before him fled the thief. "Stop!" yelled John. "What's the matter?" cried Jack, sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Is the place on fire?" "What's the matter? Have we missed the train?" Nat demanded to know. "Thieves!" was all John replied. By this time several guests of the hotel had awakened and there were anxious inquiries as to what was going on. The thief sped down the long corridor, with John, clad only in his nightdress, after him. The fellow tossed the wallets down, but the flat way in which they fell told John the intruder had taken their most valuable contents from them. Well for the Indian that he was a fleet runner. Few there were who could have distanced him, and certainly the rascal who was out of training in athletic lines could not. A few more strides, and John grabbed the man by the coat. "Now I've got you!" the Indian shouted. A moment later the two went down in a heap, the man's legs having slipped from under him. But, even in the fall, John did not let go his hold. The man kept one hand in his pocket. In the flickering gaslight the Indian saw this, and rightly guessed that there the money was. Quick as a flash John slipped his hand in and found the man was grasping something tightly. "Let go!" the fellow growled. "Not much!" exclaimed John. "I'm after our money!" "I'll--I'll--cut you!" panted the thief. "Police! Murder! Fire!" yelled a woman outside of whose door the desperate struggle was now going on. With a great effort John loosened the hand that clenched the money. Then the Indian drew out the bills. The thief tried to grab them back. As he did so John tried to get up, having accomplished the main part of his purpose, that of saving his own and his chums' money. But, as he did so, the thief gave a roll, to get on top. This brought him to the edge of a flight of stairs, and, a second later the two were rolling down. Bump! Bump! Bump! they went until they reached a landing. John's head struck the baseboard, and, for a moment he was stunned. There was a rush of feet in the corridor above. "Hold him! We're coming!" was the cry. John heard dimly. Then a blackness seemed to come over him. The lights faded away. He just remembered thrusting his hand containing the bills into his pocket, and then he fainted away. The thief, with nimble feet, was half way down the second flight of stairs by now, for, finding the hold of his captor loosened, he made the best of his opportunity. "Have you got him, John?" yelled Jack. "Hold him until I come!" shouted Nat. They had both run out into the hallway in time to see John pursuing the thief. They reached the top of the stairs just as the fellow fled. The thief, as he ran down the stairs, cast up one look. Jack Ranger saw him, the light from a gas jet in the lower corridor shining full on the man's face. "Professor Punjab! Hemp Smith!" exclaimed Jack, as he recognized the fakir who called himself Marinello Booghoobally. "Did he get away?" asked Nat, coming up just then. "Yes, and I guess he's killed John," said Jack, his heart failing him. CHAPTER XX A STRANGE SEANCE By this time the corridors, above and below were filled with excited men, all scantily attired. Nat and Jack ran to where John was lying on the landing, and lifted his head. "I'm all right," exclaimed the Indian, as he opened his eyes. "Got a bad one on the head, that's all. I can walk." He proceeded to demonstrate this by standing up and mounting the stairs. "Did he get our money?" asked Nat. In answer John showed the roll he still held tightly clenched in his hand. "Here are some pocketbooks," called a man from the upper hall. "Then we're all right, after all," spoke Jack. "Money and pocketbooks safe. How did it happen? How did you land on him, John?" "He was in our room," replied the Indian. "I woke up and saw him. Then I chased out, that's all." The man who had picked up the pocketbooks handed them to Jack. The boy saw his own on top, and opened it, as he had a number of souvenirs and keepsakes in it. As he glanced in he uttered a cry of surprise. "The card Mr. Liggins gave me to present to Mr. Tevis is gone!" he exclaimed. "Here! We must catch Professor Punjab! He has my card. Come on!" Jack was about to rush down the stairs but was stopped by several of the men. "You can't catch him," they said. "Besides, the police may have him by now. Go back and get dressed." The boys decided this was good advice, particularly as they were getting chilled, for the halls were draughty. They donned some clothes, and were all ready when several bluecoats and a number of detectives in plain clothes arrived. "Where'd they get in?" asked a big man, with a very black moustache. "Let's see what sort of a job it was." "Right in here," said the hotel manager, leading the way to where the boys roomed. "From all accounts this was the only place he broke into." "Didn't really lose anything, did you?" asked the black-moustached one of the boys. "He got a valuable card," said Jack. "I would not like to lose it." "What do you mean, a playing card; one you carried for luck?" "No, I don't carry such things for luck," replied Jack. "It had a message on it." He described the queer bit of pasteboard Mr, Liggins had given him. "Oh I see; it was a sort of charm," interposed the detective with the light moustache. "Well, we'll make a round of the pawnshops tomorrow. Maybe we'll locate it." "I don't believe so," said Jack, half to himself. "It's not a thing that would be pawned." The boy felt that Professor Punjab would be very likely to keep the card, thinking it might be some mysterious talisman, which could be used to advantage in his peculiar line of work. So Jack had little faith in what the detective said. There was nothing more for the police or detectives to do. No trace of the thief was to be found, and, after a general look around, the officers departed and the hotel settled down to normal quietness. The boys went back to bed, but it was some time before they fell asleep. Jack dozed uneasily, wondering how he was going to regain possession of the card which Professor Punjab had stolen. "You ought to be thankful it wasn't our money, which it would have been, only for John," said Nat next morning. "Penetrating peanuts! When I think of what might have happened I shudder," and he gave an imitation of a cold chill running down his back. "It's bad enough," said Jack. "Of course we need the money, but we could get more on a pinch. We can't get another card like that, though, and we may need it very much. At least I will." "Let's go to the police and make them find it," suggested Nat. "They'll never find it," put in John, who sat in a chair with his head bandaged. "We'll have to depend on ourselves." The robbery, and John's slight wound, necessitated a change in their plans. They wired to Mr. Kent, Nat's uncle, that they would be delayed. Then they arranged to stay several days in Chicago. The hotel proprietor insisted on sending a physician, to see the Indian. The medical man prescribed a rest, and, while John stayed in his room his chums paid several visits to the police. Jack impressed them with the value of the card, and the detectives really made efforts to find it, and to arrest the "professor," but without result. One evening, as Jack and Nat came back from a visit to police headquarters, they found John much excited. "I think I'm on the right track," he said. "How?" asked Jack. "Listen to this" John went on, holding up a newspaper, and he read: "Attention, all who suffer or are in distress. Professor Ali Baba, one of the descendants of the Forty Thieves, who has devoted his life to undoing the wrong they did, will give palm readings, star gazings, trance answers, locate the lost, and, by a method learned from an Indian Yogi, double your money. Readings one dollar up." "You're not going to be taken in by one of those foolish clairvoyants, are you?" asked Jack. "Not exactly," said John. "But if I am right I think this Professor Ali Baba is Hemp Smith, or Professor Punjab under another name." "What makes you think so?" inquired Nat. "Rip-snorting radiators! But if it should be!" "That last clause about doubling your money, by the Indian method leads me to believe it," said John. "That is how Punjab tried to rob Mr. Post. Now I'm going to try this and see what it amounts to." "But he'll know you as soon as he sees you," objected Nat. "Not the way I fix up," replied the Indian. The boys talked over the plan, and agreed it would do no harm for John to attend a seance of the professor, whose address was given in the advertisement. [Illutsration: Give me the card!--Page 177] John's best friend would hardly have known him as he sallied forth the next day. He wore the bandages on his head, which was cut by his fracas with the fake professor, and, in addition, he had tied one about his jaw, as though he had the toothache. He had no difficulty in finding the place. Outside the door was a sign reading: PROFESSOR ALI BABA. SCIENTIST. John was admitted by a rather slick individual, in a shining, greasy suit of black. "The professor is busy just now," he said. "He will see you soon. Meanwhile you had better give me a dollar, and state on which particular line you wish to consult him." John handed over a two dollar bill and said: "Tell him to make it extra strong. I have lost a valuable article." "I am sure he can find it for you," the sleek man said. "The professor has wonderful success." "Well he oughtn't to have much trouble finding this if he's the man I take him for," thought John. As yet he was all at sea. He wanted to get a glimpse of Professor Ali Baba. At last his turn came. Carefully keeping his face concealed, John was shown into a room gaudily decorated with tinsel and cheap hangings. "Who seeks the knowledge the stars alone possess?" asked a deep voice. Jack started. He recognized at once the tones of the recent Professor Punjab. An instant later he had a glimpse of the pretended astrologer's face and knew he could not be mistaken. "Draw near," said the fakir. "I know what thou seekest. It is that which thou hast lost, and it is more precious to thee than rubies." "In this particular instance it is," thought John, but he did not answer at once, as he was so excited he could hardly control his voice. He did not want the swindler to recognize him. "Tell me but the veriest outline of that which thou seekest and I will not only describe it, but tell you where you may find it, if the stars so will," Punjab went on. "It is very difficult," said John, speaking in a sort of whisper. He wanted to gain a little time, to think best how to proceed. He had been more successful than he dared to hope. His reasoning had been exactly right. Now he wanted to make sure of success. "No problem is too hard for those who read their answers in the stars," replied the fakir. "Describe what you have lost." "It is square," said John, slowly, and he drew a little closer to where the pretended astrologer sat on a divan in the midst of hangings, which let but little light into the room. "Yes, square." "And flat." "Yes. Now one more little detail. I begin to see a glimmering of it before me," and Professor Ali Baba pretended to go into a trance. "It is white with black markings on it," John went on. "In fact it is something you have right here in this house." "What's that?" fairly shouted the professor. "It's that card you stole from Jack Ranger!" went on John, coming close to the fakir and gripping him by the wrists. "The card you took from his pocketbook the night you broke into our rooms. I want it back! Give it up, you scoundrel, or I'll call in the police." "Let go!" yelled the professor. "Give me the card!" shouted the Indian, struggling to hold the man, who was trying to break away. "Help!" cried the professor. The curtains parted and the man who had answered John's summons at the door entered. CHAPTER XXI FINDING ORION TEVIS "What's the matter?" exclaimed the slick individual. "He's trying to rob me!" shouted the fakir. "It's the other way around!" came from John. "I'm trying to get back something he stole from a friend of mine. Give up that card, you rascal, or I'll yell for the police!" At the same time the Indian youth, who was strong for his age, gave the wrists of Punjab such a wrench that the man cried out in pain. Whether it was this, or the knowledge that he could not afford to have a clash with the officers of the law John never decided, but the professor muttered: "I'll give you the card. Let go!" "Want any help?" asked the sleek and shiny individual. "Don't you interfere!" exclaimed John, "or I'll have you arrested too. Better keep out of this. The professor knows when he's beaten." "Let go of me," muttered the fakir. "Where's the card?" asked John. "It's in my pocket, but I can't get it while you hold my hands," the pretended astrologer said. The Indian youth released his grip, but kept close watch of the professor. The latter lifted up the gaudy robe and disclosed underneath ordinary street clothing. He reached into an inner pocket and brought out the card. "That's it!" cried John, grabbing it before the professor had a chance to play any more tricks. "That's what I want!" "Now you've got it, you'd better get out of my house," said Punjab, trying to assume his dignity which John had sadly ruffled. "Only too glad to," the Indian student said, and, carrying the precious card in his hand he hurried from the place, throwing aside his bandages as he did so. "I'll get even with you boys yet," he heard Marinello Booghoobally, _alias_ Hemp Smith, _alias_ Professor Punjab, _alias_ Ali Baba, call after him. But John was not worried over this and soon was back at the hotel where his companions anxiously waited him. "Any luck?" asked Jack. "The best," replied John, and he told them all that had happened from the time he entered Ali Baba's place until he secured the card, which, he had turned over to Jack as soon as he got in. The police were notified, but the fakir was too quick for them and escaped. "Now we'd better go straight for Denver," said Nat. "We're behind in our schedule now, and maybe my uncle will not wait for us." John and Jack thought this a good scheme, so, having settled their hotel bill, they were soon aboard a train again, and speeding westward. They made good time, in spite of a few delays by slight accidents, and arrived in Denver at night. "It's too late to go to the Capital Bank," said Jack. "Wish we'd have gotten in earlier. But we'll make inquiries about Orion Tevis the first thing in the morning." Long before the bank opened the boys had inquired their way to it from the hotel where they stopped. As soon as the doors were swung, to indicate that business might be transacted, Jack led the way into the marble-tiled corridor of the institution. "Who do you want to see?" asked a uniformed porter. "The president," said Jack boldly, thinking it best to begin at the top, and work down if necessary. "Want to deposit a million dollars I s'pose," the porter said with a sort of sneer. Evidently his breakfast had not agreed with him. "I came here to inquire for the address of Mr. Orion Tevis," replied Jack sharply, and in a loud tone, for he did not like to be made fun of. "If the president is not the proper person to ask will you kindly tell me who is?" "What's that?" asked a gray-haired man, peering out from a private office. "I am seeking the address of Mr. Orion Tevis," repeated Jack. "Step right in here," the elderly man said. "Johnson, you may go down into the basement and finish your work," he added to the porter who hurried away, probably feeling as though he had grown several inches shorter. "Now what is this about Mr. Tevis?" asked the man. "I am Mr. Snell, cashier of the bank." "I want to find Mr. Tevis, in order to ask him if he knows the whereabouts of a certain person in whom I am interested," said Jack. "Are you a private detective?" asked Mr. Snell, with a smile. "No sir, I'm Jack Ranger, from Denton, and these are friends of mine," and Jack mentioned their names. "Well, suppose I say we haven't Mr. Tevis's address," spoke Mr. Snell. "I was told it could be obtained here," Jack insisted. "If it could be, under certain conditions, are you able to fulfill those conditions?" asked the cashier. "If you mean this, yes," replied Jack, showing his queer ring. "Where did you get that?" asked Mr, Snell "It's a long story," Jack said. "The last time I got it was when I recovered it from a burglar. But we have another. Show him yours, John." The Indian student exhibited the odd gold emblem with the pine tree tracing on the moss agate. Mr. Snell looked at both circlets critically without saying anything. He glanced at the lettering inside. "I don't believe I am in a position to give you Mr. Tevis's address," he said slowly. "What?" cried Jack. "After all our journey." "Show him the card," said John, in a whisper. Jack pulled from his pocket the curious bit of cardboard he had secured from Mr. Liggins. At the sight of it the cashier uttered an exclamation. He got up and closed the door leading to the bank corridor. "That settles it!" he exclaimed. "Your credentials are all right. Wait a minute." He pressed a button on his desk. A short, stockily built man entered the room. "Perkins, you may feed the red cow," the cashier said gravely. "Yes sir," replied Perkins, as calmly as though he had been told to hand over the city directory. "And whisper to her that the goats have come," the cashier went on, at which Perkins turned and left the room. "Now boys I am ready for you," said Mr. Snell, and Jack related as much of the matter as he thought might have a bearing on his search. "I can give you Mr. Tevis's address," the cashier went on. "You must excuse my caution, but, as you doubtless know, there have been strange doings in connection with that land deal. So you are Jack Ranger?" "That's me. But now where can I find Orion Tevis and learn where my father is?" "I'm afraid you're going to have trouble," Mr. Snell went on. "All we know is that Mr. Tevis lives somewhere on a wild tract of land among the mountains about one hundred miles from Fillmore." "Fillmore, that's where we have to go to get to Denville," said Nat "So it is," Jack murmured. "You see Mr. Tevis is a rather peculiar individual and surrounds himself with many safeguards," Mr. Snell went on. "We were only to give his address to those who brought the rings and the card. I was at first afraid you were impostors, as there have been several such. We are also required to send Mr. Tevis word as soon as any one comes here, bearing the proper emblems, and seeking him. You heard what I said to that man a while ago. It was a code message to be transmitted to Mr. Tevis." "But if you know where to send him a message, why can't you tell us how to reach him?" asked Jack. "I can tell you as much as we ourselves know. We send the messages to a certain man living in Fillmore. He, in turn, rides off into the mountains and, from what I have heard, leaves the letter in the cleft of an old tree, of which he alone knows the location. Then he comes away. In time Mr. Tevis, or some of his men, come and get the letter. If he wishes to send an answer he leaves it in the tree. If not that ends the matter. If he wishes to remain hidden he does so. He seldom comes to town, and has only been at this bank once in a number of years. Now, don't you think you have a pretty hard task ahead of you?" "Will you tell me how to find this man in Fillmore, who knows how to take that letter?" asked Jack. "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Snell. "That's the way to talk. I sized you up for a plucky lad as soon as I saw you. Now if you will take pencil and paper, I'll give you directions for reaching Enos Hardy, who may succeed in getting a message to Mr. Tevis for you." Jack jotted down what Mr. Snell told him, and, at his suggestion, the other two boys made copies, in case of accident. Then, having cashed some letters of credit which they brought with them, the boys went back to their hotel. "What are you going to do, Jack?" asked Nat. "I'm going to find Orion Tevis," was the reply. "I think I had better do it before I go on to your uncle's ranch, Nat. What do you say?" "Slippery snapping turtles!" exclaimed Nat. "If I was you I'd do the same thing. You ought to make that hundred miles and back in a week, and we can go to uncle's ranch then. We'll go with you; eh, John?" "Sure," replied the Indian. "Let's hurry on to Fillmore," Nat went on. "If my uncle is there waiting for us, we can tell him all about it. If not we can send him a letter, telling him where we are going, and letting him know about what time we'll be back. It's only twenty miles from Fillmore to Denville, near where his ranch is." This plan was voted a good one, and as soon as the boys could catch a train out of Denver they were speeding toward what was to be the last railroad station of their long western trip. They were two days reaching it, owing to the poor connections, because they were now traveling on branch line railroads, but they got into the little mining town one evening at dusk. So explicit were the directions Mr. Snell had given them that they had no difficulty in reaching the Eagle Hotel, where the cashier had advised them to put up. They registered, and, in accordance with their directions, left a note with the hotel clerk for Enos Hardy. "He'll be in some time to-night," the clerk said. "He comes here every evening." It was about nine o'clock that night when a message came to the boys' room that Mr. Hardy would see them in the sitting room of the hotel. Jack went down alone, and found waiting for him a grizzly, heavily- bearded man, rather stoop-shouldered. He glanced from under his shaggy eyebrows at Jack. "You left a message for Enos Hardy?" the man asked. "I did, in reference to Orion Tevis," admitted Jack. "Have you the emblems?" Jack showed the rings and card. "Um!" grunted the man. "What do you want?" "I want to see Orion Tevis, and ask him about my father." "It will take me three days to bring you an answer," Mr. Hardy went on. "Will you wait here until then?" Jack bowed his assent. "You must trust the rings and card to me," Mr. Hardy went on. "Oh, they will be safe," he added, as he saw Jack give a start of surprise. "You can ask any one in Fillmore about me." Without a word Jack handed over the two rings and the bit of pasteboard. "This is Tuesday," the strange messenger went on. "I will be back here with an answer Friday night." "Then I can start for Mr. Tevis's place the next day," spoke Jack. "If the answer is favorable," Mr. Hardy said, as he left the room. CHAPTER XXII JACK HEARS OF HIS FATHER For a few moments Jack stood looking at the door that had closed on Mr. Hardy. The man seemed a link between the boy and his long-lost father, and Jack felt as if he would not like to allow Mr. Tevis's confidant to be out of his sight. But he reflected if he was to see the man who held his father's secret he must follow out the line laid down. He went to where he had left Nat and John, and told them what had happened. Jack announced anticipation of a favorable reply from Mr. Tevis, who, he said, would, no doubt, keep his promise made years ago to those to whom he had presented the rings. "Then we'll get ready to go with you," announced Nat. "Hopping halibut! I forgot to write to my uncle. I heard from the hotel clerk he had waited here for us two days, and then went back, leaving word we could come on to the ranch, or wait for him. He'll be back inside of a week." "That fits into our plans," Jack said. "Write and tell him we arrived and will be ready to go with him a week from to-day, I think I can learn what I want in that time." Accordingly Nat got a letter ready, and intrusted it to the hotel clerk, who promised to send it to Double B ranch at the first opportunity. Mr. Kent's ranch was known by the device of two capital B's, one placed backwards in front of the other, and this brand appeared on all his cattle. His uncle's place, Nat learned, was on a big plateau in the midst of a mountain range. Men from it frequently rode into Fillmore, and it was by one of them the hotel clerk proposed sending the boy's letter to Mr. Kent. This done, the three chums sat in their rooms discussing the strange things that had come to pass since they had left Washington Hall. "Seems as if it was several months, instead of a couple of weeks," said John. "I'll be glad when we get out where it's good and wild." The boys found much to occupy their time in the hustling city of Denver. They went about viewing the sights, but all the while Jack was impatiently awaiting the return of Mr. Hardy. "I wonder if the days are any longer here than back east," he remarked. "It's you," replied Nat. "Stop thinking about it, and Friday night will come sooner." "Can't help it," Jack went on, with a deep sigh. Friday night came at last, though it was nearly ten o'clock before Jack, who was anxiously waiting in his room, received a message that some one wanted to see him. He went down and was met by Mr. Hardy. The man showed the dust and grime of travel. "Well?" asked Jack. "When do you want to start?" asked Mr. Hardy. "To-morrow morning," was Jack's quick reply, and a load was lifted from his mind. "Then I'll have a horse for you here at nine o'clock," Mr. Tevis's friend went on, as he handed back the rings and the card. "Can't John and Nat go along?" inquired Jack, for he had mentioned his friends to Mr. Hardy. "I suppose so," was the answer. "It will take longer if so many of us go, but I have no orders to keep your friends back if they want to accompany us. It's a wild trip, and has to be made on horseback." "They'll want to go. None of us is a good rider, but we'll do our best" "Very well, I'll have three horses." "Do you think Mr. Tevis will have some news of my father?" asked Jack, a note of anxiety coming into his voice. "I shouldn't be surprised," was the cautious answer. "Mr. Tevis can generally be depended on to produce the goods. Now I'll leave you, as I have lots of work to do before morning. I'm glad I succeeded in arranging it for you," "So am I," exclaimed Jack, as he held out his hand and met that of Mr. Hardy's in hearty clasp. "Can you two stand a hundred mile ride on horseback?" asked Jack of his two chums, when he was back in his room. "Two if necessary," replied John. "And two it will have to be," Jack went on. "I forgot it's a hundred each way. Well, we're in for it," and he explained what Mr. Hardy had told him. The horses which Mr. Tevis's messenger brought around the next morning proved to be steady-going animals. Their backs were broad and they carried easy-riding saddles. Under the direction of the guide the boys packed up some blankets and enough "grub," to last several days, since they could not expect to make as good time as had Mr. Hardy. Leaving their trunks and grips at the hotel the boys, with their new-found friend in the lead, started for Mr. Tevis's mountain home. "He's a strange man," said Mr, Hardy, as he rode along by Jack's side a little later. "He had so much trouble with a band of bad men once that he made up his mind he would have no more. He knows the gang is still trying to get the best of him, and that's why he takes so many precautions. It is the same ugly crowd that made your father an exile, I understand." "But his exile is almost up," said Jack earnestly. "The eleven years will pass this summer, and he can come back to us." "If you can only find him to get word to him." "Do you think I can't find him?" "Well, the mountains are a wild place. It's hard enough to keep track of men who have no motive for hiding, let alone those who believe every effort to locate them is made with an idea of doing them some harm." "If I can only get word to him I know my father will wander no longer. I need him and he needs me." Half a day's riding brought them to a wild part of the country. The trail was a narrow one. Now it led along a high range of foothills, skirting some deep ravine. Again it was down in a valley, along the course of some mountain stream that was now almost dry. The bracing atmosphere, though it was so rarefied that the boys, at first, found a little difficulty in breathing, made objects seem strangely near. Several times Jack and his companions saw a distant landmark, and wondered why they were so long in reaching it. Mr. Hardy laughed at their astonishment as he explained the reason for the seeming nearness. They had dinner on the side of a mountain which they had begun to ascend shortly before noon. Mr. Hardy proved himself an old campaigner. He had a fire made, and bacon frying before the boys had the stiffness from their legs, caused by their ride. Then, with bread and coffee, they made a better meal than they had partaken of in many a hotel. That night they slept in a lonely mountain cabin, the owner of which Mr. Hardy knew. They pressed on the next morning, their pace being slow because Nat found he could not ride as well as he had hoped. "Galloping gooseberries!" he exclaimed. "I feel as if all my bones were loose. You didn't see any of 'em scattered back along the trail, did you, Jack?" "You'll get over it," said Mr. Hardy. "Got to learn to ride if you're going on a ranch. No one walks there." They had to sleep in the open the next night, but Mr. Hardy built a big fire, and, well wrapped in their blankets, the boys were not uncomfortable, even though it was cold on the mountain from the time the sun went down. It was cold, too, the next morning, as they crawled from their warm coverings, but when their guide had thrown a lot of wood on the glowing embers, causing them to spring into a fine blaze, the boys got up and helped prepare breakfast. "We're almost there," said Mr. Hardy, as they mounted their horses to resume their trip. They rode until shortly before noon, when Mr. Hardy suddenly pulled his horse up and said: "Here's as far as we can go, boys, until we get word from Mr. Tevis. There's the tree where I leave the messages." He pointed to a big oak that had been struck by lightning, and split partly down the immense trunk. One blackened branch stuck up. It had a cleft in it, in which a letter could be placed and seen from afar. "Now I'll just leave a note there, and we'll have to be guided by what happens," Mr. Hardy went on. He wrote something on a piece of paper, and asked Jack for the rings and the card symbol. These, with the message he had written, he placed in an envelope. The letter was enclosed in a bit of oiled silk, and the whole deposited in the cleft of the limb. "It might rain before it is taken away," he explained. "You can never tell when Mr. Tevis or his messengers come. He can see that letter from his house, by using a telescope, but he may not send for it. It all depends." "How will you know if he does?" asked Jack. "I will come back here to-morrow at noon," replied the guide. "If there is an answer, there will be a little white flag where the letter was, Then I will know what to do." There was nothing to do but wait. Mr. Hardy explained that it was necessary that they move back down the mountain, a mile or more away from the signal tree. To Jack and his chums this seemed a lot of needless precaution, but they were in no position to do anything different. Jack passed the night in uneasy slumber, for he could not help thinking of what the morrow might bring and what effect it might have on his search for his father. But all things have an end, and morning finally came. After breakfast Mr. Hardy looked well to the saddle girths, as he said, if they were to go further on their journey, they would have to proceed over a rougher road than any they had yet traversed. They started for the blighted oak so as to reach there about noon. How anxiously did Jack peer ahead for a sight of the lightning- blasted tree, in order to catch the first glimpse of the white flag he hoped to see! He was so impatient that Mr. Hardy had to caution him not to ride too fast. But in spite of this the boy kept pressing his horse forward. As the little cavalcade turned around a bend in the trail Jack cried out: "I see it! There's the white flag! Now we can go on and hear the news of my father!" "Don't be too sure," muttered Mr. Hardy. "It may be a message saying there is no news," but he did not tell Jack this. The sun was just crossing the zenith when Mr. Hardy took from the cleft of the branch a small packet wrapped in oiled silk, similar to the one he had left. Quickly tearing off the wrapping the guide disclosed a piece of white paper. On It was but one word: "Come." "Hurrah!" yelled Jack, throwing his hat into the air, and nearly losing his balance recovering it. "Walloping washtubs!" yelled Nat. "Let's hurry on," spoke John Smith, more quietly. But he, too, felt the excitement of the moment, only he was used to repressing his feelings. "Prepare for a hard ride," said Mr. Hardy. "We must make Mr. Tevis's place by night, as it is dangerous to camp in the open around here. Too many wild beasts." From the blasted oak the trail led in winding paths up the mountain. It was indeed a hard one. Great boulders blocked the path, and there were places where rains had washed out big gullies. But the horses seemed used to such traveling, for they scrambled along like goats on a rocky cliff. It was just getting dusk when, as they topped a considerable rise, Mr. Hardy pointed ahead to where a light glimmered on the side of the mountain, and said: "There is Mr. Tevis's house." Jack's heart gave a mighty thump. At last he was at one of the important stages of his long trip. As the riders advanced there came, from out of the fast gathering darkness a command: "Halt! Who comes?" "Friends!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy. "What word have you?" "Pine tree and moss agate," was the answer. "You may enter," the unseen speaker added. There was the sound of a heavy gate swinging open, and following their guide the boys urged their horses ahead. They found themselves on a well-made road, which led to a fairly large house. "Dismount," said Mr. Hardy, as he brought his steed to a halt in front of a large piazza that surrounded the residence. "We are here at last." As he spoke the door opened, sending out a stream of brilliant light. In the center of the radiance stood a tall man, looking out. "Good evening, Mr. Tevis," spoke Mr. Hardy. "Ah, Enos, so you have arrived. And did you bring the boys with you?" "All three, sir." "Very good. Come in. Supper is ready." Jack sprang from his horse and, with a bound was on the porch beside the man he had come so far to see. "Mr. Tevis!" he exclaimed, "Have you any news of my father? Is he alive? Can you tell me where to find him?" "Yes, to all three questions, Jack Ranger," said Mr. Tevis, heartily, and Jack felt his heart thumping against his ribs as though it would leap out. CHAPTER XXIII ON THE RANCH Some men came up and led the horses of the riders to a stable in the rear. Mr. Tevis showed the way into his house. It was a big log cabin, but was furnished with many comforts. On the floors were great bear rugs, while skulls and horns of other animals decorated the walls. The light came from two big kerosene hanging lamps. "Welcome to Cabin Lodge," said Mr. Tevis. "I hope you are all hungry, as we have a fine supper waiting for you." "That's what I want," said Mr. Hardy. "We haven't stopped much for grub since we started." "I'd like to hear more about my father, before I eat," said Jack. "I realize your impatience," Mr. Tevis replied, with a smile, "and I'll endeavor to relieve your mind. I will tell you what I know while the others are getting ready for the meal." Then Mr. Tevis told briefly the history of Robert Ranger, or Roberts, as he best knew him, with the main facts of which Jack was familiar. He told of his acquaintance with him and John Smith's father, and how the bad men had tried unsuccessfully to get control of the timber claim. Jack found him a peculiar man indeed, but seemingly good hearted. "But what you want to know," Mr. Tevis went on, "is how to find your father now." Jack nodded eagerly. "Of course you know I have not seen him in a long time, as he did not think it wise to come here, fearing the gang would capture him and get him into court. But I have heard from him, not later than three months ago." "Where is he?" asked Jack, hardly able to sit still. "While I can't say exactly," Mr. Tevis went on, "I know he is somewhere in a small range of mountains called Golden Glow. He has a small cabin there, and manages to make a living by doing some mining. He has one companion, whom he can trust, and who goes back to civilization once in a while to get food and supplies. Your father will not trust himself in sight of a town. In fact it is almost as hard to communicate with him as it is with me." "Where are the Golden Glow mountains?" asked Jack. "The nearest town is Denville," was the answer. "Denville!" exclaimed Jack. "Yes, what is there strange in that?" "Why, we are going to Denville," Jack replied, "That's where Nat's uncle's ranch is." "Yes, but the beginning of the Golden Glow mountain range is about a hundred miles from there," Mr. Tevis added. "What's a hundred miles when I'm going to find my father and take him back home with me?" asked Jack. "I can travel that." "You've got pluck," spoke Mr. Tevis. "I wish you luck, my boy." Then he told all the particulars he knew of Mr. Roberts' whereabouts, how the exile had often written to him of his lonely life, and how much he would like to see his son and his sisters again. "We have both been hounded by that gang of land sharps," concluded Mr. Tevis, with a deep sigh. "I have found means of evading them by living in this wild place, and adopting all sorts of precautions in admitting visitors. That is why I was so careful on your account. I could not tell who might be trying to play a trick on me. But I devised that card for a few of my friends. Lucky you met Lem Liggins, or I doubt if even the sight of the two rings would have convinced me. But I felt reasonably certain no one could have both the card and the rings. Even at that you saw how cautious I am, by the details Mr. Hardy had to go through." "How would you advise me to reach my father, and let him know it is safe to return?" asked Jack. Mr. Tevis paused a moment. He remained in deep thought for some time. Then he spoke. "In one of his letters," he said, "your father told me if I ever wanted to see him, to adopt this plan. There is in the Golden Glow range one peak, higher than all the others. From a certain place in it, a place marked by a big stone on which is carved a cross, a tall pine tree, bare of branches, can be seen. By keeping down the side of the slope, and in direct line with the pine you will come to a little valley. At the lower end of this is your father's cabin. Only be careful how you approach it. In this country men sometimes shoot first and inquire afterward." "How will I know the high peak when I see it?" asked Jack. "You can hardly mistake it," Mr. Tevis remarked. "But you can be sure of it, because, just at sunset, you will see it envelop in a golden glow. That is what gives the name to the mountain range. It seems there is a mass of quartz on top of the peak, and the sun, reflecting from it just before it sets, shines as if from burnished gold. I think you will have no trouble in finding the peak, and, though it may be hard, I hope you will find your father. Here, let me give you this. It may help you." He took from his watch chain, a curious little charm. It was in the shape of a golden lizard, with ruby eyes. "Your father gave that to me many years ago," said the timber owner. "If worst comes to worst, and you can't get to him, but can send him a message, send that. He will know it comes from me, even if he doubts the rings. It has a secret mark. Now let's go to supper." There were many thoughts in Jack's mind and many feelings in his heart as he ate at the table at which they all gathered. He did not join in the talk and laughter that went around. Mr. Hardy told Mr. Tevis of the trip he and the three boys had made, and Nat and John added their share to the general conversation. "What makes you so quiet?" asked Nat of his chum. "I'm thinking of what's ahead of me," Jack replied. Mr. Tevis wanted his guests to remain several days with him, but the boys were anxious to get on to the ranch, and decided they would start back for Fillmore the next day. That night Mr. Tevis returned to John and Jack their rings, but he kept the peculiar card. "I will send it back to Lem," he said. "He might want to come and see me some time. I still have to be on my guard. As for you boys, keep a constant watch. There is no telling when those men may resume their tricks. They know the time set by law is almost up, and they are likely to redouble their efforts. Be on your guard, Jack." "I will," Jack answered, and then he and his chums bade their host good-bye. Mounting their horses, and led by Mr. Hardy, they again took up the trail, and the heavy log gate was shut after them, as they left the stockade inside of which Cabin Lodge was built. When the boys and their guide went back to the hotel in Fillmore, the return trip having been made in better time than the outgoing, there was a letter from Mr. Kent to Nat. The boy's uncle said he was so busy he had no time to come for them, but, he added, he would send one of his men with three horses which the boys could ride out to the ranch. Their trunks and baggage had been called for by one of the Double B ranchmen while they were on their way to Mr. Tevis's, so the boys had nothing to worry about but themselves. They had arrived at the hotel about noon, and having eaten dinner, sat down to await the arrival of the man who was to escort them. He had been in town for two days, the hotel clerk said, but, at that moment, had gone to see some friends. "I'll send him up to your room when he comes in," said the clerk, and the boys went upstairs to pack a few little articles that had not gone on with their trunks and valises. It was while they were in the midst of that that a knock sounded on their door. "Come in," cried Jack, all three being then in his apartment. A tall, slightly built man, with a little light moustache, blue eyes, dressed in regulation cowboy costume, entered, holding his broad- brimmed hat in his hand. "I'm lookin' for Nat Anderson an' his chums, Jack Ranger an' John Smith," he announced. "Right in here," called out Nat. "I'm Rattlesnake Jim," announced the stranger, "and I come from Double B ranch to show you the way." The boys were only too anxious to get started. They paid their hotel bill, and when they got outside found there were three fine ponies waiting for them. "Mount!" called Rattlesnake Jim. The lads were very glad of the practice they had in riding with Mr. Hardy, for they felt their new guide was watching them closely. If he had any fault to find he did not mention it. It was a pleasant afternoon, and, once they were out in the open country, after ascending a slight rise, the boys let their animals out. They found them plenty speedy enough. "Not so bad for tenderfeet," muttered Rattlesnake Jim, under his breath. The road led along a long level stretch, the big plateau extending for miles ahead of them. "About what time will we get to my uncle's place?" asked Nat "Grub time, I reckon," said Rattlesnake Jim, who, as the boys afterward learned, had gained his name from the hatred he bore to the reptiles. "Very busy now?" went on Nat. "Passably so. Been rustlin' after horse thieves for th' last few nights," replied Jim coolly. Before the boys could get over this rather startling remark, Jack's horse suddenly shied. The lad was nearly thrown off, and, as he recovered his balance, and looked to see what had scared the animal, he saw, in the shadow of a big stone at the side of the road, an old man crawling along. "Hold on thar, stranger!" called Rattlesnake Jim, drawing his revolver and covering the man. CHAPTER XXIV THE OLD MAN "Don't shoot!" the old man begged, trying to stand up, but toppling in a heap. "Don't shoot! I haven't done anything!" "We'll see about that," went on Jim, as he dismounted. "What are you sneaking around like that for, hiding under a rock? If it had been a little darker we wouldn't have seen you. Who are you?" "I don't know's it any of your affair," replied the stranger sullenly, as he sat down on the ground. "Shot, eh," remarked Jim, as he noticed that the man's left foot was covered with blood. "Now you'd better tell me all about it, before I make trouble for you." "It was an accident," replied the man. "I was cleaning my gun. I forgot I had a shell in it, and it went off and hit my foot. It was back there, and I thought I'd crawl along until I got to some place I could get help." "Likely story," said Jim with a sneer. "That don't go with me, stranger. You stay here and I'll send some of the men to have a look at you." "Are you going to leave him here?" asked Jack, who had dismounted, and was walking toward the old man. "Sure. What else can I do?" "Let me look at his foot," went on Jack, "I know a little bit about first aid to the injured. Maybe I can bandage it up," "Better let him alone," advised Jim, mounting his horse again. But Jack was bending over the man, and had already taken off his shoe, which was filled with blood. As the boy was drawing off the sock, the man caught sight of Jack's hand. "That ring! That ring! Where did you get it?" he asked excitedly, as he caught sight of the moss agate emblem on Jack's finger. "Tell me, who are you?" Jack looked at the man in astonishment. His words and manner indicated that some unusual emotion stirred him. For a moment he gazed at the ring and then a film seemed to come over his eyes. His head sank forward, and a second later he toppled over. "He's dead!" exclaimed Nat. "Only fainted, I guess," replied Rattlesnake Jim coolly. "Lost considerable blood I reckon. He's left quite a trail, anyhow," and he pointed to where a crimson streak in the grass showed that the wounded man had crawled along. "What shall we do?" asked John. "We can't leave him here." "Don't see what else there is to do," said Jim, as he turned his horse back into the path. "We can't carry him. Besides, he is probably only one of a horse-stealing gang, and has been shot in some foray. Better leave him alone." "I'm not going to," declared Jack. "First I'm going to fix up his foot, and then we'll go for help." "I guess my uncle will see that he is taken care of," spoke Nat, with all a boy's confidence in things he knows nothing about. "Well, you can have your own way, of course," Jim said. "I'm only sent to show you the way, but if it was me I sure would leave him alone." By this time Jack had torn several handkerchiefs into strips to make bandages. Jim, who began to take interest in what the boy was doing, even if he did not believe in it, showed him where there was a pool of water. With this Jack bathed the old man's foot. It had a bad bullet wound in it, but the bleeding had stopped. Carefully bandaging the wound, Jack made a pillow out of a blanket he found rolled behind the saddle and with another covered the senseless form. "Now let's hurry on to the ranch, Nat," he said, "and ask your uncle to send out a wagon. If none of the men want to come we'll drive." "Of course we will," spoke Nat, with rather an unfriendly look at Jim, "Oh, I'm not so mean as that," the cowboy hastened to say. "You'll find out here we have to be mighty particular who we make friends with, son. But if you boys are so dead set on taking care of this-- er--well, this gentleman, why I'll volunteer to drive a wagon back." "Thanks," said Jack, but from then on there was a better understanding between the cowboy and the three chums. The boys mounted their horses, and, as Rattlesnake Jim put his to a gallop, they urged their steeds to greater speed. As Nat swung up along side of Jack he asked: "What makes you so anxious about that old man?" "Because I think he may know something of my father. Did you notice how excited he was about the ring? Well, that gave me a clue. He may be able to lead me to where my father is hiding. I must have a talk with him." There was considerable activity about the range when the boys and their guide arrived. A score of the cowboys were coming in from distant runs anxious for supper. Horses were being tethered for the night. Half a dozen dogs were barking as though their lives depended on it. Here and there men were running about, some carrying saddies, others laden down with blankets, and some hopping around and firing off their revolvers in sheer good feeling. From a little cabin a Chinese in the regulation blouse, with his queue tightly coiled about his head, came to the door. "Wood-e!-Wood-e?" he called. "Me no glet glub me no got wood-e!" "Get Chinky the cook some wood!" yelled a man who seemed to be a sort of overseer. One or two of the cowboys got up from the ground where they had thrown themselves and brought armsful to the cook's shanty. "Here we are," called Rattlesnake Jim, as he and the boys rode into the midst of this excitement. "Hello, Nat!" called a hearty voice. "Land alive, but I'm glad to see you!" The next instant a red-faced, short, stout, bald-headed man was nearly pulling Nat from his horse. "Hello, Uncle Morris!" called Nat. "How are you?" "Fine as silk. How about you?" "Never better," replied Nat "Here fellows, this is Uncle Morris. That's Jack and that's John," he added, with a wave of his hand. "Howdy!" exclaimed Mr. Kent heartily, shaking hands with his nephew's companions. "I'd been able to pick you out in the dark from the description Nat gave. Come on in, grub's almost ready." "Will you speak to him about the old man?" asked Jack of Nat, in a low voice. "Oh, yes, sure," and Nat told his uncle in a few words of the wounded one, and Jack's desire to have him brought in. "I'll send some of the men in the wagon," Mr. Kent said. "Let me go also," Jack begged, and, after some talk it was arranged he was to go with Jim and another cowboy. "But you must have supper first," said Mr. Kent. "I insist on that. Besides it's going to be a warm night, and, according to your tale, you left the stranger pretty comfortable. What do you think about him, Jim?" "Well, there's no telling," the boy's guide said. "He don't look as though he could do much damage. He's a stranger around here. Don't talk like any of the usual crowd. I was a bit leery of him at first, but the lads seemed to cotton to him right off, so I let 'em have their way." "Well, we'll see what he amounts to," Mr. Kent commented. "No harm in doing him a good turn I reckon." It was quite dark when Jack, accompanying Jim and Deacon Pratt, another cowboy, started on the wagon trip. But after a bit the moon arose, and the journey was not so unpleasant. Jack was much interested in listening to the talk of the two men. They discussed everything from the latest make of cartridges and revolvers to the best way to rope a steer and brand a maverick. "Let's see, we ought to be pretty near the place now," Jim remarked, after more than an hour's drive. "I think I see the big stone. Hark! What's that?" A low moan was heard. "That's him, I reckon," put in Deacon, who was driving. He swung the horse to one side, and Jim leaped down. "He's, here!" Jim called. "Pretty bad shape, I'm afraid. Come here, Deacon, and lend me a hand." The two men lifted the aged man into the wagon, and placed him upon a pile of blankets, while Jack held the team. "Do you think he's dead?" asked our hero. "Not yet, but he don't look as if he could last long," Deacon replied. "I'll give him a bit of liquor. It may revive him," and he forced a few drops of the stimulant between the cold lips. "Don't shoot!" the old man begged in a feeble tone. "I don't mean any harm." "It's all right," said Rattlesnake Jim, more tenderly than he had yet spoken. The trip back was made in quick time, and the old man was put in a bed Mr. Kent had ordered gotten ready for him. They were rude but effective doctors, those ranchmen, and, in a little while the stranger had revived considerably. He was suffering mostly from exposure, hunger and loss-of blood from his wound. The three boys were in the sitting room of the ranch house, taking turns telling Mr. Kent of their experiences on their trip west. Before they knew it the clock had struck twelve. "Now you must get off to bed," said Nat's uncle. "We'll have more time for swapping yarns to-morrow." At that moment a man poked his had in at the door. "What is it?" asked Mr. Kent "That party we brought in a while ago, him as is shot in the foot, seems to want something." "What is it?" "He says as how he's got to speak to that lad with the strange ring, calls him Roberts." "He means me!" exclaimed Jack. CHAPTER XXV THE COWBOY'S TRICK "I thought you said your name was Ranger," said Morris Kent. "It always has been," Jack replied. "But my father has been going by the name of Roberts. He was known as that to his associates, because of the necessity for keeping him in exile. So I'll have to consider myself as the son of Mr. Roberts and Mr. Ranger, until we get this cleared up. I am trying to find my father, and I think this old man can aid me. He seems to have a secret." "Then you had better go and see what he has to say," Mr. Kent advised. Jack found the aged man propped up in bed. Though he was still pale, he was evidently a little better. "Let me see that ring again," he said, and Jack, who had taken to wearing the emblem on his finger, held out his hand. "Yes, yes; it is the same," he murmured. "I would know it among ten thousand, though I have never seen it before." "Who are you, and what do you know about this ring?" asked Jack. He had been left all alone with the old man, the cowboy who had summoned him, and Mr. Kent, having left the room. "I am Peter Lantry," the wounded man replied. "Until a month ago I lived with a man named Roberts, though his real name was Robert Ranger. He took his first name for his last one because of some scheming men. But that you know as well as I do. He told me all about his son, and how, if he or I ever saw him he could be identified by a peculiar ring, which he described. As soon as I saw the ring I knew you must be the boy, and I have a message for you." "What is it? Tell me quickly," said Jack. "If I was only sure," murmured the old man. "Roberts warned me to be careful about what I said. If I was only sure. I thought I was,--but now I remember--he told me to be careful." "Careful about what?" asked Jack. "How do I know you are Robert Ranger's son?" asked the sufferer. "I remember now, he said a stranger might get the ring. I wish I had kept still," and he seemed quite worried. A flush came into his pale cheeks, and it seemed as if he was in a fever. "If you doubt me, I can easily prove that I am Robert Ranger's son," spoke Jack. "You probably know the story of Orion Tevis, and the Indian, Smith. His son is here now, and he has a ring just like this. Wait, I will call him." "No! No! Don't!" exclaimed Mr. Lantry. "I must tell you alone. Come closer. I am weak, and I must whisper to you what I have to say. No one else must hear." Jack sat down in a chair beside the bed, and the old man, looking carefully around the room, as though he feared some one would hear his secret, began: "Your father and I have lived for the past three years in a little hut, hidden in the Golden Glow mountains. He never ventured far away, and what few trips to town were necessary I made. Some time ago your father became sick. I am a rough sort of doctor, and I knew he needed some remedies for the heart. I managed to get them, and Roberts (I always call him by that name) grew better. But about a month ago the medicine got low, and I knew I must get more. You see, I only made two trips to civilization a year, one in the spring and one in the fall. In winter it is impossible to get out of the gorge where we live. "I knew then I must start on my summer trip earlier than usual, for the medicine in the shack would only last about two months. So I made ready to go." "But tell me how to get to where my father is," interrupted Jack. "That is important. I must hurry to him." "Wait a minute," spoke the old man. His brain was feeble and Jack realized if he hurried or confused the sufferer he might get no information at all. "I started away from the shack, as I said," Mr. Lantry resumed. "I rode my horse when I was able and led him when it was too rough. I had not traveled many miles before I realized that I was being followed. I caught several glimpses of two men, who kept close on my trail, and, try as I did, I could not shake them off." "Were they members of the timber gang?" asked Jack eagerly. "They were," replied Mr. Lantry. "I will be brief now, as I am getting weak. I hurried on, but the men kept after me. They closed in on me in a lonely place about fifteen miles from here, I judge." "What did they want?" asked Jack. "They demanded that I lead them to where your father was. They knew they could never find the place without a guide, for, doubtless, they had often attempted it. We had the shack well hidden, your father and I. Of course I refused to show them the way. And they threatened to torture me, but I only laughed. Then in sudden anger one of the men fired at me. The bullet went wild as his companion knocked his arm down in time, but it struck me in the foot. Then the men rode away. "I managed to keep on my horse until I fell off from weakness. Then my animal wandered away and I had to crawl. I got as far as the rock and was waiting there, hoping some one would come along, when you found me." "How long is it since you left my father?" asked Jack. "It is a little over three weeks." "And perhaps he is in want and suffering now," the boy cried. "I must hurry to him. Tell me which way to go," and Jack sprang up, as though to start at once in the dead of night. "You must ride until--until you--until you see--you see-" The old man's voice had been growing weaker and weaker. The last words came from him in a hoarse whisper, and, with a feeble moan he fell back on the pillow, with closed eyes. "He's dead! Help! Help!" exclaimed Jack. Mr. Kent and several cowboys came running into the room. Mr. Kent placed his hand over the sufferer's heart. "He is alive, but that's all," he said. "Jim, ride for the doctor." "He never told me how to find my father," said Jack in a low voice. "Oh, if he would only live until he can tell me that! I must go to him! He may be sick or dead, all alone in his cabin!" "Now don't you go to fretting, son," said Mr. Kent kindly. "You just come away from here and go to bed. You're all tired out and worried. This thing will all come out right. The old man may not be so bad off as he seems. We'll get a doctor for him, and he'll fix him up so he can tell you where your father is. If he doesn't I'll send the boys out, and they'll go over all the mountain ranges hereabouts. They can find a maverick in the wildest country you ever saw, and it would be a pity if they couldn't locate a cabin, with all you know about where it is." Jack felt encouraged at this, and said he would go to bed and try to sleep. His companions had retired, as he learned when he got back to the sitting room. "I'll give you a room on the quiet side of the house," said Mr. Kent. "You can change after to-night if you like." He rang a bell, summoning the Chinese cook, who it appeared "was housekeeper and general upstairs girl as well," and gave orders that a certain room should be made ready for Jack. "That loom, him sleep by Cactus Ike," said the Chinese. "Never mind whether Cactus Ike is going to sleep there or not," said Mr, Kent sharply. "You tell Ike he can bunk in with the rest of the boys. He's no better than they are." "Me sabe," replied the Celestial. Jack was too tired to pay much attention to this conversation. Nor did he attach any significance to a talk he heard under his windows a little later. "What's the matter with Ike?" he dimly heard some one ask. "Mad 'cause he got turned out of his room for one of them tenderfoot kids," was the answer. "I wouldn't want to get Ike down on me." "Aw, he's a big bluff." "He is, eh? Well, you wait." But, in spite of his troubles and worriment over his father, Jack was soon asleep from sheer weariness, and when morning came he forgot there was such a person as Cactus Ike. A doctor arrived from Fillmore about breakfast time and examined Mr. Lantry. He said the old man was very sick, and would be for some time. He was out of his head, from fever, and might be so for three weeks. With careful nursing he would recover, said the medical man, and he left some remedies. "We'll see that he gets well," spoke Mr. Kent. "I'll have the cook look after him, for I guess it will be hard to get a nurse out here." "If he only recovers his reason, so he can tell me what I want to know," Jack murmured. "Oh, he will," said Nat's uncle, confidently. "In the meanwhile you will have to be patient. Your father is in no danger now, for his partner did not count on getting back in over a month, and there was medicine enough in the cabin to last until then. Otherwise there is nothing to fear. You tell me the land stealers can't find the shack, so what else is there to worry about?" "Nothing, I suppose," replied Jack, but, somehow, he couldn't help worrying. "Cheer up," said Mr. Kent. "We'll get your father for you. In the meantime while we are waiting for the old man to get well you must learn ranch life, and get good and strong, so that if you do have to take part in a hunt for him you will be able to stand roughing it." Jack thought this was good advice, as did his chums. They raced out of the house after breakfast, determined to see all there was to see. But this, they found, would take a long time. Mr. Kent's ranch took in about a thousand acres. Some of it was on the first plateau, and part among the hills, where the cattle grazed. Besides the house, there were stables for the horses, kennels for the dogs, a cook house, a dining shack, the sides of which could be thrown open in the summer, barns for hay and grain, and a big tall windmill that pumped water. "Can we have regular horses while we're here?" asked Nat of his uncle, as he and his chums started for the stable yard. "Sure," replied Mr. Kent "You just go over there and tell Rattlesnake Jim I said he was to fit you out with a horse and saddle each. He knows which will be the best for you, better than I do. I don't have time to keep track of the animals. I'm going to be busy all the morning, so you can do as you please, within reason. Don't stampede the cattle, that's all," and he turned away with a laugh. The boys looked around the stable enclosure for their friend Jim, but he was not to be seen. "Lookin' for any one?" inquired a tall cowboy, who appeared from under the shed. He had small, black shifty eyes, and when he spoke he looked anywhere but at one. "Where's Mr.--er--Mr. Rattlesnake Jim?" asked Nat. He was not exactly sure how to address, or speak of the cowboys with their queer titles. "Jim? Oh, he's gone over on the Spring range. Was you wantin' anything?" "Only some horses," said Nat. "Oh, you're the boys," spoke the man. "Did Mr. Kent say you are to have 'em?" "Uncle Morris said Jim would give us horses to ride," Nat went on. "Well, I guess I can pick 'em out for you," the man said. "One of you boys named Ranger?" "I am," said Jack, "Oh, yes, you're a friend of the old man who was shot," went on the cowboy as he entered the stable. "Well, I'll pick out horses I think'll suit." He disappeared into the regions of the stalls, and soon came out, leading a fine black horse. He threw a saddle over its back. The animal seemed a bit restive. "Here's your horse, Ranger," the cowboy called. "Is he safe?" asked Jack. "I'm not a very good rider." "A girl could manage him," was the answer. "See, he's as gentle as a lamb," and so it seemed for the man opened the animal's mouth and put his hand in. Thus encouraged, Jack mounted, and the horse moved off at a slow pace. "I guess he's all right," Jack thought In a few more minutes two more horses were saddled, and Nat and John had mounted. "Now for a good gallop over the plain," called Nat, as he led the way from the stable yard. Jack was the last to ride forth. As he was passing the gate that closed the corral he heard some one call to the man who had just saddled the steeds: "Who'd you give the black horse to, Ike?" "None of your business," was the reply. "I'm running this game." "Ike," thought Jack. "I wonder where I heard that name before." Then the memory of the conversation under his window came to him. "Oh, well, guess it's all right to have this horse," the boy thought. "I can't harm him." As the cowboy turned back into the stable a grim smile passed over his face. "Good gallop!" he muttered. "Lucky if you don't break your neck." "Come on! I'll race you!" called Nat, and the three boys were soon speeding over the level plain. CHAPTER XXVI JACK'S WILD RIDE The boys thought they had never been on such fine horses. The animals had an easy gallop that carried one over the ground at a rapid pace, yet which was not hard for a beginner. "Talk about your sport!" exclaimed Jack. "This is glorious; eh, John?" "Best thing I ever struck," replied the Indian. "I feel like my wild ancestors, riding forth to battle. Whoop! la Whoopee! Whoop ah Whoope! Wow! Wow!! Wow!" It was a regular Indian war-cry that issued from John's mouth, and, leaning forward on his horse's neck, he urged the beast to a terrific pace. No sooner had the strange cry vibrated through the air than Jack's horse gave a bound that nearly unseated its rider. It leaped forward so suddenly that Jack was almost flung off backward. Then the steed, taking the bit in its teeth, bolted like the wind. Jack recovered himself with much difficulty. He tried to sit upright, but found he had not skill enough for the task. There was nothing for it but to lean forward and clasp the horse about the neck. In this way he was safe, for a time, from being tossed off. The horse turned from its straight course and began to gallop around in a large circle. Then it made sudden dashes to the right and left, turning so quickly that several times Jack was nearly thrown off. "The horse is mad!" cried Nat, urging his own steed forward, with an idea of trying to catch the one Jack rode. The animal's next move seemed to bear this out. It reared on its hind legs and pawed the air with its powerful fore-feet. Jack would have been thrown off, but for the tight neck-hold he had. Next the beast kicked its hind feet into the air, and Jack came near sliding to the neck. "Drop off!" cried Nat. "Stay on!" shouted John, who, seeing his friend's plight, had turned and was riding back. "He'll be killed if he stays on," shouted Nat. "Yes, and he'll be trampled to death if he leaps off," called back John. "He's a balky horse, I guess." "I think he's a mad one." The next instant the animal, that had been rushing straight ahead, came to such an abrupt halt that Jack was actually flung from the saddle. He went right up into the air and slid along the horse's side. Only the grip he had of the neck and the mane saved him from falling. Before the horse could make another start the boy had wiggled back to his seat. Then came what was probably the hardest part of it all. The horse gathered its four feet under it and rose straight up in the air, coming down with legs stiff as sticks. Jack was not prepared for this and the resulting jar nearly knocked the breath from him. "He's a bucking bronco!" cried John. "Rise in your stirrups when he lands next time." This Jack did, with the result that the jar came on his legs, and was not so bad. Finding it could not thus rid itself of it's persistent rider, the horse began to run straight ahead again. It went so fast that the wind whistled in Jack's ears, and he was in fear lest he be thrown off at this terrific speed, and injured. He held on for dear life. But the horse had still another trick. Stopping again with a suddenness that nearly unseated Jack, it dropped to the ground and started to roll over, hoping to crush the boy on its back. "Get out of the way, quick!" called John, who was watching every move. Jack did so, just in time to escape having his leg broken. "The horse must be crazy," said Nat, who had never seen such antics in a steed before. "There's some reason for it," commented John. "There he goes!" The horse was up an instant later, and dashed off, but had not gone a hundred yards before the saddle fell to the ground, the holding straps having broken. At this the animal stopped, and seemed all over its excitement. "That's funny," said John. He dismounted from his horse and ran toward Jack's animal. The horse allowed himself to be taken by the briddle and lead, showing no sign of fear. John bent over and was examining the saddle. "I guess your yell must have scared him," spoke Jack. "It was the worst I ever heard." "It wasn't that," replied John. "Western horses are used to all sorts of yells. Ah, I thought so," he went on, "this explains it." He pulled something from the underside of the pad and held it up to view. It was a long cactus thorn. "That was what bothered the horse," John said. "It must have been torture to have any one on the saddle. See there," and he pointed to several drops of blood on the animal's back. "Why didn't it act so as soon as I got on?" asked Jack. "Some one has played a trick," said John "See, the thorn was trapped in cloth, so the point would not work through until the horse had been ridden some distance. I wonder who did it, and what for?" "I know," Jack exclaimed, as the memory of the talk under his window the night previous came to him. "It was Cactus Ike," and he told what he had heard. "He wanted to get even with me for having been the cause of his being turned out of his room. No wonder they call him Cactus Ike." "I'll tell uncle Morris," cried Nat. "No, say nothing about it," counseled John. "We'll get square in our own way. Pretend nothing happened. If Ike asks us how we liked the ride, we'll never let on we had any trouble. It will keep him guessing." The broken straps were repaired and, by making a pad of his handkerchief Jack was able to adjust the saddle without causing the horse any pain. The animal seemed quite friendly, after all the excitement, which was only caused by its efforts to get rid of the terrible thorn that was driving it frantic. In its roll it had accomplished this, and had no further objection to carrying a boy on its back. Cactus Ike cast several inquiring glances at the lads as they rode into the ranch yard about an hour later. But he did not ask any questions. As the chums were going toward the house Jack heard one of the cowboys remark to Ike: "The black horse looks as if it had been ridden pretty hard." "I'll make him ride harder next time," muttered Ike, but whether he referred to the horse or to himself, Jack was not sure. He watched and saw Ike looking at the sore on the animal, over which the boy's handkerchief was still spread. Jack's first inquiry was as to the condition of Old Peter Lantry. "He's no better," replied Mr. Kent "You'll have to be patient, Jack. All things come to him who waits. Did you have a good ride?" "I got lots of practice," replied Jack, not caring to go into details. "Can't get too much of it," replied Nat's uncle. "You can see some good examples this afternoon." "How's that?" asked Nat. "Some of the boys are going to have a little sport among themselves," replied his uncle. "They do every once in a while when the work gets slack. They're coming in from some of the outlying ranches, about forty of 'em, I guess." "What'll they do?" asked Jack. "You'll see," replied Mr. Kent. Before dinner time the cowboys began arriving. And in what a hurly- burly manner did they come! On their fleet horses or cow-ponies they rode along the trails as if it was in the early days and a tribe of wild Indians was after them. They came up on the gallop, shouting, yelling, and firing their big revolvers off into the air. Up they would rush, almost to the porch that surrounded the house. Then they would suddenly pull their horses back on their haunches and leap off with a whoop, the well-trained beasts standing stock-still when the bridle was thrown over their heads. Then began such play as the boys had never seen before,--such riding as is not even seen in the best of the Wild West shows. The men seemed part of the horses they bestrode, as the animals fairly flew over the ground. "If we could only do that!" exclaimed Nat. "Maybe we can, with practice," said Jack. "John has learned a lot already." "But he knew some before he came here," replied Nat. The men had impromptu contests to see who could pick up the most handkerchiefs from the ground, leaning from their saddles as their horses galloped past. They picked up potatoes in the same way. They roped wild steers, dropping the lariat over a designated horn or leg, and throwing the animal on whichever side the judge suddenly called on them to do. Then such shooting at marks as there was! The men used their revolvers with almost the skill of rifles. They cut cards, punctured cans tossed high in the air, and clipped upright sticks at distances from which the boys could scarcely make out the marks. It was an afternoon of wild, exciting, blood-stirring and yet healthy, clean fun, and the boys were so worked up they hardly knew whether they were standing on their heads or their feet. The last contest of the day had been called. It was a test between two of the most skillful cowboys, to see who could lasso the other. As they were circling around on their horses, each seeking an opening, there came dashing up the road a man, on a foam-flecked steed. He put the horse right at the fence, which it leaped, and rode to where Mr. Kent stood. "The cattle on the upper range have stampeded!" he yelled. "They're headed for the canyon!" "Here boys!" shouted Mr. Kent. "Sharp work now! Send my horse here! We must head 'em off!" CHAPTER XXVII THE CATTLE STAMPEDE If there had been confusion and excitement before there was more of it now. Yet no one lost his head. There was a way of going about it, and though it seemed as if everyone was running here and there, without an object, there was a well-worked-out system evident. The cowboys began looking to their saddle girths, for there was hard riding ahead of them. Some ran to the supply house for extra cartridges, and these were hurriedly thrust into belts or pockets. Coats and hats that had been discarded were donned, and several men began packing up some bacon and hardtack, while others strapped simple camp outfits back of their saddles, for there was no telling how long they would be obliged to be on the trail. "Come on! Let's go!" cried Jack, and he and his two chums raced for the stables. "Will they let us, do you think?" asked John, whose eyes sparkled at the thought of the chase. "Of course," replied Nat. "Uncle said he wanted us to learn the ranch business. I'll ask him." But Nat did not get a chance. Mr. Kent was too busy preparing to ride after his stampeded cattle to pay any attention to the three boys. It is doubtful if he thought of them. So the chums, without further permission than Nat's idea that it would be all right, saddled their horses, Jack taking the black which he had come to like very much. They rode from the corral and out on the road that led to the north where the upper range lay. The lads at once found themselves in the rear of a galloping throng of cowboys. "Come on, let's get up ahead," shouted Nat, and they urged their horses forward, passing the others. When they were almost in the van a voice hailed them: "Where you boys going?" They turned, to see Mr. Kent riding toward them. "Oh," said Nat, a little confused. "We thought you'd want us to go to learn how to manage a herd of cattle." "Manage stampeding cattle," muttered Mr. Kent. "You boys must be crazy. But it's too late to send you back, I suppose. Only don't ride your horses to death the first thing. You've got lots of work ahead of you." With this encouragement the chums dropped back, listening to the talk of the cowboys about what was ahead of them. "Remember the last stampede," one tall lanky rider asked his neighbor, who was nearly the same build. "The one where Loony Pete was trampled to death?" "That's the one. The steers sure made mincemeat of him all right. Hope no one gets down under foot this trip." The boys looked at each other. This was a more dangerous undertaking than they had anticipated. The riders advanced at an even, if not rapid pace. The cowboys as their horses ambled on were loading revolvers, looking to their lariats, tightening the packs which they carried on the back of their saddles, and making ready for the hard task ahead of them. From listening to the talk, the boys learned that the upper range was about five miles distant, and was where the choicest cattle were herded, preparatory to being shipped away. The range was a big one, but, about ten miles from it, was a deep and dangerous canyon, at the beginning of the hills, which as they grew larger became the range of Golden Glow mountains. It was toward this canyon that the steers were headed, in a wild, unreasoning rush. It seemed impossible for the cowboys to get ahead of them in time to head them off. But the cattle had a longer way to travel than did the men, and the latter could take a diagonal course and, if they had luck, reach the edge of the canyon first. It was planned to get between the oncoming herd and the edge of the gulch, and turn the steers back, if possible. "Better hit up the pace!" exclaimed Mr. Kent, when they had ridden several miles. "We don't want to be too late." The boys, realized, as did the men, that if the cattle, in their rush, reached the canyon, they would pile up in the bottom, and hundreds would be killed. The horses were now galloped and the cavalcade raised quite a dust as it hastened over the prairie. The men began lossening the revolvers in their belts, and several unslung their lariats, ready for instant use. In about half an hour they began to ascend a slight rise that led to a plateau which extended into the range. Ahead of them, and about two miles to their right, lay the gulch. "Well, we're here first!" exclaimed Mr. Kent, as he topped the rise and glanced to the left. "Hark!" cried Rattlesnake Jim, who rode next to him. "I hear 'em!" A noise like distant thunder sounded over the plain. Then, about three miles away, there arose something that looked like a dark cloud. The sound of thunder came nearer. The dust cloud was plainly to be seen. Right ahead, so as to cross it on the slant, rode the group of men. The boys were in the rear. Mr. Kent gave a glance back and saw them. He shouted something but the chums could not hear him amid the pounding of hoofs. They saw the ranchman make signals, but did not understand them. Then they saw several men from the front rank of the cowboys circle around and come up behind them. "You young rascals!" exclaimed Rattlesnake Jim. "You ought to be spanked for coming along! Mr. Kent says to keep in the middle now. We're going to ride behind and keep your horses on the go. If they lag behind you're liable to be killed!" Things began to look serious now. The lads found themselves in the midst of a throng of cowboys, and the horses of the chums, being surrounded by steeds ridden by experienced cattlemen, picked up their pace and went forward on the rush. Closer and closer approached the dark cloud. Nearer and nearer sounded the thunderous pounding of hoofs. Then, as the boys looked, they could see through the dust that was blown aside by a puff of wind, thousands of cattle, with heads on which flashed long, sharp, wide-spreading horns, rushing madly along. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled a score of cowboys. Bang! Bang! Bang! spoke a score of big revolvers. "Right across now!" yelled Mr. Kent. "Try and turn 'em! If we don't do it, then back again, once more!" Then began such a ride as the boys had never dreamed of. Across the ragged front of the maddened animals the men urged their horses on a long slant. Lying low in their saddles, holding on with one hand, and firing revolvers with the other, the cowboys rode, there being no need to guide the trained horses. Bang! Bang! Bang! It was like a skirmish line firing on the enemy. The boys, who had secured revolvers as they rushed to the stables, fired as the men did, right in the faces of the advancing steers. The cartridges were blank, but so close were some of the men that the burning wadding struck the cattle. Could they stop the rush? Could the maddened and frightened steers be halted before they plunged over the cliffs? The line of cattle was about a quarter of a mile wide. In less than two minutes the cowboys, with the three chums in their midst, had swept across it. But the steers had not stopped. They were several hundred feet nearer the canyon, which now was but a mile away. There would be time for but one, or possibly two more attempts, and then it would be too late. But the cowboys never halted. Wheeling sharply, they dashed once more across the front of the steers. Their yells were wilder than ever, and the shooting was a continuous rattle. "Rope some on the edges!" yelled Mr. Kent. At that some of the cowboys rode back and, whirling their lariats above their heads, sent the coils about the horns of some on the left fringe. The animals went down in a heap, right in the midst and under the hoofs of the others. Of course they were trampled to death, but this was the means of causing a number to stumble and fall, and so halt those back of them. This could only be done on the two outer edges. To have attempted this in the center of the stampeding herd would have meant death for the cowboy who tried it. The second dash across the front had been made, and the frightened cattle had not been more than momentarily stopped. They were still rushing toward the cliff. "Once more!" called Mr. Kent. "This is our last chance!" The canyon was hut a quarter of a mile away, If the rush was not stopped now, it meant the death of many valuable animals, and the possible scattering of the herd. Again across the front, bristling with waving horns, rode the brave men. Their revolvers spat out fire and the smoke almost obscured the oncoming steers. The men yelled until their throats were parched. "Make a stand! Make a stand!" yelled Mr. Kent. The cowboys bunched together, riding their horses in a circle, the center of which was the boys. For a moment it seemed as if death was coming to meet them on the wings of the wind. CHAPTER XXVIII HUNTING MOUNTAIN LIONS "Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled the cowboys, in desperation. To the noise John added his Indian warwhoop, and again the men began firing revolvers, which had been rapidly reloaded. It was a critical moment. It was the turning point of the stampede. Back, back, back the rushing cattle forced the men, who still kept circling. Now the canyon was but two hundred feet away. And then, almost as suddenly as it had been started, the stampede was over. The foremost cattle slowed up. They raised their heads, and bellowed. For a few seconds the front line was pushed ahead by those behind. Then all through the herd seemed to go a message that the run was over. Plowing the dirt up with their feet, as they vainly tried to stop, but could not because of the push that still was exerted behind them, the foremost cattle advanced nearly to the knot of horsemen. But the cowboys did not budge, knowing it was ended now. Then, with loud shouts and waving hats they turned the herd so that it circled around and was started back toward the range. So close were the rear men to the canyon, when this had been done that they could have tossed a stone down into the depths. "Narrow squeak, that!" observed Rattlesnake Jim, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a big red handkerchief. "'Bout as close as I want 'em," observed Mr. Kent. "I wonder what started 'em off this way." "Maybe it was mountain lions," said Jim. "I heard there was quite a few around lately, looking for nice juicy young calves." "It wasn't lions that started 'em this time," said the man who had brought word of the stampede, and who had ridden with the others from the ranch. "What was it then?" asked Mr. Kent. "It was done by two men, so some of the boys told me, just before I started out," replied the messenger. "They said they saw a couple of strangers hanging about the range the other night, but didn't think anything of it. We were all in the range house this morning, getting breakfast, when, all of a sudden, the steers started off." "But what made 'em &o?" asked Mr. Kent. "Some of the boys saw these strange men starting a fire close to some of the cows," explained the messenger. "The grass was dry, and, in one place it burned quite hard. Some of the steers got scorched before they knew what was happening, and they went off on the dead run. The two men trampled out the fire, and ran away. The boys started after the cattle, and sent me on to tell you." "This will have to be looked into," murmured Mr. Kent. "But now let's get the cattle back on the range." It was nearly dusk when this had been accomplished, and it was a tired and weary throng of men and boys that started for the ranch house in the gathering twilight. The horses could only amble along, for the strain had been hard on them as well as on the men. The next few days the boys spent in going about the ranch, close to the house. They were much in company with Rattlesnake Jim, who took pleasure in telling them things all good cowboys should know. He showed them how to make a lariat, and even instructed them a bit in its use, though John needed but few lessons to become almost as expert as his teacher. Jim told them the best way to camp out on the plains at night, how to make their fires, and warned them to be careful not to set the grass ablaze in dry weather. He also showed them how to tether their horses, the best way of adjusting a saddle, and instructed them in the art of finding their way at night by the stars. In short the boys learned more in a few days from Jim than they could have picked up alone in a month. They were so enthusiastic that they would have sat up all night listening to their new teacher. As for riding, the lads improved very much as Jim showed them how to mount, how to sit, how to guide the horse by the mere pressure of the knees, and other tricks of which a "tenderfoot" never dreams. After supper, one evening, when the boys, Mr. Kent and Rattlesnake Jim were in the sitting room, a common resting place for all on the ranch, Jack asked: "Are there really mountain lions around here?" "There used to be," said Mr. Kent, "but I haven't seen any lately." "I heard some of the boys from the upper range say they heard 'em, a few nights ago," spoke Jim. "That ought to be looked into," said Mr. Kent. "They're nasty customers to get among a herd." "Can't we go hunting 'em?" asked Nat. "What do you know about hunting mountain lions?" asked his uncle. "They'd eat you up." "Not if we took Jim along," put in Jack. "I shot a lynx once," said John. "That's nothing like a mountain lion," Mr. Kent remarked. "Can't we go?" pleaded Nat. "I'll see about it," his uncle answered. He did see about it, with such good effect that, a few days later he called the boys in and showed them three fine rifles. "Can you shoot?" he asked. "A little," they replied, wondering what was coming. "Then take these and see if you and Jim can bag a few lions," Mr, Kent went on. "I hear they got a couple of calves last night. Now-- now--never mind thanking me," as the boys fairly stuttered their expressions of surprise and happiness. "Better see Jim and get ready." The boys lost no time in doing this. They found Jim almost as pleased as they were. The cowboy at once began preparing a camping outfit, and that night he announced they would start in the morning. "For how long?" asked Mr. Kent. "We'll make it four days, if the boys can stand it," Jim replied. The haunt of the lions was in a range of low foothills to the north of the range from which the herd had stampeded. It was planned to ride to the house where the cowboys in charge of that bunch of cattle lived, and there leave the horses. They would proceed on foot up into the hills, where the trails were so rough that horses were of little use. They camped that night at the ranch house, and the boys hardly wanted to go to bed when Jim and some of his acquaintances began to swap stories around the fire. "Better turn in," advised Jim, about ten o'clock. "Have to be up before sunrise, you know." The next morning they tramped for several miles, the country getting wilder and wilder as they proceeded. The trail was up now, for they had entered the region of the foothills. Beyond them lay the beginning of the Golden Glow mountain range. "That's where my father is," Jack thought "I hope I can soon find him." It was almost noon when they reached a spot that Jim decided would be a good place to camp. It was under a sort of overhanging ledge, and well screened by trees. "We'll leave our stuff here," he said, "and, after dinner, the real hunting will begin." Little time was lost over the meal, and, having seen to their rifles and knives, the four hunters started along the trail, making their way through low brush and over big boulders. Jack who had forged ahead, with Jim close behind him, was suddenly pulled back by the cowboy's hand, "Look there!" exclaimed Jim. In a soft place in the ground, just where he was about to set his foot, Jack saw some peculiar marks. "The tracks of a mountain lion!" Jim exclaimed in a whisper. "He's been here only a short time ago, for the marks are fresh. Look out, now, boys!" The three lads needed no other caution. They got ready with their rifles, while Jim advanced a bit to see in which direction the beast had gone. "Follow me," he said in a whisper as he came back. "He must be just ahead of us, and the wind is blowing from him to us. We ought to get him!" Stepping as cautiously as possible, and taking care not to tread on loose stones, or sticks, that would break and betray their presence, the four began stalking the lion. That they were coming closer to the beast was evidenced by the increasing plainness of the tracks. "He's heading for his den," whispered Jim. "We must get him before he reaches it or we'll lose him." There was a sort of path along which the hunters were traveling, and which seemed to be one regularly used by the lion. It made a sudden turn, to get past a big boulder that jutted out from the side of the hill. As Jim and the boys rounded this, they came to an abrupt halt, and each one gazed with startled eyes at a ledge of rock, just beyond and ahead of them. There, in full view, with the sun streaming down on him, was an immense mountain lion. He was facing away from the hunters, and this, with the fact that the wind was blowing from him to them, had enabled them to get within a hundred yards. Slowly Jim leveled his rifle. Then he seemed to think of something, and stopped. "You boys try, all together," he said in such a faint whisper that it sounded like the breeze. "If you miss I'll bowl him over." CHAPTER XXIX LOST ON THE MOUNTAIN Up to that time the boys had been as cool, almost, as Jim himself. But, at the idea that they were to slay the big and fierce creature standing so majestically before them, they experienced a touch of what is called "buck fever." Their hands shook so they could not sight their rifles. Even John, half Indian as he was, showed the effects of it. "Steady," whispered Jim. "You're only shooting at a mark!" At once the nerves of the boys quieted. Their hands became firm, and, raising their rifles they all took careful aim at the lion. Jim was watching them. "Fire!" he suddenly exclaimed in a whisper, and the three rifles sounded as one. Following the report, and mingling with it, came a scream so shrill and full of terror that the boys could not help jumping. Through the smoke they could see a big, tawny, yellow body leap high into the air, and then, falling back, begin to claw the earth and stones, while the screams continued to ring out. "You nailed her!" cried Jim. Hardly had he spoken before there was a rattling sound behind them. All four turned, to see, crouching, not twenty feet away, a big, male mountain lion, ready to spring. It was the mate of the female the boys had just mortally wounded, and the big beast's eyes flashed fire as it saw the death struggles of its den-mate. For a moment the hunters stood as if paralyzed. The sight of the lion in their rear had unnerved them. The male must have been stalking them, just as they had followed the other. As they watched, a sudden tremor seemed to run through the big brute's body. "He's going to spring!" said Jim, in a low voice. At the same moment he brought his gun up, ready to fire. An instant later the lion launched itself forward, propelled by muscles like steel springs, straight at the group, anger blazing in its eyes. Bang! spoke Jim's rifle, and the big cat seemed to turn completely over in the air. But the momentum of the spring was not checked by the bullet which had struck it in the throat. On it came, and Jim yelled: "Duck boys!" He had no time to do so himself, so, before he could throw himself to one side, the lion was upon him and the cowboy went down in a heap, the beast, snarling and growling, on top of him. There was a confusion of man and lion, a vision of flying legs, fast-working claws and the sight of a yellow body in convulsions. "Fire at the lion!" yelled Jack. "Don't! You might shoot Jim!" exclaimed Nat. "Get your knives out!" cried John, drawing his own blade. But they were not needed. A moment later the big cat rolled over off Jim, and, in a few seconds the cowboy rose from the ground, covered with dirt and blood, but, apparently unhurt. "Did he bite you?" asked Jack, "He was dead when he landed on me," said Jim. "It was only the dying struggle. Might have clawed me up a bit, but not much." In fact the cowboy had several long and deep scratches on his hands and legs, where his heavy trousers had been cut through by the terrible claws. Aside from that he was not hurt. "Good thing I had a load in my gun," he remarked, as he threw out the empty shell and fired a bullet through the head of the lion to make sure it was dead. "I guess the other one's done for," said Jack, as he looked toward where the lioness had stood. "I'd hope so, with three of you firin' at her," spoke Jim as he went over to a little spring and washed some of the dirt and blood from him. "This isn't half bad," spoke Nat. "I wish some of the fellows at Washington Hall could see us now." "Maybe they would think we were some pumpkins," put in Jack. "Oh we'll do better than this," said John. "We want to get one apiece, instead of a third each." "That's so," admitted Jack and Nat. It was decided they had enjoyed sport enough for one day, so they went back to their little camp and prepared to spend the night. In the morning they journeyed to the small ranch house and some of the cowboys went for the dead lions and skinned them. The boys were a little anxious as to who would have the trophies, but there was no need of this, as, in the next two days three more of the lions were slain. Jack and John each bowled over one, not so very large, to be sure, but enough to make the lads feel several inches taller. Nat had poor luck, missing two fine chances. However, he was not discouraged. The boys were congratulated on all sides when they got back to Mr. Kent's house, even the oldest plainsman admitting they had not done so bad for tenderfeet. Aside from long rides, in which they learned to be more proficient on horses, the boys did little for the week following the hunt. Jack made anxious inquiries every day after the condition of Peter Lantry, hoping the aged man might have regained his senses enough to give directions for finding Mr. Ranger's cabin. But the fever still held the old miner (for such his delirious talk showed him to have been) a captive, and locked his brain in an impenetrable mantle. "It's hard to sit around and do nothing, when you know your father may need you," Jack said, one day. "I'm going to ask Mr. Kent if I can't go myself, alone, and find the cabin. I believe I could, from Mr. Tevis's directions." "What do you want to go alone for?" asked Nat. "Why can't John and I go along?" "I didn't want to take you on a dangerous trip," Jack replied. "Well, I guess you'd find it hard to leave us behind," John put in. "Come on, let's ask if we can't go." At first Mr. Kent would not hear of it. But the boys pleaded so hard, and Jack seemed to feel so badly at the delay, that Mr. Kent gave in, He admitted there was no telling when Mr. Lantry would recover enough to give directions, and it would certainly be a very long time before he would be able to guide a party to the scene. So it was arranged that the three boys were to make the hundred mile trip to Golden Glow. It was not as venturesome as it sounded. They had come west in safety, and gone through a number of perils with credit to themselves. Then, too, it was in summer, and camping in the open was fun, more than anything else. It was true the trail was a hard one, but, by going a roundabout way, horses could be used for the greater distance. Mr. Kent wanted to send Rattlesnake Jim with the boys, but they would not hear of it. "I guess we can look out for ourselves," said Jack. "If we can't, it's time we learned." Three days later saw them on the trail. They had sturdy horses, used to mountain roads, a camping outfit and provisions that would last them two weeks, with plenty of ammunition, and each one carried a fine rifle. They rode along for four days, camping at night in such sheltered places as they could find. The morning of the fifth day they awoke to find the mountain shrouded in fog. "That shan't delay us," exclaimed Jack, though it was hard to see a rod ahead of the horse's nose. "We have a compass and we can follow the general direction Mr. Tevis gave us." So they traveled on after breakfast, though it was dreary riding. They plodded on for mile after mile in silence. All at once Jack, who was ahead exclaimed: "Doesn't that tree look familiar?" He pointed to one that had been struck by lightning, and which had a peculiar spiral white mark running down the trunk. It was close to the edge of the trail. "It sure does," admitted John. "I remember passing that before," Nat said. "What of it?" "It means that we have wandered around in a circle," Jack answered. "We are lost on the mountains!" CHAPTER XXX A VIEW OF GOLDEN GLOW For a moment Jack's words struck a chill to the hearts of his companions. The fog seemed to wrap around them like an impenetrable blanket, from which they sought in vain to escape. A little breeze stirred the wreaths of vapor, but did not disperse them. "Lost!" repeated Nat, as if he could not believe it. "I guess you're right," admitted John. "Now wait a minute. Where's the compass?" "Here," spoke Jack, feeling in his pocket for it. A blank look came over his face. He hurriedly looked through several pockets. "I've lost it!" he exclaimed. "Well, never mind," John went on calmly. He seemed to rise to the emergency, and become collected in the face of the danger that confronted them. "I guess I haven't got Indian blood in me for nothing. I can tell which way is north, anyhow." "You can?" asked Nat. "How, in all this fog?" "There's more moss on the north side of a tree than on any other," John replied. "We were going in a northerly direction so, all we have to do is to keep on, stopping once in a while to see how the moss is." It sounded like good advice, and Nat and Jack felt better after hearing it. They started off again, more hopeful, and went slowly for a while, stopping now and then, to see about the moss, or "nature's compass," as Jack called it. They must have traveled a number of miles, when they decided it was time to camp and eat something. They looked around for some dry wood for a fire, seeking for it under overhanging rocks as Jim had showed them how to do. They managed to start a blaze, and John was frying some bacon, incidentally trying to keep the smoke from his eyes, when Nat, who had gone a short distance off the trail, exclaimed: "Say fellows; look here!" "See a bear?" asked Jack. "No, but here's our old friend, the queer tree!" he called. "We're back in the same place." Jack and John ran to where Nat stood. There was the lightning-scarred trunk. Once more they had traveled in a circle. They had not read the moss signs aright. It was such a shock that, for a few moments, the boys did not know what to say. They had been so sure they were journeying in the right direction, that, to find they had merely gone back on their own trail, was more than discouraging. "Thought you said you knew how to read signs, and where north was," spoke Jack, looking at John. "Well, I thought I did," the Indian replied. "I'm sure I am right, only I think we must have made a mistake in our directions." "Well, we're here, and what are we going to do?" asked Nat. About them the fog swirled, lazily moving this way and that, in response to gentle puffs of wind, but never lifting enough to enable them to get a glimpse of the sun, to determine where they were, or in which direction to travel. "Let's eat, anyhow," suggested Jack. "We'll feel better after that." It was no very cheerful meal, and they were three very much worried boys. They said little while partaking of the bacon, bread and coffee, the horses cropping the sparse grass near by. But, in a little while, Jack laughed. "What's the use of feeling blue?" he asked. "We're lost, that's sure enough, but we're in a civilized country, and we'll get home, or somewhere, sooner or later. Come on, let's have another try." "Then you can lead the way, I'll not," spoke John a little sharply. "I'm not going to be blamed again." "Oh, come now!" exclaimed Jack. "Don't mind what we said. Of course it wasn't your fault. It would happen to any one!" All that afternoon they traveled, until it was hard work to urge the horses on, as they were becoming tired. The boys spoke but seldom, and John seemed more glum than ever. Once or twice Jack tried to joke with him, but it was a failure. The half Indian lad was exhibiting some of the traits of his ancestors. Gradually it grew darker, until, with the thick fog, and the overhanging trees, it was almost like twilight. "How much further?" asked Nat. "I guess we can camp any time you want to," Jack said. "Do you think we are any further along the trail, or have we just traveled in a bigger circle?" Nat inquired. "Hard to say," replied Jack. "At any rate I don't see our old friend the queer tree. We must have ascended some for it's been up hill the last two hours." They found a well sheltered place, underneath a big clump of trees, that would serve as a canopy for themselves and the horses. The animals were tethered, after being allowed to feed on a patch of grass, and then they had supper. After the meal John seemed to be in better spirits, and took a more cheerful view of things. "I guess the fog will lift by morning," he said. But it did not, and, when the boys arose to prepare breakfast, after an uncomfortable night, the white curtain was thicker than ever. They traveled all that day, but, whether they made any real progress, or whether they went back or around in a circle, they could only surmise. They tried to keep ascending the mountain, and this was the only means they had of telling which way to go. "If we could only see something," said Nat, "it wouldn't be so lonesome. A fox, or a rabbit, or even a mountain lion. I don't believe I'd shoot one, I'd want his company." "I'm sorry I got you fellows into this scrape," Jack put in. "I'd go back with you, and begin over again, all alone, only I guess it would be just as bad to go back as it is to go ahead, so we might as well keep on." "Well, I reckon you'll not go on alone," said Nat, decidedly, and John, who had recovered his former good-natured, nodded in assent. As their horses stumbled on, once more the curtain of night began to descend, hastened by the thick fog. Would it never rise? How long were they to be hidden under the white vail? Suddenly, as they urged on their tired animals, a spear of light seemed to pierce the gathering gloom ahead of them. At the sight of it the horses threw up their heads and put forward their ears. The spear grew brighter. Then it pierced the mist. All at once a puff of wind brushed aside the white clinging wreaths of vapor that had so long enshrouded them. The fog rolled away, and there, in front of them was the setting sun, in a halo of glory. As it shone the beams were caught and reflected from a distant peak. "Golden Glow! Golden Glow!" cried Jack. "There is the mountain we have been searching for! Now to find my father!" CHAPTER XXXI JACK AND NAT PRISONERS The three travelers came to a halt on the shelf of a high cliff that towered above their heads. It was a wide and safe road they had emerged upon, and it could be seen winding on and up, until it was lost in the mist which was rapidly being driven forward by the wind. "There is the road to Golden Glow!" exclaimed Jack. "Come on. We are on the right trail now." "Better go easy," cautioned John. "It's getting night, and we can't travel far. Here's a good place to camp, and we can start early in the morning. I guess the fog has lifted to stay." Though Jack was impatient to press forward, he realized that what John said was sensible. He stood for awhile looking at the shifting light as it was reflected from the sun on the top of the lofty peak. He felt that at last he had reached the beginning of the end of his long search. Would it be successful? Would he find his father? Would he be in time to see him alive? All this Jack thought, and much more. Then the light faded as Old Sol sunk behind a mass of clouds, the stern mountains hiding his welcome face, "Now for supper!" cried Nat, in a more cheerful tone than any of the boys had used in the last two days. "I'm as hungry as a bear. I wish I had a nice fresh chicken--" Bang! It was John's gun that had been fired, and, before Nat could ask what the matter was he saw a plump bird fall to the ground, as the result of the Indian lad's quick aim. "I don't know whether it's a chicken or not," John said, "but it looks good to eat." And so the boys found it, though they did not know what kind of fowl it was. They fried it with crisp bacon, and with big tin cups of tea, as a change from coffee, they made a meal that caused them all to feel better. Jack could hardly start early enough the next morning, but the others insisted that he take time to eat a good breakfast. They were on the move again, almost before the sun had begun to tinge the mountain with the morning glow, arid they found the trail an easy one for several miles. It dipped down a bit, after one high shoulder of the range was passed, and then began a straight assent up to where they could see the peak they knew must be the Golden Glow, though it did not shine then. They camped at noon, and hurried on after a brief rest. Up and up they went until the shadows began to lengthen and they knew evening was approaching. Above their heads towered the high peak, and, as they rounded a turn they saw the top of the mountain suddenly seem to burst into flame above their head. The sun had again caught the mass of quartz and was reflecting from it. Now the trail turned. They had reached the highest point in the range where it was almost impossible to go further with horses. Jack, who was in the lead, pulled up his animal. Then, as he looked down he gave a cry. "There!" he exclaimed. "There is the stone Mr. Tevis told us about!" "Yes, and there is the cross carved upon it!" cried Nat. "Where is the tall pine tree?" asked John. "There!" came from Jack, and he pointed down the slope ahead of them. "It is just in line with that other peak!" The two boys looked to where he pointed. Sure enough, they saw the landmark Orion Tevis had mentioned. "To-morrow I may see my father!" said Jack in a low tone. Hardly had he spoken the words when there was a noise behind them, and the boys turned to see two horsemen riding up. At first the chums did not attach much significance to the appearance of the two riders. The men were coming on as fast as their horses could travel, but the boys thought they were ranchmen or herdsmen. "The two first ones! They're the ones we want!" exclaimed the foremost of the men, and at that Nat and Jack, who were in front of John, started. "Grab one Nate, and I'll tackle the other!" Before Nat and Jack could make a move to defend themselves they found a rope circling their arms just above their elbows. The men had cast their lariats and pinioned the boys. The resulting jerk nearly pulled them from their horses, but when the men saw this, they urged their steeds close to their captives, and held them in their saddle, while they deftly bound their hands. There was a clatter of hoofs at which Jack and Nat turned their heads. If they expected to see some one coming to rescue them they were disappointed, for all they beheld was John, swinging his horse around on the trail and making off at top speed. "Come back!" yelled one of the men, making a move as if to reach for his gun, but at this Jack wiggled so he had to give all his attention to the captive youth. "I'll come back--" yelled John, and the rest of what he said was lost in the clatter his horse made as it sprang over stones. Then John disappeared around a big ledge of rock. "Never mind," said one of the men, whom his companion had addressed as Nate. "We don't need him." "Guess not, Sid," was the reply. "We've got the main ones. He don't count." "What do you mean by this?" burst out Nat, who, as was Jack, had been so surprised by the sudden turn of events that he did not know what to say. "Who are you, anyhow?" "Now, don't get excited, sonny," spoke Nate. "This is a high altitude, remember, and you might bust a blood vessel. That would be too bad." "Yes, the fewer questions you ask the better off you'll be," put in Sid. "If my uncle hears of this you'll suffer for it," Nat went on. He thought the men might be cowboys out for a lark. "Don't worry, your uncle will never hear of it," Nate replied. "Now I guess we'll travel." There was nothing to do but to obey. The boys were fairly tied on their horses, so quickly and so deftly had the men used their ropes. "Did you get the rings?" asked Nate of his companion. "Almost forgot it," replied Sid. "I'll do it now." Before Jack was aware what the man was up to he had grabbed from his finger the curious moss agate emblem. "Here's one," exclaimed Sid. "Now for the other." He looked at both of Nat's hands. "Where's your ring?" he demanded. "Never had one," said Nat defiantly. "No fooling now, give it up or you'll be sorry." "I tell you I haven't got any," Nat replied impatiently. "You're up the wrong tree." "Give me that ring or I'll--" began Sid, when his companion broke in with: "Never mind now. It's getting late and we don't want to be caught out here at night. Bring him along. I guess we'll find a way to make him talk." Then, having seen that their captives were securely bound, the men attached long ropes to the bridles of the boys' horses, and led the animals back down the trail. The two men were some distance in advance, and, as the boys rode side by side, they had a chance to converse in low tones without being overheard by their captors. "Are they brigands, like you read about?" asked Nat. "Not much," replied Jack. "I think they are the same men who chased poor old Mr. Lantry, and shot him. I'm sure they are some of the bad men who tried to get my father, or else how would they know about the rings?" "They didn't get one from me," spoke Nat. "They must have made a mistake and got me instead of John. I say, Jack, you don't s'pose he's in with the gang, do you?" "What do you mean?" "He didn't lead us into a trap, did he? Bought off by the enemy, you know. He's part Indian, and you never can trust an Indian. Maybe these men hired him to fetch us this way. You know he acted sort of queer, lately." "Never!" said Jack, in as loud a whisper as he dared use without being overheard. "I'd trust John Smith with my life, Indian or no Indian. He's not in this game." "Then what made him run away and leave us?" asked Nat. "I don't call that sticking by your friends." "Maybe he went for help," suggested Nat. "I'll believe that when we see the help," Nat responded, in no gentle tones. "It looks queer." In fact the whole proceeding was a mystery to both boys. They could not imagine what the men would want to hold them captives for. Only Jack had an inkling. He believed the men were members of the band that had tried so long to get his father so they might play a trick on Mr. Tevis and gain the land. He believed they had been on his trail and that of his companions for some time, and had seized the first opportunity of capturing them. The seizure of his ring showed that, though he could not understand how they had mistaken Nat for John. However, that was natural, seeing the three boys were alike in general appearance, and Nat was almost as brown as John, from exposure to the sun. Down the trail for some miles the men led their captives and then they turned and ascended another way. The boys' hands and legs were beginning to get numb from the pressure of the thongs, and they were very tired. It was getting quite dark, but still they were led on. Suddenly, from the gathering darkness, there sounded a challenge: "Who's there?" CHAPTER XXXII THE ESCAPE "Two kings," was the answer from one of the men. "What kings?" was the query. "King Nate and King Sid," replied the first named, "and they have two loyal subjects with them." "Let the kings and their subjects proceed," the unseen voice went on, and a moment later the boys found themselves in front of a sort of cave in the mountain side, from the depths of which a fire glowed, disclosing the figures and shadows of several men. "Had luck, eh?" asked some one, and Nate replied with a grunt, at the same time asking if "grub" was ready. "Of course it is," one of those grouped about the fire replied. "But you might tell us how you made out." "Couldn't be better," replied Sid. "We got the two boys and one of the rings. We don't need two. I guess I can fix up a duplicate that will fool Tevis." "What you going to do with the kids?" another man inquired. "They're going to be a nuisance." "No, they won't," Sid answered. "We'll keep 'em here until we get what we want, and then we'll turn 'em loose. I'm not going to harm 'em." By this time several men had surrounded the captives. Jack and Nat could see that the cave was a large one, extending back some distance under the mountain. Far back was another fire, about which were one or two men. It looked like the mountain cavern of a band of brigands. "Take 'em inside," Sid ordered one of those in the group about Nat and Jack. "Take care of their horses and whatever they have about them. Then give 'em a bit of grub. I reckon they're hungry." The boys were grateful for the relief they experienced as their bonds were loosened and they were allowed to dismount from their horses. They were so stiff they could hardly walk and the men helped them, roughly, along over the rock-strewn entrance to the cavern. The boys were led inside the cave, and then, their guide turning sharply, conducted them into a sort of gallery branching off from the main one. There the lads found some animal skins on the floor, and were glad enough to lie down. Hung about the cave were several lanterns, and by the light of them the two lads could see they were in the power of a gang of rough men. There were a half dozen of the fellows and when the boys had stretched out on the skins in a corner, they gathered near the entrance to the inner cave for a conference. The boys could not hear what their captors were talking about, but that it concerned them seemed certain, as the men glanced frequently in the direction of the prisoners. "They must be planning something desperate," said Jack in a low tone. "Probably they're going to hurry to Orion Tevis and make trouble for him." "Do you think they'll hurt us?" asked Nat. "I don't believe so," Jack replied. "I think they want to keep us here until they can get at Mr. Tevis. Guess they'll have their own troubles though, finding him." Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of a man with some cold meat and chunks of bread. He also had a tin pail of water and two cups, and, though the meal was anything but a good one, Nat and Jack made the best of it, for they were hungry, and, though they were worried, they did not let it interfere with their appetites. If they had any hope of escaping that night they must have been disappointed as one of the gang was constantly on the watch, and the boys knew it would be useless to try to leave the cave. "I wonder where John is," said Nat, just before he fell asleep. "Why did he desert us?" "He hasn't deserted us," said Jack, speaking with conviction. "I'll bet he's gone for help." "Looked as if he was running away," remarked Nat, who had not lost the sudden distrust he felt on the Indian's part. In spite of their plight the boys slept well, and when morning came they were given some boiled eggs, bread and coffee, a meal, which, as Jack remarked, would have been a credit to a city hotel, to say nothing of a cave in the mountains. It made little difference, the boys thought, that the eggs were of some wild bird, and not of the domestic hen. After breakfast the man who had been addressed as Sid came to where the captives were, in the smaller cave. "If you boys will promise not to try to escape," he said, "I'll let you out for a breath of fresh air." "You mean not try to escape at all?" asked Jack. "That's what," Sid replied. "Then we'll stay here," announced Jack. "We're going to get away just as soon as possible, and the longer you keep us here the worse it will be for you." "My, but you have a quick temper," remarked Sid, not unkindly. "Well, I think I'll take a chance. You'll get sick if we keep you cooped up, and that isn't what we want. You can go out, but I warn you the first time you try to make a break for liberty you may get shot. Some of the men are pretty quick with a gun." "We'll go out, but we don't promise," Jack replied, as following Sid, he and Nat left the cave. Once outside the boys found there was little chance of getting away. There were half a dozen men about, all armed, and the camp was surrounded by a natural wall of high rock, which to any one crawling over presented difficulties that would delay him long enough to permit of capture. The entrance to the camp was guarded by a man with a rifle. But, what astonished the boys more than the appearance of the stronghold, was the work at which the men were engaged. This seemed to be mining, but of a kind the boys had heard very little about, though it is more or less common in the west. A man was directing a stream of water, from a big pipe against the side of a gravelly bank, and the dirt and fluid that washed down ran into a big sluiceway. This was formed of boards, there being a bottom and two sides. The top was open, but was braced with numerous cross pieces. The sluiceway was about four feet wide and three feet deep, and there was a great quantity of water flowing through it. Part of the sluiceway was wider and more shallow, and this part had, nailed across the bottom, narrow strips of wood, in the shape of cleats. They were placed to catch the heavier dirt, containing the gold, as it flowed down in the water. As the boys watched the stream was turned off, and men took from the cleats quantities of mingled muck and gravel, which they proceeded to "wash" to extract the gold. The boys were so interested in this that they forgot the plight they were in, and, almost, their desire to escape. They looked at the miners with their pans, as the men swirled them around to cause the water and dirt to flow over the edge and the gold to remain. "Is it goin' to pay?" Jack heard one miner ask of another of the gang. "Don't look so," was the reply. "Yet they say there's a fortune locked up in that hill. An old hermit showed Sid the place, but it's been most a year since we repaired this old sluiceway which was here before we came and begun washing, and not more than enough to pay expenses have we had out of it. I'm gettin' tired." "Maybe there's better luck ahead." "How do you mean?" "Why in the capture of these kids. Didn't you hear Sid tell? He expects to get a hold on a fellow named Tevis now and maybe some rich timber lands that he's been after for ten years or more. There's a fellow named Ranger or Roberts mixed up in it, but Sid has never been able to land him, though he tried hard enough. Some of the boys nearly got Roberts' partner here not long ago, but he got away, though he was shot. Then Sid and Nate got on the trail of the boys, and here--" "Shut up!" exclaimed the other miner, as he noticed Jack and Nat taking in what his companion was saying. "They're too close now." At that the miners went on with their "washing" operations, and the two boys, pondering over what they had heard, walked away. "What do you think of that?" asked Nat, in a low voice. "Just as I expected," Jack rejoined. "I hope John brings us help in time to warn Mr. Tevis and help rescue my father. Maybe we could have a whack at this gold mine then." The boys were allowed to wander about the camp at will, but they noticed the men kept close watch over them. They were much interested in the sluiceway, and went to where they could see it stretching for a long distance down the mountain side. "Quite a piece of work," observed one of the men, a short, stocky, rather jolly looking individual, who seemed out of place in a gang of ruffians. "It runs for five miles," he went on, "all the way down to a big gulch they say, though I've never been to the end of it. It was built a long while ago, but we changed it a bit, and only use the upper end. We get our water from a little lake on the top of the mountain, and only the overflow goes down the sluiceway. Still that's enough," and he looked at the solid stream, flowing swiftly but silently between the heavy planks. "It would make a good shoot-the-chutes," observed Nat. "Rather risky," observed the miner. "You couldn't stop until you got to the end of it and it's a long ride. Have to look out for the cross pieces, too." A sudden light seemed to come into Jack's eyes as he turned away. He motioned to Nat to follow him, and, when they were out of earshot he whispered: "That's how we can escape." "How?" asked Nat in an excited whisper. "Wait," answered Jack, "Here comes Sid." "Haven't got away yet, eh?" the man asked with a sneer. "Not yet," was all Jack answered. That night, as he tossed restlessly on the pile of skins in the cave, Jack thought over a plan of getting away. It seemed practical enough, if he could only elude the vigilance of the men. But there was the hard part. He got up softly about midnight to see if he could sneak from the cave. No one was in sight. He called Nat and both crawled out into the open. "Now we're free!" whispered Jack. "Come on, Nat." "Where?" "Down the sluiceway. I know where there are two big planks." Leading the way, and keeping in the shadows as much as possible, Jack went to where two planks, each about seven feet long, lay near the boarded race. "We'll float down the sluiceway to freedom!" he cried, as he placed the plank on the edge of the flume. Nat did likewise, and, when Jack climbed over into the big oblong box, his companion followed. They had entered the sluiceway at a place where there was scarcely any current. Then they moved forward, crouching to avoid the cross pieces. "Here we go!" whispered Jack, throwing himself on the plank, an example which Nat followed. The next instant the two boys were being whirled down the sluiceway on top of the water at a swift pace. And, as they shot ahead they, heard a voice calling: "The kids have got away!" CHAPTER XXXIII DOWN THE SLUICEWAY Almost with the speed of an arrow from the bow the two boys flew forward on the swiftly-moving water in the sluiceway. The planks were submerged only a few inches, so great was the force of the current, and Jack and Nat, crouching on them as a boy goes sliding down hill on his sled, with his head between the points of the runners, felt themselves propelled forward with an irresistible power. At first it was so dark in the big box they could see nothing. Then, as their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they could note the sides of the flume slipping past them. A glance over their heads showed them the stars, and there was a confused blurr of the many cross- pieces. "Are you all right, Nat?" called Jack. "Sure," was the reply. "Say, it took my breath away at first, but it's all right now. This is going some!" Faster and faster the boys were whirled along. The water was beginning to chill them now, and they were wet through. Once or twice a sudden change in the direction of the sluiceway nearly brought them to grief, and on one occasion Nat slipped off his plank. It was floating away from him, but his cry warned Jack, who managed to stop it, while Nat struggled forward, stooping to avoid the braces, and secured it again. This occurred in a comparatively level place, where the current, after a quick descent, was not so rapid, otherwise there might have been a different ending to this story. For a mile farther the two boys floated along at an easy pace. "I guess we've left 'em behind," Nat observed. He was riding his plank alongside of Jack now, as the flume was broad enough to permit this. "Yes, but they're not going to give up so easily," Jack rejoined. "There's too much at stake. They'll chase us, but it's another thing to catch us. Hark! What's that?" From down below in the moonlit valley, into which the flume dipped there came a roaring sound. It was like a mighty wind blowing, and, as the boys were carried on and on, it increased in intensity. "Sounds like a waterfall," observed Nat. "So it does. I hope this flume doesn't do any stunts like that. We'll be dashed to pieces." "Maybe we'd better stop now, and get out," said Nat. "I wonder where we are?" "Haven't the least idea. We must have come about three miles though. Let's see if we can stop ourselves," Owing to the fact that the cross-pieces were above and close to their heads, the boys could not peer over the edge of the flume. The water filled it to within a foot and a half of the edge, and they had to keep their heads well down. "Try and grab a cross-piece," said Jack. The sticks were about six feet apart. Nat cautiously raised his hand. His fingers brushed under the sides of several braces, but he had to move his arm up very slowly as a sudden contact with them would have broken his wrist. Jack was doing the same thing. The roar was growing louder now, and the water could be heard tumbling and crashing down. "The flume must be broken just below here!" cried Jack. "We must stop or we'll be killed!" He made a desperate effort to grasp a brace. He got his fingers on one. Then came a sudden rush of water, caused by a sharp decline in the level of the sluiceway, and Jack was torn from the cross-piece. At the same time his plank was swept from under him, and he was buried in an overwhelming rush of water. Over and over he was rolled along the bottom of the flume. Then he was tossed to the surface. For an instant he had a glimpse of Nat also struggling in the murky flood, on which the moon shone brilliantly. [Illustration: JACK WAS SHOT FORWARD AS THOUGH FROM A CATAPULT.] The next instant Jack was shot forward as though from a catapult, feet foremost, and, as he fought and struggled to get his breath, he saw that he was in the midst of a giant waterspout, as it leaped from the end of the broken flume and plunged, like a stream from an immense hose, into a swirling pool which the freed sluice water had dug in the soft soil. Forward and down went Jack, and, though it seemed like an hour while he was being shot out with the water as it spurted from where the flume was raised on a high trestle, it was only a second or two before he was plunged into the pool. As he sank down and down the lad was aware of a splash close beside him, and he dimly thought it must be Nat. And so it proved. Nat, also, had been spouted from the flume into the pool, and, when Jack, after a fierce fight with the bubbling water came to the surface and began swimming, he saw Nat bob up a moment later. Both boys worked to get away from the plunging stream. "Are--you--hurt?" asked Jack, pantingly. "No--are--you?" inquired Nat. "Nope! Wonder--what--sort of--a place--this--is." "Kind--of--wet," remarked Nat, and, in spite of his peril Jack could not help smiling. When the water had cleared from their eyes the boys saw they were in the midst of a miniature lake. It was formed of the water that escaped from the broken pool, and had filled a big hole, a sort of basin on a ledge of the mountain. They struck out for the nearest shore, reaching it after some little difficulty, for their wet clothing hampered them. Reaching the bank they crawled out, for the little lake shoaled rapidly, and shook themselves like big dogs to get rid of what water they could. Then they turned to gaze at the curious scene. Before them was quite a large sheet of water. Right to the edge of it came the flume trestle, and it could be seen, in the moonlight, where it had broken off. Beyond the lake, on the other side, the sluiceway continued on, but there was a gap of several hundred feet. "Looks as though there was less water coming down," said Nat, as he began taking off his outer clothing to wring it out. "That's so," agreed Jack. As they stood looking at the spurting water it was perceptibly diminishing. The volume was greatly decreased from that which had shot them into the lake. Rapidly it grew less until it stopped altogether. "What made that, I wonder," came from Nat. "They probably shut it off at the mine," Jack replied. "They think they can strand us in the flume. Lucky they didn't try it sooner." This, as the boys learned later, was what had been done. When the news of their escape was known several of the gang started in pursuit. They kept it up for awhile, until some one suggested shutting off the flow of the stream by means of a gate in the sluiceway. "Well, now we're here, what's to be done?" asked Nat. "Get rid of some of this water," suggested Jack, "and then see if we can't find a place to stay until morning." The boys wrung as much of the fluid as possible from their clothes, and then, donning the damp garments, looked to see in which direction it would be best to travel. As Jack was looking about for some sign of a trail, he gave a cry of astonishment. "See!" he exclaimed. "There is Golden Glow!" There, back in the direction of the flume, towered a high peak. As the moonbeams rested on it they were reflected back from the shining top, just as the sun rays had been, only in a less degree. "This must be the valley where my father has his cabin," he said. "It is in line with the mountain, and, I remember it was in this direction we were looking when the men captured us. Oh Nat! Perhaps I shall soon find him. Come on. Mr. Tevis said it was at the end of the valley. I am going to find him! Hurry, Nat!" But Nat needed no urging. He followed close after Jack, who was moving around the edge of the lake, to reach the other part of the broken flume. There was no path, but the way was comparatively smooth. As the boys passed under the sluiceway trestle Jack exclaimed: "See, here is a sort of path, and it leads right up the valley. We are on the right road." "Be careful," cautioned Nat. "Remember what Mr. Tevis said about men shooting first and inquiring afterward in this country." "I am going to find my father," was Jack's answer, as he hurried on. The boys forgot their wet clothes. They forgot their recent peril, and their escape from the bad men. They thought of nothing but what might be before them. They had traveled about two hours. The valley was growing darker as the moon was sinking lower and lower behind the cliffs. All at once Jack, who was in the lead, stopped. He pointed ahead to a dark shadow. "See; there is a cabin," he whispered. CHAPTER XXXIV JACK'S GREAT FIND For a moment the boys stood still, contemplating the small log building, which was now but dimly visible. All was silent about it. There was no sign of life. Was it occupied? Was Jack's father there? These were questions that flashed through the mind of the two lads as they stood there in the darkness. Then Jack, with a long-drawn breath, that showed how great was the strain on him, whispered: "Let's see if any one is there." Cautiously they moved forward, stopping every now and then to listen. But no sound came to them. The cabin remained as dark and as silent as when they first saw it. Foot by foot they moved nearer, until Jack was so close he could put out his hand and touch the door. He knocked loudly, and the echo sounded almost like thunder in the quiet night- enshrouded valley. But no answer came, though the boys waited several minutes. Then Jack pushed on the door. It opened, with a squeaking of hinges that must have alarmed any occupant, unless deaf. No challenge came, and the two lads stepped inside. "Look out where you're going," said Nat. "Hold your hands in front of you, and feel with your feet. You may tumble down a hole." Jack did as directed, and, a moment later, his outstretched hand knocked over something that fell with a crash to the floor. "What's that?" exclaimed Nat, in a startled whisper. "Candlestick and candle," replied Jack, as he stooped down and picked up what he had knocked down. "Matches too," he added, as he found them scattered over the floor. An instant later he had struck a light, and in the gleam of the tallow dip the boys saw they were inside a comfortably furnished cabin. It consisted of two rooms, one a sort of kitchen and general sitting apartment, and the other a bedroom, with two bunks against the wall. There was a rough table, a few chairs and a fireplace. Cooking utensils scattered about, and the appearance of the bunk room, showed it had been lately occupied. "I wonder if my father could have lived here," Jack remarked. "Where can he have gone to? Perhaps he is dead." "Must have been some one here recently," said Nat. "That food looks fresh." He pointed to some roast beef on the table, and to some slices of bread. "It looks good enough to eat," Jack said, "and I'm going to tackle it, for I'm as hungry as a bear, and cold, too," for the ducking was beginning to tell on him. The boys made a rude but satisfactory meal, and, building a fire on the hearth, with some dry wood in the cabin, they made their clothing more comfortable. They had just donned their dry garments, when Jack, looking from the door of the shack, said: "Hello, it's almost morning. The sun is beginning to rise." There was a faint light in the east, over the tops of the mountains. "Yes, and some one is coming up the valley," remarked Nat, as he peered over Jack's shoulder. The two boys saw, walking slowly along the trail that led to the cabin, the dim figure of a man. Over his shoulder he carried a gun, and, as he approached, he stopped every few feet to listen, the while regarding the cabin intently. It was growing lighter every minute, and the boys could see him quite well. Suddenly, when the man was within a hundred yards of the shack, he dropped to one knee, and leveled the gun straight at the opened cabin door: "Who's there?" he cried. "Speak or I'll fire!" Jack, who was in the center of the portal, uttered an exclamation. He caught his breath sharply. Then, as the sun, mounting nearer the mountain tops, threw more light into the valley, showing clearly the figure of the crouching man, Jack cried: "Father! Father! It's me! It's your son Jack!" He was about to rush toward the figure, which he recognized from his aunts' description as that of his parent, when the voice of the man halted him: "If you come a step nearer I'll fire!" the kneeling one exclaimed. "I've been fooled too often to have any tricks played on me now. I know you. You are members of the gang that has been hounding me so many years. But my time is almost up. Stand back or I'll fire!" "Father! Father!" cried Jack. "Your time is up now. I have come to take you back with me!" "Who is this, who says he is my son?" the man asked, his rifle trembling. "My son is thousands of miles away from here. You can't deceive me again." "But I am your son! Your Jack!" the boy cried, hardly knowing what to do. "See I have the ring--" Then he stopped, for he remembered that his ring had been stolen from him. "What is that about a ring?" asked the kneeling man. With a quick motion Jack pulled from his pocket the golden lizard with the ruby eyes which Mr. Tevis had given him. He threw it toward his father, and it fell near the man. "What is that?" the latter asked. "Look at it," exclaimed Jack. "It will prove who I am. It is from Mr. Tevis. See, don't you recognize me?" The old man, still keeping his eyes fixed on the cabin, and his gun in readiness, rose to his feet and, going forward, picked up the golden charm. As he caught sight of it he uttered a cry. At the same time Jack, who had been standing in the shadow of the door, stepped into the morning light. The man, with a sudden motion, threw aside his gun. He ran toward Jack, who sprang forward to meet him. The next moment father and son were locked in each other's arms. "Jack! Jack!" exclaimed Mr. Ranger. "I was afraid I would never see you again." "I'm so glad I've found you at last, father," murmured the boy, while his eyes filled with tears. Nat suddenly developed a bad cold, and had to blow his nose so violently that Mr. Ranger's attention was attracted to him. "Who's there?" he asked, in startled tones. "It's only Nat," Jack said. "Come Nat, and see my father. He's the best prize exhibit I ever had." There was such an interchange of talk among the three a moment later that the best stenographer would have found himself at a disadvantage in taking it down. Jack and Nat told as much as possible of their trip from the time they started until they escaped by the sluiceway, and Mr. Ranger told how he had been watching in vain all night at the end of the trail for the return of old Mr. Lantry. He had done so for the last few nights, he said, as he was afraid to go far away in the daytime. He was much surprised to learn of his partner being pursued by the bad men, and startled to hear that the scoundrels were so near his hiding place. He said he had been much startled, on his return from his night vigil, to see lights inside his cabin. "But now you must come home with me," said Jack, when there came a lull in the talk. "The time limit has nearly expired and you will be safe back in civilization." "Yes, I guess my long exile has ended," said Mr. Ranger. "At any rate I must leave here. The rascals may find me at any moment, when they come down after you." Jack agreed with his father it would be best to leave the locality. Mr. Ranger said he could depart from the valley by a little-used trail, and come out on the one that led to the ranch of Nat's uncle. It would be slow going, without horses, he said, but they decided to try it. Accordingly they began to pack up what few belongings Mr. Ranger wanted to take away with him. There was a simple camping outfit in the cabin, and plenty of food, so they would not suffer hunger on their way. "I have but a little of the heart-medicine left," said Mr. Ranger. "I got two or three bad spells the last few days, and had to take considerable of it. But perhaps I will be all right until we get to a town, if we go slowly." At last all was in readiness for the start. Each one bore a small pack, and Mr. Ranger had his rifle. Jack insisted that his father take the lightest of the camp stuff, while he and Nat shouldered the most of it and the food. With a last look at the cabin, that had sheltered him for the last few years, Mr. Ranger turned to go. Then he exclaimed: "I almost forgot my bag of gold." "Your bag of gold?" asked Jack. "Yes, it is all I have to show for my stay here. I have managed to live, and that is all. My partner and I got a little gold from the washings that came down the flume, but we had to spend most of it to live. I have only a few ounces left." He was about to go back into the cabin when a cry from Nat warned him: "Some one is coming!" the boy explained. The next instant a group of horsemen swept forward around a turn in the trail, straight for the cabin! "Here come the bad men!" yelled Jack. "Come on father!" CHAPTER XXXV THE ROUND-UP--CONCLUSION Mr. Ranger ran back to join his son. At the same time Nat and Jack sprang forward, and together the three raced down the valley. With loud shouts the horsemen pursued them. "Here they are!" some of the riders exclaimed. "We'll get the boys and the old man, too! Come on!" For a little while the three fugitives, from the start they had, and from the rough nature of the ground, which precluded speed on the part of the horses, kept in the lead. They had just made a turn in the trail, which, for a moment hid the horsemen from sight, when Mr. Ranger exclaimed: "I can go no farther, Jack. My heart! Oh, my heart!" He sank down, staggering under the weight of his rifle. "Quick!" cried Nat. "Get behind this big rock! Maybe we can hold 'em off!" The two boys half carried Mr. Ranger around to the rear of an immense boulder that bordered the trail. Then Jack ran hack and caught up the rifle. He had just time enough to spring hack of the rock when the riders swept fully into view. Jack leveled the rifle over the top of the big stone and cried: "Don't come any nearer or I'll shoot!" The riders pulled up in confusion. "Go ahead!" cried those in the rear, "He's got the drop on us!" exclaimed those in front. Jack held the rifle steady. For several seconds there was an intense strain. Mr. Ranger was resting his head on Nat's knee, panting for breath. "You'll--find--some medicine--in--my pocket," he gasped, and Nat, searching where the sick man indicated, found a small bottle of white pills. He gave Mr. Ranger one, and, in a few seconds the color came back to the sufferer's pale face. Now there was a movement among the horsemen. Some of them rode back on the trail, while others dismounted and went to the left and right. "They're going to surround us," Jack thought. "I guess it's all up with us!" He kept close watch of the men he could see. Those directly in front of him remained on their horses. Suddenly there sounded a confused shouting from back on the trail. Dimly Jack tried to recall where he had heard those voices before. He glanced along the rifle barrel which was trembling like a leaf in the wind. Then there came a fulisade of shots, mingling with the shouts. The approaching horsemen seemed thrown into confusion. One or two of the steeds went down in heaps, throwing their riders. The shooting and yelling continued. All at once there galloped into view a band of cowboys. At their head rode John Smith and Nat's uncle. Both were firing their revolvers as fast as they could. "Hurrah!" cried Nat. "We're saved!" "Just in time!" muttered Jack, as, weak and shaking, he dropped the rifle and sprang to his father's side. There was a short, sharp struggle between the armed force from the ranch and the bad men. Some of the scoundrels got away, but the majority were rounded up. In the melee some were hurt. "Are you all right?" asked John, as dust-covered and powder-begrimed he sprang to clasp his chums by the hands. "Thanks to you, yes," said Nat heartily, and he was ashamed of the brief suspicion with which he had regarding the Indian. "How did you do it?" "As soon as I saw you captured, I knew I could do more good free than a prisoner with you," John said. "I made the best time I could to the ranch, and I guess all the cowboys who could be spared came back as fast as their horses could carry them. We easily traced the gang to here, and,--well you saw the rest." The cowboys, even Cactus Ike, who had played the horse trick on Jack, were busy binding their prisoners on their horses. Mr. Kent was so excited he did not know what to do. He insisted on shaking hands with Jack, Nat, John and Mr. Ranger every other minute. As for Jack's father, he soon felt better because of the medicine, and when the securing of the prisoners was completed, he found he was able to mount a spare horse and proceed. It was decided to take an easy trail, some of the cowboys knew of, back to a place near where the boys had been held captive, and about noon the cavalcade reached the cave near the mine, from which the lads had escaped. But a great change had taken place. The breaking of the flume, and the shutting off of the water had backed up the stream, which had been allowed to run all night, and in consequence, the whole surface of the hill, against which the hydraulic operations had been directed, was washed away. It was difficult to get the horses past it, for there was a big hole. As Mr. Ranger was passing the spot where the band had so lately been at work, he looked at the ground, and uttered a sudden exclamation. Then he jumped from his horse and began digging in the dirt. "What is it?" asked Jack in some alarm. "Gold! Gold! Gold!" cried Mr. Ranger. "See it sparkle! Here is a mine of wonderful wealth! The water uncovered it, or they might have worked for years without discovering it. See the gold!" In another instant the cowboys were off their horses examining the find. Mr. Kent looked at it critically. "Well, this is luck!" he said. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good!" There was a hurried consultation, which resulted in some of the men being left on guard, while the others proceeded to the ranch with the prisoners, the boys and Mr. Ranger. There were three days making the trip, owing to the fact that Mr. Ranger had to ride slowly. As he descended from the higher altitudes, however, he got stronger. When the ranch was reached, the physicians who had been attending old Mr. Lantry, prescribed for the former exile, and took charge of him. The members of the band from one of whom Jack's ring was taken, were sent to jail, under a strong escort, and, eventually were given long terms. As soon as Mr. Kent and his men, including the boys and Mr. Ranger, had proved their claim to the mine, arrangements for working it were made. It turned out even better than it had appeared at the first glance, so that every one interested received a large sum. As for Jack he could not bear to let his father out of his sight. Mr. Ranger, too, wanted to be with his son all the while. The return of the exile had such a good effect on Mr. Lantry that he recovered much sooner than the doctor had expected, having regained his senses from the delirium, the day after Mr. Ranger reached the ranch. The old man was given some shares in the mine, enough to keep him comfortably. Then it was that the boys really began to enjoy life. The long sunny days on the plains, riding here and there, soon restored Mr. Ranger to ruddy health, and the physician pronounced him almost cured of his heart ailment. The boys spent happy hours on the ranch, entering into friendly contests in everything from roping a steer to saddling a frisky horse. The cowboys could not show them enough attention, and Cactus Ike even apologized to Jack for the trick he played on him. Jack forgave him, and said it had probably learned him more about a horse in ten minutes than he could otherwise have picked up in a week. It was some time after this, when, as they were all seated on the porch, one warm evening, that Jack remarked: "Well, we'll have to be getting back east, soon." "How good that sounds," said Mr. Ranger. "I was afraid I might never see the east again. Yes, we must go back soon. I am anxious to see my sisters." "Sorry to have you go," said Mr. Kent. "There's no place like the west." "Perhaps not, for a young man," Mr. Ranger admitted, "but I'm getting old." "I wonder if we'll ever again have adventures like those we experienced out here," said Nat "Lannigan's lassoes! But we certainly had some sport!" "Maybe not the same kind, but I s'pose they'll be just as exciting," Jack remarked. "We seem to run into 'em." The boys did have more adventures, and, what they were will be related in the next volume of this series, to be called, "Jack Ranger's School Victories; Or, Track, Gridiron and Diamond." A week later Jack, his father, Nat and John started east. They stopped on the way to see Mr. Tevis, who expressed his delight that Mr. Ranger's period of exile was over, that the bad men had been put where they could do no more harm, and that the unexpectedly discovered mine had panned out so well. "You are to be congratulated on having such a son as Jack," said Mr. Tevis to Mr. Ranger. "If it hadn't been for John and Nat I guess I wouldn't have had much success," Jack remarked. "Now that I look at it, I cannot understand how those men had such an influence on me," said Mr. Ranger, thoughtfully. "I'll tell you what I believe," answered Jack. "One of them was something of a hypnotist. He tried his game on me when I was at the cave." "It may be that you are right, my son. It is true that I was afraid of them--and just why I cannot tell," returned Mr. Ranger. "But that is a thing of the past now," he added, with satisfaction. "And now for home!" cried Nat, the next day. "Won't we have lots to tell when we get there!" "I'll be glad to see Washington Hall again," said John. "Yes, indeed!" answered Jack. "But I'm going home to Denton first, and you must come along, John." "Very well, I will," said the semi-Indian youth. Twelve hours later the happy party was on its way to the nearest railroad station. And here, bound for home, we will leave them. 
2225	----	"CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS" A STORY OF THE GRAND BANKS By Rudyard Kipling CHAPTER I The weather door of the smoking-room had been left open to the North Atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet. "That Cheyne boy's the biggest nuisance aboard," said a man in a frieze overcoat, shutting the door with a bang. "He isn't wanted here. He's too fresh." A white-haired German reached for a sandwich, and grunted between bites: "I know der breed. Ameriga is full of dot kind. I dell you you should imbort ropes' ends free under your dariff." "Pshaw! There isn't any real harm to him. He's more to be pitied than anything," a man from New York drawled, as he lay at full length along the cushions under the wet skylight. "They've dragged him around from hotel to hotel ever since he was a kid. I was talking to his mother this morning. She's a lovely lady, but she don't pretend to manage him. He's going to Europe to finish his education." "Education isn't begun yet." This was a Philadelphian, curled up in a corner. "That boy gets two hundred a month pocket-money, he told me. He isn't sixteen either." "Railroads, his father, aind't it?" said the German. "Yep. That and mines and lumber and shipping. Built one place at San Diego, the old man has; another at Los Angeles; owns half a dozen railroads, half the lumber on the Pacific slope, and lets his wife spend the money," the Philadelphian went on lazily. "The West don't suit her, she says. She just tracks around with the boy and her nerves, trying to find out what'll amuse him, I guess. Florida, Adirondacks, Lakewood, Hot Springs, New York, and round again. He isn't much more than a second-hand hotel clerk now. When he's finished in Europe he'll be a holy terror." "What's the matter with the old man attending to him personally?" said a voice from the frieze ulster. "Old man's piling up the rocks. 'Don't want to be disturbed, I guess. He'll find out his error a few years from now. 'Pity, because there's a heap of good in the boy if you could get at it." "Mit a rope's end; mit a rope's end!" growled the German. Once more the door banged, and a slight, slim-built boy perhaps fifteen years old, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth, leaned in over the high footway. His pasty yellow complexion did not show well on a person of his years, and his look was a mixture of irresolution, bravado, and very cheap smartness. He was dressed in a cherry-coloured blazer, knickerbockers, red stockings, and bicycle shoes, with a red flannel cap at the back of the head. After whistling between his teeth, as he eyed the company, he said in a loud, high voice: "Say, it's thick outside. You can hear the fish-boats squawking all around us. Say, wouldn't it be great if we ran down one?" "Shut the door, Harvey," said the New Yorker. "Shut the door and stay outside. You're not wanted here." "Who'll stop me?" he answered deliberately. "Did you pay for my passage, Mister Martin? 'Guess I've as good right here as the next man." He picked up some dice from a checker-board and began throwing, right hand against left. "Say, gen'elmen, this is deader'n mud. Can't we make a game of poker between us?" There was no answer, and he puffed his cigarette, swung his legs, and drummed on the table with rather dirty fingers. Then he pulled out a roll of bills as if to count them. "How's your mamma this afternoon?" a man said. "I didn't see her at lunch." "In her state-room, I guess. She's 'most always sick on the ocean. I'm going to give the stewardess fifteen dollars for looking after her. I don't go down more 'n I can avoid. It makes me feel mysterious to pass that butler's-pantry place. Say, this is the first time I've been on the ocean." "Oh, don't apologise, Harvey." "Who's apologising? This is the first time I've crossed the ocean, gen'elmen, and, except the first day, I haven't been sick one little bit. No, sir!" He brought down his fist with a triumphant bang, wetted his finger, and went on counting the bills. "Oh, you're a high-grade machine, with the writing in plain sight," the Philadelphian yawned. "You'll blossom into a credit to your country if you don't take care." "I know it. I'm an American--first, last, and all the time. I'll show 'em that when I strike Europe. Pif! My cig's out. I can't smoke the truck the steward sells. Any gen'elman got a real Turkish cig on him?" The chief engineer entered for a moment, red, smiling, and wet. "Say, Mac," cried Harvey, cheerfully, "how are we hitting it?" "Vara much in the ordinary way," was the grave reply. "The young are as polite as ever to their elders, an' their elders are e'en tryin' to appreciate it." A low chuckle came from a corner. The German opened his cigar-case and handed a skinny black cigar to Harvey. "Dot is der broper apparatus to smoke, my young friendt," he said. "You vill dry it? Yes? Den you vill be efer so happy." Harvey lit the unlovely thing with a flourish: he felt that he was getting on in grown-up society. "It would take more 'n this to keel me over," he said, ignorant that he was lighting that terrible article, a Wheeling 'stogie'. "Dot we shall bresently see," said the German. "Where are we now, Mr. Mactonal'?" "Just there or thereabouts, Mr. Schaefer," said the engineer. "We'll be on the Grand Bank to-night; but in a general way o' speakin', we're all among the fishing-fleet now. We've shaved three dories an' near skelped the boom off a Frenchman since noon, an' that's close sailin', ye may say." "You like my cigar, eh?" the German asked, for Harvey's eyes were full of tears. "Fine, full flavour," he answered through shut teeth. "Guess we've slowed down a little, haven't we? I'll skip out and see what the log says." "I might if I vhas you," said the German. Harvey staggered over the wet decks to the nearest rail. He was very unhappy; but he saw the deck-steward lashing chairs together, and, since he had boasted before the man that he was never seasick, his pride made him go aft to the second-saloon deck at the stern, which was finished in a turtle-back. The deck was deserted, and he crawled to the extreme end of it, near the flagpole. There he doubled up in limp agony, for the Wheeling "stogie" joined with the surge and jar of the screw to sieve out his soul. His head swelled; sparks of fire danced before his eyes; his body seemed to lose weight, while his heels wavered in the breeze. He was fainting from seasickness, and a roll of the ship tilted him over the rail on to the smooth lip of the turtle-back. Then a low, grey mother-wave swung out of the fog, tucked Harvey under one arm, so to speak, and pulled him off and away to leeward; the great green closed over him, and he went quietly to sleep. He was roused by the sound of a dinner-horn such as they used to blow at a summer-school he had once attended in the Adirondacks. Slowly he remembered that he was Harvey Cheyne, drowned and dead in mid-ocean, but was too weak to fit things together. A new smell filled his nostrils; wet and clammy chills ran down his back, and he was helplessly full of salt water. When he opened his eyes, he perceived that he was still on the top of the sea, for it was running round him in silver-coloured hills, and he was lying on a pile of half-dead fish, looking at a broad human back clothed in a blue jersey. "It's no good," thought the boy. "I'm dead, sure enough, and this thing is in charge." He groaned, and the figure turned its head, showing a pair of little gold rings half hidden in curly black hair. "Aha! You feel some pretty well now'?" it said. "Lie still so: we trim better." With a swift jerk he sculled the flickering boat-head on to a foamless sea that lifted her twenty full feet, only to slide her into a glassy pit beyond. But this mountain-climbing did not interrupt blue-jersey's talk. "Fine good job, I say, that I catch you. Eh, wha-at? Better good job, I say, your boat not catch me. How you come to fall out?" "I was sick," said Harvey; "sick, and couldn't help it." "Just in time I blow my horn, and your boat she yaw a little. Then I see you come all down. Eh, wha-at? I think you are cut into baits by the screw, but you dreeft--dreeft to me, and I make a big fish of you. So you shall not die this time." "Where am I?" said Harvey, who could not see that life was particularly safe where he lay. "You are with me in the dory--Manuel my name, and I come from schooner 'We're Here' of Gloucester. I live to Gloucester. By-and-by we get supper. Eh, wha-at?" He seemed to have two pairs of hands and a head of cast-iron, for, not content with blowing through a big conch-shell, he must needs stand up to it, swaying with the sway of the flat-bottomed dory, and send a grinding, thuttering shriek through the fog. How long this entertainment lasted, Harvey could not remember, for he lay back terrified at the sight of the smoking swells. He fancied he heard a gun and a horn and shouting. Something bigger than the dory, but quite as lively, loomed alongside. Several voices talked at once; he was dropped into a dark, heaving hole, where men in oilskins gave him a hot drink and took off his clothes, and he fell asleep. When he waked he listened for the first breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering why his stateroom had grown so small. Turning, he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit by a lamp hung against a huge square beam. A three-cornered table within arm's reach ran from the angle of the bows to the foremast. At the after end, behind a well-used Plymouth stove, sat a boy about his own age, with a flat red face and a pair of twinkling grey eyes. He was dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber boots. Several pairs of the same sort of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn-out woolen socks lay on the floor, and black and yellow oilskins swayed to and fro beside the bunks. The place was packed as full of smells as a bale is of cotton. The oilskins had a peculiarly thick flavour of their own which made a sort of background to the smells of fried fish, burnt grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco; but these, again, were all hooped together by one encircling smell of ship and salt water. Harvey saw with disgust that there were no sheets on his bed-place. He was lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of lumps and nubbles. Then, too, the boat's motion was not that of a steamer. She was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. Water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. All these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother. "Feelin' better?" said the boy, with a grin. "Hev some coffee?" He brought a tin cup full, and sweetened it with molasses. "Is n't there milk?" said Harvey, looking round the dark double tier of bunks as if he expected to find a cow there. "Well, no," said the boy. "Ner there ain't likely to be till 'baout mid-September. 'Tain't bad coffee. I made it." Harvey drank in silence, and the boy handed him a plate full of pieces of crisp fried pork, which he ate ravenously. "I've dried your clothes. Guess they've shrunk some," said the boy. "They ain't our style much--none of 'em. Twist round an' see ef you're hurt any." Harvey stretched himself in every direction, but could not report any injuries. "That's good," the boy said heartily. "Fix yerself an' go on deck. Dad wants to see you. I'm his son,--Dan, they call me,--an' I'm cook's helper an' everything else aboard that's too dirty for the men. There ain't no boy here 'cep' me sence Otto went overboard--an' he was only a Dutchy, an' twenty year old at that. How'd you come to fall off in a dead flat ca'am?" "'Twasn't a calm," said Harvey, sulkily. "It was a gale, and I was seasick. Guess I must have rolled over the rail." "There was a little common swell yes'day an' last night," said the boy. "But ef thet's your notion of a gale----" He whistled. "You'll know more 'fore you're through. Hurry! Dad's waitin'." Like many other unfortunate young people, Harvey had never in all his life received a direct order--never, at least, without long, and sometimes tearful, explanations of the advantages of obedience and the reasons for the request. Mrs. Cheyne lived in fear of breaking his spirit, which, perhaps, was the reason that she herself walked on the edge of nervous prostration. He could not see why he should be expected to hurry for any man's pleasure, and said so. "Your dad can come down here if he's so anxious to talk to me. I want him to take me to New York right away. It'll pay him." Dan opened his eyes, as the size and beauty of this joke dawned on him. "Say, dad!" he shouted up the fo'c'sle hatch, "he says you kin slip down an' see him ef you're anxious that way. 'Hear, dad?" The answer came back in the deepest voice Harvey had ever heard from a human chest: "Quit foolin', Dan, and send him to me." Dan sniggered, and threw Harvey his warped bicycle shoes. There was something in the tones on the deck that made the boy dissemble his extreme rage and console himself with the thought of gradually unfolding the tale of his own and his father's wealth on the voyage home. This rescue would certainly make him a hero among his friends for life. He hoisted himself on deck up a perpendicular ladder, and stumbled aft, over a score of obstructions, to where a small, thick-set, clean-shaven man with grey eyebrows sat on a step that led up to the quarter-deck. The swell had passed in the night, leaving a long, oily sea, dotted round the horizon with the sails of a dozen fishing-boats. Between them lay little black specks, showing where the dories were out fishing. The schooner, with a triangular riding-sail on the mainmast, played easily at anchor, and except for the man by the cabin-roof--"house" they call it--she was deserted. "Mornin'--good afternoon, I should say. You've nigh slep' the clock around, young feller," was the greeting. "Mornin'," said Harvey. He did not like being called "young feller"; and, as one rescued from drowning, expected sympathy. His mother suffered agonies whenever he got his feet wet; but this mariner did not seem excited. "Naow let's hear all abaout it. It's quite providential, first an' last, fer all concerned. What might be your name? Where from (we mistrust it's Noo York), an' where baound (we mistrust it's Europe)?" Harvey gave his name, the name of the steamer, and a short history of the accident, winding up with a demand to be taken back immediately to New York, where his father would pay anything any one chose to name. "H'm," said the shaven man, quite unmoved by the end of Harvey's speech. "I can't say we think special of any man, or boy even, that falls overboard from that kind o' packet in a flat ca'am. Least of all when his excuse is thet he's seasick." "Excuse!" cried Harvey. "D'you suppose I'd fall overboard into your dirty little boat for fun?" "Not knowin' what your notions o' fun may be, I can't rightly say, young feller. But if I was you, I wouldn't call the boat which, under Providence, was the means o' savin' ye, names. In the first place, it's blame irreligious. In the second, it's annoyin' to my feelin's--an' I'm Disko Troop o' the "We're Here" o' Gloucester, which you don't seem rightly to know." "I don't know and I don't care," said Harvey. "I'm grateful enough for being saved and all that, of course; but I want you to understand that the sooner you take me back to New York the better it'll pay you." "Meanin'--haow?" Troop raised one shaggy eyebrow over a suspiciously mild blue eye. "Dollars and cents," said Harvey, delighted to think that he was making an impression. "Cold dollars and cents." He thrust a hand into a pocket, and threw out his stomach a little, which was his way of being grand. "You've done the best day's work you ever did in your life when you pulled me in. I'm all the son Harvey Cheyne has." "He's bin favoured," said Disko, drily. "And if you don't know who Harvey Cheyne is, you don't know much--that's all. Now turn her around and let's hurry." Harvey had a notion that the greater part of America was filled with people discussing and envying his father's dollars. "Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't. Take a reef in your stummick, young feller. It's full o' my vittles." Harvey heard a chuckle from Dan, who was pretending to be busy by the stump-foremast, and the blood rushed to his face. "We'll pay for that too," he said. "When do you suppose we shall get to New York?" "I don't use Noo York any. Ner Boston. We may see Eastern Point about September; an' your pa--I'm real sorry I hain't heerd tell of him--may give me ten dollars efter all your talk. Then o' course he mayn't." "Ten dollars! Why, see here, I--" Harvey dived into his pocket for the wad of bills. All he brought up was a soggy packet of cigarettes. "Not lawful currency, an' bad for the lungs. Heave 'em overboard, young feller, and try ag'in." "It's been stolen!" cried Harvey, hotly. "You'll hev to wait till you see your pa to reward me, then?" "A hundred and thirty-four dollars--all stolen," said Harvey, hunting wildly through his pockets. "Give them back." A curious change flitted across old Troop's hard face. "What might you have been doin' at your time o' life with one hundred an' thirty-four dollars, young feller?" "It was part of my pocket-money--for a month." This Harvey thought would be a knockdown blow, and it was--indirectly. Oh! One hundred and thirty-four dollars is only part of his pocket-money--for one month only! You don't remember hittin' anything when you fell over, do you? Crack ag'in' a stanchion, le's say. Old man Hasken o' the "East Wind"--Troop seemed to be talking to himself--"he tripped on a hatch an' butted the mainmast with his head--hardish. 'Baout three weeks afterwards, old man Hasken he would hev it that the "East Wind" was a commerce-destroyin' man-o'-war, an' so he declared war on Sable Island because it was Bridish, an' the shoals run aout too far. They sewed him up in a bed-bag, his head an' feet appearin', fer the rest o' the trip, an' now he's to home in Essex playin' with little rag dolls." Harvey choked with rage, but Troop went on consolingly: "We're sorry fer you. We're very sorry fer you--an' so young. We won't say no more abaout the money, I guess." "'Course you won't. You stole it." "Suit yourself. We stole it ef it's any comfort to you. Naow, abaout goin' back. Allowin' we could do it, which we can't, you ain't in no fit state to go back to your home, an' we've jest come on to the Banks, workin' fer our bread. We don't see the ha'af of a hundred dollars a month, let alone pocket-money; an' with good luck we'll be ashore again somewheres abaout the first weeks o' September." "But--but it's May now, and I can't stay here doin' nothing just because you want to fish. I can't, I tell you!" "Right an' jest; jest an' right. No one asks you to do nothin'. There's a heap as you can do, for Otto he went overboard on Le Have. I mistrust he lost his grip in a gale we f'und there. Anyways, he never come back to deny it. You've turned up, plain, plumb providential for all concerned. I mistrust, though, there's ruther few things you kin do. Ain't thet so?" "I can make it lively for you and your crowd when we get ashore," said Harvey, with a vicious nod, murmuring vague threats about "piracy," at which Troop almost--not quite--smiled. "Excep' talk. I'd forgot that. You ain't asked to talk more'n you've a mind to aboard the "We're Here". Keep your eyes open, an' help Dan to do ez he's bid, an' sechlike, an' I'll give you--you ain't wuth it, but I'll give--ten an' a ha'af a month; say thirty-five at the end o' the trip. A little work will ease up your head, an' you kin tell us all abaout your dad an' your ma n' your money efterwards." "She's on the steamer," said Harvey, his eyes fill-with tears. "Take me to New York at once." "Poor woman--poor woman! When she has you back she'll forgit it all, though. There's eight of us on the "We're Here", an' ef we went back naow--it's more'n a thousand mile--we'd lose the season. The men they wouldn't hev it, allowin' I was agreeable." "But my father would make it all right." "He'd try. I don't doubt he'd try," said Troop; "but a whole season's catch is eight men's bread; an' you'll be better in your health when you see him in the fall. Go forward an' help Dan. It's ten an' a ha'af a month, ez I said, an', o' course, all f'und, same ez the rest o' us." "Do you mean I'm to clean pots and pans and things?" said Harvey. "An' other things. You've no call to shout, young feller." "I won't! My father will give you enough to buy this dirty little fish-kettle"--Harvey stamped on the deck--"ten times over, if you take me to New York safe; and--and--you're in a hundred and thirty by me, anyway." "Ha-ow?" said Troop, the iron face darkening. "How? You know how, well enough. On top of all that, you want me to do menial work"--Harvey was very proud of that adjective--"till the Fall. I tell you I will not. You hear?" Troop regarded the top of the mainmast with deep interest for a while, as Harvey harangued fiercely all around him. "Hsh!" he said at last. "I'm figurin' out my responsibilities in my own mind. It's a matter o' jedgment." Dan Stole up and plucked Harvey by the elbow. "Don't go to tamperin' with dad any more," he pleaded. "You've called him a thief two or three times over, an' he don't take that from any livin' bein'." "I won't!" Harvey almost shrieked, disregarding the advice; and still Troop meditated. "Seems kinder unneighbourly," he said at last, his eye travelling down to Harvey. "I don't blame you, not a mite, young feller, nor you won't blame me when the bile's out o' your systim. 'Be sure you sense what I say? Ten an' a ha'af fer second boy on the schooner--an' all f'und--fer to teach you an' fer the sake o' your health. Yes or no?" "No!" said Harvey. "Take me back to New York or I'll see you--" He did not exactly remember what followed. He was lying in the scuppers, holding on to a nose that bled, while Troop looked down on him serenely. "Dan," he said to his son, "I was sot ag'in' this young feller when I first saw him, on account o' hasty jedgments. Never you be led astray by hasty jedgments, Dan. Naow I'm sorry for him, because he's clear distracted in his upper works. He ain't responsible fer the names he's give me, nor fer his other statements nor fer jumpin' overboard, which I'm abaout ha'af convinced he did. You be gentle with him, Dan, 'r I'll give you twice what I've give him. Them hemmeridges clears the head. Let him sluice it off!" Troop went down solemnly into the cabin, where he and the older men bunked, leaving Dan to comfort the luckless heir to thirty millions. CHAPTER II "I warned ye," said Dan, as the drops fell thick and fast on the dark, oiled planking. "Dad ain't noways hasty, but you fair earned it. Pshaw! there's no sense takin' on so." Harvey's shoulders were rising and falling in spasms of dry sobbing. "I know the feelin'. First time dad laid me out was the last--and that was my first trip. Makes ye feel sickish an' lonesome. I know." "It does," moaned Harvey. "That man's either crazy or drunk, and--and I can't do anything." "Don't say that to dad," whispered Dan. "He's set ag'in' all liquor, an'--well, he told me you was the madman. What in creation made you call him a thief? He's my dad." Harvey sat up, mopped his nose, and told the story of the missing wad of bills. "I'm not crazy," he wound up. "Only--your father has never seen more than a five-dollar bill at a time, and my father could buy up this boat once a week and never miss it." "You don't know what the "We're Here's" worth. Your dad must hey a pile o' money. How did he git it? Dad sez loonies can't shake out a straight yarn. Go ahead." "In gold-mines and things, West." "I've read o' that kind o' business. Out West, too? Does he go around with a pistol on a trick-pony, same ez the circus? They call that the Wild West, and I've heard that their spurs an' bridles was solid silver." "You are a chump!" said Harvey, amused in spite of himself. "My father hasn't any use for ponies. When he wants to ride he takes his car." "Haow? Lobster-car?" "No. His own private car, of course. You've seen a private car some time in your life?" "Slatin Beeman he hez one," said Dan, cautiously. "I saw her at the Union Depot in Boston, with three niggers hoggin' her run." (Dan meant cleaning the windows.) "But Slatin Beeman he owns 'baout every railroad on Long Island, they say; an' they say he's bought 'baout ha'af Noo Hampshire an' run a line-fence around her, an' filled her up with lions an' tigers an' bears an' buffalo an' crocodiles an' such all. Slatin Beeman he's a millionaire. I've seen his car. Yes?" "Well, my father's what they call a multi-millionaire; and he has two private cars. One's named for me, the 'Harvey,' and one for my mother, the 'Constance.'" "Hold on," said Dan. "Dad don't ever let me swear, but I guess you can. 'Fore we go ahead, I want you to say hope you may die if you're lying." "Of course," said Harvey. "Thet ain't 'nuff. Say, 'Hope I may die if I ain't speakin' truth.'" "Hope I may die right here," said Harvey, "if every word I've spoken isn't the cold truth." "Hundred an' thirty-four dollars an' all?" said Dan. "I heard ye talkin' to dad, an' I ha'af looked you'd be swallered up, same's Jonah." Harvey protested himself red in the face. Dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutes' questioning convinced him that Harvey was not lying--much. Besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels. "Gosh!" said Dan at last, from the very bottom of his soul, when Harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. Then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. "I believe you, Harvey. Dad's made a mistake fer once in his life." "He has, sure," said Harvey, who was meditating an early revenge. "He'll be mad clear through. Dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments." Dan lay back and slapped his thigh. "Oh, Harvey, don't you spile the catch by lettin' on." "I don't want to be knocked down again. I'll get even with him, though." "Never heard any man ever got even with dad. But he'd knock ye down again sure. The more he was mistook the more he'd do it. But gold-mines and pistols--" "I never said a word about pistols," Harvey cut in, for he was on his oath. "Thet's so; no more you did. Two private cars, then, one named fer you an' one fer her; an' two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workin' fer ten an' a ha'af a month! It's the top haul o' the season." He exploded with noiseless chuckles. "Then I was right? "said Harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser. "You was wrong; the wrongest kind o' wrong! You take right hold an' pitch in 'longside o' me, or you'll catch it, an' I'll catch it fer backin' you up. Dad always gives me double helps 'cause I'm his son, an' he hates favourin' folk. 'Guess you're kinder mad at dad. I've been that way time an' again. But dad's a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so." "Looks like justice, this, don't it?" Harvey pointed to his outraged nose. "Thet's nothin'. Lets the shore blood outer you. Dad did it for yer health. Say, though, I can't have dealin's with a man that thinks me or dad or any one on the "We're Here's" a thief. We ain't any common wharf-end crowd by any manner o' means. We're fishermen, an' we've shipped together for six years an' more. Don't you make any mistake on that! I told ye dad don't let me swear. He calls 'em vain oaths, and pounds me; but ef I could say what you said 'baout your pap an' his fixin's, I'd say that 'baout your dollars. I dunno what was in your pockets when I dried your kit, fer I didn't look to see; but I'd say, using the very same words ez you used jest now, neither me nor dad--an' we was the only two that teched you after you was brought aboard--knows anythin' 'baout the money. Thet's my say. Naow?" The bloodletting had certainly cleared Harvey's brain, and maybe the loneliness of the sea had something to do with it. "That's all right," he said. Then he looked down confusedly. "'Seems to me that for a fellow just saved from drowning I haven't been over and above grateful, Dan." "Well, you was shook up and silly," said Dan. "Anyway, there was only dad an' me aboard to see it. The cook he don't count." "I might have thought about losing the bills that way," Harvey said, half to himself, "instead of calling everybody in sight a thief Where's your father?" "In the cabin What d' you want o' him again?" "You'll see," said Harvey, and he stepped, rather groggily, for his head was still singing, to the cabin steps, where the little ship's clock hung in plain sight of the wheel. Troop, in the chocolate-and-yellow painted cabin, was busy with a note-book and an enormous black pencil, which he sucked hard from time to time. "I haven't acted quite right," said Harvey, surprised at his own meekness. "What's wrong naow?" said the skipper "Walked into Dan, hev ye?" "No; it's about you." "I'm here to listen." "Well, I--I'm here to take things back," said Harvey, very quickly. "When a man's saved from drowning--" he gulped. "Ey? You'll make a man yet ef you go on this way." "He oughtn't begin by calling people names." "Jest an' right--right an' jest," said Troop, with the ghost of a dry smile. "So I'm here to say I'm sorry." Another big gulp. Troop heaved himself slowly off the locker he was sitting on and held out an eleven-inch hand. "I mistrusted 'twould do you sights o' good; an' this shows I weren't mistook in my jedgments." A smothered chuckle on deck caught his ear. "I am very seldom mistook in my jedgments." The eleven-inch hand closed on Harvey's, numbing it to the elbow. "We'll put a little more gristle to that 'fore we've done with you, young feller; an' I don't think any worse of ye fer anythin' thet's gone by. You wasn't fairly responsible. Go right abaout your business an' you won't take no hurt." "You're white," said Dan, as Harvey regained the deck, flushed to the tips of his ears. "I don't feel it," said he. "I didn't mean that way. I heard what dad said. When dad allows he don't think the worse of any man, dad's give himself away. He hates to be mistook in his jedgments, too. Ho! ho! Onct dad has a jedgment, he'd sooner dip his colours to the British than change it. I'm glad it's settled right eend up. Dad's right when he says he can't take you back. It's all the livin' we make here--fishin'. The men'll be back like sharks after a dead whale in ha'af an hour." "What for?" said Harvey. "Supper, o' course. Don't your stummick tell you? You've a heap to learn." "'Guess I have," said Harvey, dolefully, looking at the tangle of ropes and blocks overhead. "She's a daisy," said Dan, enthusiastically, misunderstanding the look. "Wait till our mainsail's bent, an' she walks home with all her salt wet. There's some work first, though." He pointed down into the darkness of the open main-hatch between the two masts. "What's that for? It's all empty," said Harvey. "You an' me an' a few more hev got to fill it," said Dan. "That's where the fish goes." "Alive?" said Harvey. "Well, no. They're so's to be ruther dead--an' flat--an' salt. There's a hundred hogshead o' salt in the bins; an' we hain't more'n covered our dunnage to now." "Where are the fish, though?" "'In the sea, they say; in the boats, we pray,'" said Dan, quoting a fisherman's proverb. "You come in last night with 'baout forty of 'em." He pointed to a sort of wooden pen just in front of the quarter-deck. "You an' me we'll sluice that out when they're through. 'Send we'll hev full pens to-night! I've seen her down ha'af a foot with fish waitin' to clean, an' we stood to the tables till we was splittin' ourselves instid o' them, we was so sleepy. Yes, they're comin' in naow." Dan looked over the low bulwarks at half a dozen dories rowing towards them over the shining, silky sea. "I've never seen the sea from so low down," said Harvey. "It's fine." The low sun made the water all purple and pinkish, with golden lights on the barrels of the long swells, and blue and green mackerel shades in the hollows. Each schooner in sight seemed to be pulling her dories towards her by invisible strings, and the little black figures in the tiny boats pulled like clockwork toys. "They've struck on good," said Dan, between his half-shut eyes. "Manuel hain't room fer another fish. Low ez a lily-pad in still water, ain't he?" "Which is Manuel? I don't see how you can tell 'em 'way off, as you do." "Last boat to the south'ard. He f'und you last night," said Dan, pointing. "Manuel rows Portugoosey; ye can't mistake him. East o' him--he's a heap better'n he rows--is Pennsylvania. Loaded with saleratus, by the looks of him. East o' him--see how pretty they string out all along with the humpy shoulders, is Long Jack. He's a Galway man inhabitin' South Boston, where they all live mostly, an' mostly them Galway men are good in a boat. North, away yonder--you'll hear him tune up in a minute--is Tom Platt. Man-o'-war's man he was on the old Ohio--first of our navy, he says, to go araound the Horn. He never talks of much else, 'cept when he sings, but he has fair fishin' luck. There! What did I tell you?" A melodious bellow stole across the water from the northern dory. Harvey heard something about somebody's hands and feet being cold, and then: "Bring forth the chart, the doleful chart; See where them mountings meet! The clouds are thick around their heads, The mists around their feet." "Full boat," said Dan, with a chuckle. "If he gives us 'O Captain' it's toppin' full." The bellow continued: "And naow to thee, O Capting, Most earnestly I pray That they shall never bury me In church or cloister grey." "Double game for Tom Platt. He'll tell you all about the old Ohio to-morrow. 'See that blue dory behind him? He's my uncle,--dad's own brother,--an' ef there's any bad luck loose on the Banks she'll fetch up ag'in' Uncle Salters, sure. Look how tender he's rowin'. I'll lay my wage and share he's the only man stung up to-day--an' he's stung up good." "What'll sting him?" said Harvey, getting interested. "Strawberries, mostly. Punkins, sometimes, an' sometimes lemons an' cucumbers. Yes, he's stung up from his elbows down. That man's luck's perfectly paralysin'. Naow we'll take a-holt o' the tackles an' h'ist 'em in. Is it true, what you told me jest now, that you never done a hand's turn o' work in all your born life? Must feel kinder awful, don't it?" "I'm going to try to work, anyway," Harvey replied stoutly. "Only it's all dead new." "Lay a-holt o' that tackle, then. Behind ye!" Harvey grabbed at a rope and long iron hook dangling from one of the stays of the mainmast, while Dan pulled down another that ran from something he called a "topping-lift," as Manuel drew alongside in his loaded dory. The Portuguese smiled a brilliant smile that Harvey learned to know well later, and a short-handled fork began to throw fish into the pen on deck. "Two hundred and thirty-one," he shouted. "Give him the hook," said Dan, and Harvey ran it into Manuel's hands. He slipped it through a loop of rope at the dory's bow, caught Dan's tackle, hooked it to the stern-becket, and clambered into the schooner. "Pull!" shouted Dan; and Harvey pulled, astonished to find how easily the dory rose. "Hold on; she don't nest in the crosstrees!" Dan laughed; and Harvey held on, for the boat lay in the air above his head. "Lower away," Dan shouted; and as Harvey lowered, Dan swayed the light boat with one hand till it landed softly just behind the mainmast. "They don't weigh nothin' empty. Thet was right smart fer a passenger. There's more trick to it in a sea-way." "Ah ha!" said Manuel, holding out a brown hand. "You are some pretty well now? This time last night the fish they fish for you. Now you fish for fish. Eh, wha-at?" "I'm--I'm ever so grateful," Harvey stammered, and his unfortunate hand stole to his pocket once more, but he remembered that he had no money to offer. When he knew Manuel better the mere thought of the mistake he might have made would cover him with hot, uneasy blushes in his bunk. "There is no to be thankful for to me!" said Manuel. "How shall I leave you dreeft, dreeft all around the Banks? Now you are a fisherman eh, wha-at? Ouh! Auh!" He bent backward and forward stiffly from the hips to get the kinks out of himself. "I have not cleaned boat to-day. Too busy. They struck on queek. Danny, my son, clean for me." Harvey moved forward at once. Here was something he could do for the man who had saved his life. Dan threw him a swab, and he leaned over the dory, mopping up the slime clumsily, but with great good-will. "Hike out the foot-boards; they slide in them grooves," said Dan. "Swab 'em an' lay 'em down. Never let a foot-board jam. Ye may want her bad some day. Here's Long Jack." A stream of glittering fish flew into the pen from a dory alongside. "Manuel, you take the tackle. I'll fix the tables. Harvey, clear Manuel's boat. Long Jack's nestin' on the top of her." Harvey looked up from his swabbing at the bottom of another dory just above his head. "Jest like the Injian puzzle-boxes, ain't they?" said Dan, as the one boat dropped into the other. "Takes to ut like a duck to water," said Long Jack, a grizzly-chinned, long-lipped Galway man, bending to and fro exactly as Manuel had done. Disko in the cabin growled up the hatchway, and they could hear him suck his pencil. "Wan hunder an' forty-nine an' a half--bad luck to ye, Discobolus!" said Long Jack. "I'm murderin' meself to fill your pockuts. Slate ut for a bad catch. The Portugee has bate me." Whack came another dory alongside, and more fish shot into the pen. "Two hundred and three. Let's look at the passenger!" The speaker was even larger than the Galway man, and his face was made curious by a purple cut running slantways from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth. Not knowing what else to do, Harvey swabbed each dory as it came down, pulled out the foot-boards, and laid them in the bottom of the boat. "He's caught on good," said the scarred man, who was Tom Platt, watching him critically. "There are two ways o' doin' everything. One's fisher-fashion--any end first an' a slippery hitch over all--an' the other's--" "What we did on the old Ohio!" Dan interrupted, brushing into the knot of men with a long board on legs. "Git out o' here, Tom Platt, an' leave me fix the tables." He jammed one end of the board into two nicks in the bulwarks, kicked out the leg, and ducked just in time to avoid a swinging blow from the man-o'-war's man. "An' they did that on the Ohio, too, Danny. See?" said Tom Platt, laughing. "'Guess they was swivel-eyed, then, fer it didn't git home, and I know who'll find his boots on the main-truck ef he don't leave us alone. Haul ahead! I'm busy, can't ye see?" "Danny, ye lie on the cable an' sleep all day," said Long Jack. "You're the hoight av impidence, an' I'm persuaded ye'll corrupt our supercargo in a week." "His name's Harvey," said Dan, waving two strangely shaped knives, "an' he'll be worth five of any Sou' Boston clam-digger 'fore long." He laid the knives tastefully on the table, cocked his head on one side, and admired the effect. "I think it's forty-two," said a small voice over-side, and there was a roar of laughter as another voice answered, "Then my luck's turned fer onct, 'caze I'm forty-five, though I be stung outer all shape." "Forty-two or forty-five. I've lost count," the small voice said. "It's Penn an' Uncle Salters caountin' catch. This beats the circus any day," said Dan. "Jest look at 'em!" "Come in--come in!" roared Long Jack. "It's wet out yondher, children." "Forty-two, ye said." This was Uncle Salters. "I'll count again, then," the voice replied meekly. The two dories swung together and bunted into the schooner's side. "Patience o' Jerusalem!" snapped Uncle Salters, backing water with a splash. "What possest a farmer like you to set foot in a boat beats me. You've nigh stove me all up." "I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. You advised me, I think." "You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubly little man. "You're comin' down on me ag'in. Did ye say forty-two or forty-five?" "I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count." "Don't see as it could be forty-five. I'm forty-five," said Uncle Salters. "You count keerful, Penn." Disko Troop came out of the cabin. "Salters, you pitch your fish in naow at once," he said in the tone of authority. "Don't spile the catch, dad," Dan murmured. "Them two are on'y jest beginnin'." "Mother av delight! He's forkin' them wan by wan," howled Long Jack, as Uncle Salters got to work laboriously; the little man in the other dory counting a line of notches on the gunwale. "That was last week's catch," he said, looking up plaintively, his forefinger where he had left off. Manuel nudged Dan, who darted to the after-tackle, and, leaning far overside, slipped the hook into the stern-rope as Manuel made her fast forward. The others pulled gallantly and swung the boat in--man, fish, and all. "One, two, four--nine," said Tom Platt, counting with a practised eye. "Forty-seven. Penn, you're it!" Dan let the after-tackle run, and slid him out of the stern on to the deck amid a torrent of his own fish. "Hold on!" roared Uncle Salters, bobbing by the waist. "Hold on, I'm a bit mixed in my caount." He had no time to protest, but was hove inboard and treated like "Pennsylvania." "Forty-one," said Tom Platt. "Beat by a farmer, Salters. An' you sech a sailor, too!" "'Tweren't fair caount," said he, stumbling out of the pen; "an' I'm stung up all to pieces." His thick hands were puffy and mottled purply white. "Some folks will find strawberry-bottom," said Dan, addressing the newly risen moon, "ef they hev to dive fer it, seems to me." "An' others," said Uncle Salters, "eats the fat o' the land in sloth, an' mocks their own blood-kin." "Seat ye! Seat ye!" a voice Harvey had not heard called from the fo'c'sle. Disko Troop, Tom Platt, Long Jack, and Salters went forward on the word. Little Penn bent above his square deep-sea reel and the tangled cod-lines; Manuel lay down full length on the deck, and Dan dropped into the hold, where Harvey heard him banging casks with a hammer. "Salt," he said, returning. "Soon as we're through supper we git to dressing-down. You'll pitch to dad. Tom Platt an' dad they stow together, an' you'll hear 'em arguin'. We're second ha'af, you an' me an' Manuel an' Penn--the youth an' beauty o' the boat." "What's the good of that?" said Harvey. "I'm hungry." "They'll be through in a minute. Sniff! She smells good to-night. Dad ships a good cook ef he do suffer with his brother. It's a full catch today, ain't it?" He pointed at the pens piled high with cod. "What water did ye hev, Manuel?" "Twenty-fife father," said the Portuguese, sleepily. "They strike on good an' queek. Some day I show you, Harvey." The moon was beginning to walk on the still sea before the elder men came aft. The cook had no need to cry "second half." Dan and Manuel were down the hatch and at table ere Tom Platt, last and most deliberate of the elders, had finished wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Harvey followed Penn, and sat down before a tin pan of cod's tongues and sounds, mixed with scraps of pork and fried potato, a loaf of hot bread, and some black and powerful coffee. Hungry as they were, they waited while "Pennsylvania" solemnly asked a blessing. Then they stoked in silence till Dan drew breath over his tin cup and demanded of Harvey how he felt. "'Most full, but there's just room for another piece." The cook was a huge, jet-black negro, and, unlike all the negroes Harvey had met, did not talk, contenting himself with smiles and dumb-show invitations to eat more. "See, Harvey," said Dan, rapping with his fork on the table, "it's jest as I said. The young an' handsome men--like me an' Pennsy an' you an' Manuel--we 're second ha'af, an' we eats when the first ha'af are through. They're the old fish; and they're mean an' humpy, an' their stummicks has to be humoured; so they come first, which they don't deserve. Ain't that so, doctor?" The cook nodded. "Can't he talk?" said Harvey, in a whisper. "'Nough to git along. Not much o' anything we know. His natural tongue's kinder curious. Comes from the in'ards of Cape Breton, he does, where the farmers speak home-made Scotch. Cape Breton's full o' niggers whose folk run in there durin' aour war, an' they talk like the farmers--all huffy-chuffy." "That is not Scotch," said "Pennsylvania." "That is Gaelic. So I read in a book." "Penn reads a heap. Most of what he says is so--'cep' when it comes to a caount o' fish--eh?" "Does your father just let them say how many they've caught without checking them?" said Harvey. "Why, yes. Where's the sense of a man lyin' fer a few old cod?" "Was a man once lied for his catch," Manuel put in. "Lied every day. Fife, ten, twenty-fife more fish than come he say there was." "Where was that?" said Dan. "None o' aour folk." "Frenchman of Anguille." "Ah! Them West Shore Frenchmen don't caount, anyway. Stands to reason they can't caount. Ef you run acrost any of their soft hooks, Harvey, you'll know why," said Dan, with an awful contempt. "Always more and never less, Every time we come to dress," Long Jack roared down the hatch, and the "second ha'af" scrambled up at once. The shadow of the masts and rigging, with the never-furled riding-sail, rolled to and fro on the heaving deck in the moonlight; and the pile of fish by the stern shone like a dump of fluid silver. In the hold there were tramplings and rumblings where Disko Troop and Tom Platt moved among the salt-bins. Dan passed Harvey a pitchfork, and led him to the inboard end of the rough table, where Uncle Salters was drumming impatiently with a knife-haft. A tub of salt water lay at his feet. "You pitch to dad an' Tom Platt down the hatch, an' take keer Uncle Salters don't cut yer eye out," said Dan, swinging himself into the hold. "I'll pass salt below." Penn and Manuel stood knee-deep among cod in the pen, flourishing drawn knives. Long Jack, a basket at his feet and mittens on his hands, faced Uncle Salters at the table, and Harvey stared at the pitchfork and the tub. "Hi!" shouted Manuel, stooping to the fish, and bringing one up with a finger under its gill and a finger in its eye. He laid it on the edge of the pen; the knife-blade glimmered with a sound of tearing, and the fish, slit from throat to vent, with a nick on either side of the neck, dropped at Long Jack's feet. "Hi!" said Long Jack, with a scoop of his mittened hand. The cod's liver dropped in the basket. Another wrench and scoop sent the head and offal flying, and the empty fish slid across to Uncle Salters, who snorted fiercely. There was another sound of tearing, the backbone flew over the bulwarks, and the fish, headless, gutted, and open, splashed in the tub, sending the salt water into Harvey's astonished mouth. After the first yell, the men were silent. The cod moved along as though they were alive, and long ere Harvey had ceased wondering at the miraculous dexterity of it all, his tub was full. "Pitch!" grunted Uncle Salters, without turning his head, and Harvey pitched the fish by twos and threes down the hatch. "Hi! Pitch 'em bunchy," shouted Dan. "Don't scatter! Uncle Salters is the best splitter in the fleet. Watch him mind his book!" Indeed, it looked a little as though the round uncle were cutting magazine pages against time. Manuel's body, cramped over from the hips, stayed like a statue; but his long arms grabbed the fish without ceasing. Little Penn toiled valiantly, but it was easy to see he was weak. Once or twice Manuel found time to help him without breaking the chain of supplies, and once Manuel howled because he had caught his finger in a Frenchman's hook. These hooks are made of soft metal, to be rebent after use; but the cod very often get away with them and are hooked again elsewhere; and that is one of the many reasons why the Gloucester boats despise the Frenchmen. Down below, the rasping sound of rough salt rubbed on rough flesh sounded like the whirring of a grindstone--a steady undertune to the "click-nick" of the knives in the pen; the wrench and schloop of torn heads, dropped liver, and flying offal; the "caraaah" of Uncle Salters's knife scooping away backbones; and the flap of wet, opened bodies falling into the tub. At the end of an hour Harvey would have given the world to rest; for fresh, wet cod weigh more than you would think, and his back ached with the steady pitching. But he felt for the first time in his life that he was one of a working gang of men, took pride in the thought, and held on sullenly. "Knife oh!" shouted Uncle Salters, at last. Penn doubled up, gasping among the fish, Manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and Long Jack leaned over the bulwarks. The cook appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated. "Blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said Long Jack, smacking his lips. "Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon. "Look by your foot, Harve," cried Dan, below. Harvey saw half a dozen knives stuck in a cleat in the hatch combing. He dealt these around, taking over the dulled ones. "Water!" said Disko Troop. "Scuttle-butt's for'ard, an' the dipper's alongside. Hurry, Harve," said Dan. He was back in a minute with a big dipperful of stale brown water which tasted like nectar, and loosed the jaws of Disko and Tom Platt. "These are cod," said Disko. "They ain't Damarskus figs, Tom Platt, nor yet silver bars. I've told you that every single time sence we've sailed together." "A matter o' seven seasons," returned Tom Platt, coolly. "Good stowin's good stowin' all the same, an' there's a right an' a wrong way o' stowin' ballast even. If you'd ever seen four hundred ton o' iron set into the--" "Hi!" With a yell from Manuel the work began again, and never stopped till the pen was empty. The instant the last fish was down, Disko Troop rolled aft to the cabin with his brother; Manuel and Long Jack went forward; Tom Platt only waited long enough to slide home the hatch ere he too disappeared. In half a minute Harvey heard deep snores in the cabin, and he was staring blankly at Dan and Penn. "I did a little better that time, Danny," said Penn, whose eyelids were heavy with sleep. "But I think it is my duty to help clean." "'Wouldn't hev your conscience fer a thousand quintal," said Dan. "Turn in, Penn. You've no call to do boy's work. Draw a bucket, Harvey. Oh, Penn, dump these in the gurry-butt 'fore you sleep. Kin you keep awake that long?" Penn took up the heavy basket of fish-livers, emptied them into a cask with a hinged top lashed by the fo'c'sle; then he too dropped out of sight in the cabin. "Boys clean up after dressin' down, an' first watch in ca'am weather is boy's watch on the 'We're Here'." Dan sluiced the pen energetically, unshipped the table, set it up to dry in the moonlight, ran the red knife-blades through a wad of oakum, and began to sharpen them on a tiny grindstone, as Harvey threw offal and backbones overboard under his direction. At the first splash a silvery-white ghost rose bolt upright from the oily water and sighed a weird whistling sigh. Harvey started back with a shout, but Dan only laughed. "Grampus," said he. "Beggin' fer fish-heads. They up-eend thet way when they're hungry. Breath on him like the doleful tombs, hain't he?" A horrible stench of decayed fish filled the air as the pillar of white sank, and the water bubbled oilily. "Hain't ye never seen a grampus up-eend before? You'll see 'em by hundreds 'fore ye're through. Say, it's good to hev a boy aboard again. Otto was too old, an' a Dutchy at that. Him an' me we fought consid'ble. 'Wouldn't ha' keered fer thet ef he'd hed a Christian tongue in his head. Sleepy?" "Dead sleepy," said Harvey, nodding forward. "'Mustn't sleep on watch. Rouse up an' see ef our anchor-light's bright an' shinin'. You're on watch now, Harve." "Pshaw! What's to hurt us? Bright's day. Sn-orrr! "Jest when things happen, dad says. Fine weather's good sleepin', an' 'fore you know, mebbe, you're cut in two by a liner, an' seventeen brass-bound officers, all gen'elmen, lift their hand to it that your lights was aout an' there was a thick fog. Harve, I've kinder took to you, but ef you nod onct more I'll lay into you with a rope's end." The moon, who sees many strange things on the Banks, looked down on a slim youth in knickerbockers and a red jersey, staggering around the cluttered decks of a seventy-ton schooner, while behind him, waving a knotted rope, walked, after the manner of an executioner, a boy who yawned and nodded between the blows he dealt. The lashed wheel groaned and kicked softly, the riding-sail slatted a little in the shifts of the light wind, the windlass creaked, and the miserable procession continued. Harvey expostulated, threatened, whimpered, and at last wept outright, while Dan, the words clotting on his tongue, spoke of the beauty of watchfulness, and slashed away with the rope's end, punishing the dories as often as he hit Harvey. At last the clock in the cabin struck ten, and upon the tenth stroke little Penn crept on deck. He found two boys in two tumbled heaps side by side on the main-hatch, so deeply asleep that he actually rolled them to their berths. CHAPTER III It was the forty-fathom slumber that clears the soul and eye and heart, and sends you to breakfast ravening. They emptied a big tin dish of juicy fragments of fish--the blood-ends the cook had collected overnight. They cleaned up the plates and pans of the elder mess, who were out fishing, sliced pork for the midday meal, swabbed down the fo'c'sle, filled the lamps, drew coal and water for the cook, and investigated the fore-hold, where the boat's stores were stacked. It was another perfect day--soft, mild, and clear; and Harvey breathed to the very bottom of his lungs. More schooners had crept up in the night, and the long blue seas were full of sails and dories. Far away on the horizon, the smoke of some liner, her hull invisible, smudged the blue, and to eastward a big ship's topgallantsails, just lifting, made a square nick in it. Disko Troop was smoking by the roof of the cabin--one eye on the craft around, and the other on the little fly at the mainmast-head. "When dad kerflummoxes that way," said Dan, in a whisper, "he's doin' some high-line thinkin' fer all hands. I'll lay my wage an' share we'll make berth soon. Dad he knows the cod, an' the fleet they know dad knows. 'See 'em comin' up one by one, lookin' fer nothin' in particular, o' course, but scrowgin' on us all the time? There's the Prince Leboa; she's a Chat-ham boat. She's crep' up sence last night. An' see that big one with a patch in her foresail an' a new jib? She's the Carrie Pitman from West Chatham. She won't keep her canvas long on less her luck's changed since last season. She don't do much 'cep' drift. There ain't an anchor made'll hold her. . . . When the smoke puffs up in little rings like that, dad's studyin' the fish. Ef we speak to him now, he'll git mad. Las' time I did, he jest took an' hove a boot at me." Disko Troop stared forward, the pipe between his teeth, with eyes that saw nothing. As his son said, he was studying the fish--pitting his knowledge and experience on the Banks against the roving cod in his own sea. He accepted the presence of the inquisitive schooners on the horizon as a compliment to his powers. But now that it was paid, he wished to draw away and make his berth alone, till it was time to go up to the Virgin and fish in the streets of that roaring town upon the waters. So Disko Troop thought of recent weather, and gales, currents, food-supplies, and other domestic arrangements, from the point of view of a twenty-pound cod; was, in fact, for an hour a cod himself, and looked remarkably like one. Then he removed the pipe from his teeth. "Dad," said Dan, "we've done our chores. Can't we go overside a piece? It's good catch-in' weather." "Not in that cherry-coloured rig ner them ha'afbaked brown shoes. Give him suthin' fit to wear." "Dad's pleased--that settles it," said Dan, delightedly, dragging Harvey into the cabin, while Troop pitched a key down the steps. "Dad keeps my spare rig where he kin overhaul it, 'cause ma sez I'm keerless." He rummaged through a locker, and in less than three minutes Harvey was adorned with fisherman's rubber boots that came half up his thigh, a heavy blue jersey well darned at the elbows, a pair of flippers, and a sou'wester. "Naow ye look somethin' like," said Dan. "Hurry!" "Keep nigh an' handy," said Troop, "an' don't go visitin' raound the fleet. Ef any one asks you what I'm cal'latin' to do, speak the truth--fer ye don't know." A little red dory, labelled Hattie S., lay astern of the schooner. Dan hauled in the painter, and dropped lightly on to the bottom boards, while Harvey tumbled clumsily after. "That's no way o' gettin' into a boat," said Dan. "Ef there was any sea you'd go to the bottom, sure. You got to learn to meet her." Dan fitted the thole-pins, took the forward thwart, and watched Harvey's work. The boy had rowed, in a ladylike fashion, on the Adirondack ponds; but there is a difference between squeaking pins and well-balanced rowlocks--light sculls and stubby, eight-foot sea-oars. They stuck in the gentle swell, and Harvey grunted. "Short! Row short!" said Dan. "Ef you cramp your oar in any kind o' sea you're liable to turn her over. Ain't she a daisy? Mine, too." The little dory was specklessly clean. In her bows lay a tiny anchor, two jugs of water, and some seventy fathoms of thin, brown dory-roding. A tin dinner-horn rested in cleats just under Harvey's right hand, beside an ugly-looking maul, a short gaff, and a shorter wooden stick. A couple of lines, with very heavy leads and double cod-hooks, all neatly coiled on square reels, were stuck in their place by the gunwale. "Where's the sail and mast?" said Harvey, for his hands were beginning to blister. Dan chuckled. "Ye don't sail fishin'-dories much. Ye pull; but ye needn't pull so hard. Don't you wish you owned her?" "Well, I guess my father might give me one or two if I asked 'em," Harvey replied. He had been too busy to think much of his family till then. "That's so. I forgot your dad's a millionaire. You don't act millionary any, naow. But a dory an' craft an' gear"--Dan spoke as though she were a whale-boat "costs a heap. Think your dad 'u'd give you one fer--fer a pet like?" "Shouldn't wonder. It would be 'most the only thing I haven't stuck him for yet." "Must be an expensive kinder kid to home. Don't slitheroo thet way, Harve. Short's the trick, because no sea's ever dead still, an' the swells'll--" Crack! The loom of the oar kicked Harvey under the chin and knocked him backward. "That was what I was goin' to say. I hed to learn too, but I wasn't more than eight years old when I got my schoolin'." Harvey regained his seat with aching jaws and a frown. "No good gettin' mad at things, dad says. It's our own fault ef we can't handle 'em, he says. Le's try here. Manuel'll give us the water." The "Portugee" was rocking fully a mile away, but when Dan up-ended an oar he waved his left arm three times. "Thirty fathom," said Dan, stringing a salt clam on to the hook. "Over with the dough-boys. Bait same's I do, Harve, an' don't snarl your reel." Dan's line was out long before Harvey had mastered the mystery of baiting and heaving out the leads. The dory drifted along easily. It was not worth while to anchor till they were sure of good ground. "Here we come!" Dan shouted, and a shower of spray rattled on Harvey's shoulders as a big cod flapped and kicked alongside. "Muckle, Harvey, muckle! Under your hand! Quick!" Evidently "muckle" could not be the dinner-horn, so Harvey passed over the maul, and Dan scientifically stunned the fish before he pulled it inboard, and wrenched out the hook with the short wooden stick he called a "gob-stick." Then Harvey felt a tug, and pulled up zealously. "Why, these are strawberries!" he shouted. "Look!" The hook had fouled among a bunch of strawberries, red on one side and white on the other--perfect reproductions of the land fruit, except that there were no leaves, and the stem was all pipy and slimy. "Don't tech 'em! Slat 'em off. Don't--" The warning came too late. Harvey had picked them from the hook, and was admiring them. "Ouch!" he cried, for his fingers throbbed as though he had grasped many nettles. "Naow ye know what strawberry-bottom means. Nothin' 'cep' fish should be teched with the naked fingers, dad says. Slat 'em off ag'in' the gunnel, an' bait up, Harve. Lookin' won't help any. It's all in the wages." Harvey smiled at the thought of his ten and a half dollars a month, and wondered what his mother would say if she could see him hanging over the edge of a fishing-dory in mid-ocean. She suffered agonies whenever he went out on Saranac Lake; and, by the way, Harvey remembered distinctly that he used to laugh at her anxieties. Suddenly the line flashed through his hand, stinging even through the "flippers," the woolen circlets supposed to protect it. "He's a logy. Give him room accordin' to his strength," cried Dan. "I'll help ye." "No, you won't," Harvey snapped, as he hung on to the line. "It's my first fish. Is--is it a whale?" "Halibut, mebbe." Dan peered down into the water alongside, and flourished the big "muckle," ready for all chances. Something white and oval flickered and fluttered through the green. "I'll lay my wage an' share he's over a hundred. Are you so everlastin' anxious to land him alone?" Harvey's knuckles were raw and bleeding where they had been banged against the gunwale; his face was purple-blue between excitement and exertion; he dripped with sweat, and was half blinded from staring at the circling sunlit ripples about the swiftly moving line. The boys were tired long ere the halibut, who took charge of them and the dory for the next twenty minutes. But the big flat fish was gaffed and hauled in at last. "Beginner's luck," said Dan, wiping his forehead. "He's all of a hundred." Harvey looked at the huge grey-and-mottled creature with unspeakable pride. He had seen halibut many times on marble slabs ashore, but it had never occurred to him to ask how they came inland. Now he knew; and every inch of his body ached with fatigue. "Ef dad was along," said Dan, hauling up, "he'd read the signs plain's print. The fish are runnin' smaller an' smaller, an' you've took baout as logy a halibut's we're apt to find this trip. Yesterday's catch--did ye notice it?--was all big fish an' no halibut. Dad he'd read them signs right off. Dad says everythin' on the Banks is signs, an' can be read wrong er right. Dad's deeper'n the Whale-hole." Even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the "We're Here", and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging. "What did I say, naow? That's the call fer the whole crowd. Dad's onter something, er he'd never break fishin' this time o' day. Reel up, Harve, an' we'll pull back." They were to windward of the schooner, just ready to flirt the dory over the still sea, when sounds of woe half a mile off led them to Penn, who was careering around a fixed point, for all the world like a gigantic water-bug. The little man backed away and came down again with enormous energy, but at the end of each manoeuvre his dory swung round and snubbed herself on her rope. "We'll hey to help him, else he'll root an' seed here," said Dan. "What's the matter?" said Harvey. This was a new world, where he could not lay down the law to his elders, but had to ask questions humbly. And the sea was horribly big and unexcited. "Anchor's fouled. Penn's always losing 'em. Lost two this trip a'ready,--on sandy bottom, too,--an' dad says next one he loses, sure's fish-in', he'll give him the kelleg. That 'u'd break Penn's heart." "What's a 'kelleg'?" said Harvey, who had a vague idea it might be some kind of marine torture, like keel-hauling in the story-books. "Big stone instid of an anchor. You kin see a kelleg ridin' in the bows fur's you can see a dory, an' all the fleet knows what it means. They'd guy him dreadful. Penn couldn't stand that no more'n a dog with a dipper to his tail. He's so everlastin' sensitive. Hello, Penn! Stuck again? Don't try any more o' your patents. Come up on her, and keep your rodin' straight up an' down." "It doesn't move," said the little man, panting. "It doesn't move at all, and indeed I tried everything." "What's all this hurrah's-nest for'ard?" said Dan, pointing to a wild tangle of spare oars and dory-roding, all matted together by the hand of inexperience. "Oh, that," said Penn, proudly, "is a Spanish windlass. Mr. Salters showed me how to make it; but even that doesn't move her." Dan bent low over the gunwale to hide a smile, twitched once or twice on the roding, and, behold, the anchor drew at once. "Haul up, Penn," he said, laughing, "er she 'll git stuck again." They left him regarding the weed-hung flukes of the little anchor with big, pathetic blue eyes, and thanking them profusely. "Oh, say, while I think of it, Harve," said Dan, when they were out of ear-shot, "Penn ain't quite all caulked. He ain't nowise dangerous, but his mind's give out. See?" "Is that so, or is it one of your father's judgments?" Harvey asked, as he bent to his oars. He felt he was learning to handle them more easily. "Dad ain't mistook this time. Penn's a sure'nuff loony. No, he ain't thet, exactly, so much ez a harmless ijjit. It was this way (you're rowin' quite so, Harve), an' I tell you 'cause it's right you orter know. He was a Moravian preacher once. Jacob Boller wuz his name, dad told me, an' he lived with his wife an' four children somewheres out Pennsylvania way. Well, Penn he took his folks along to a Moravian meetin',--camp-meetin', most like,--an' they stayed over jest one night in Johnstown. You've heered talk o' Johnstown?" Harvey considered. "Yes, I have. But I don't know why. It sticks in my head same as Ashtabula." "Both was big accidents--thet's why, Harve. Well, that one single night Penn and his folks was to the hotel Johnstown was wiped out. 'Dam bu'st an' flooded her, an' the houses struck adrift an' bumped into each other an' sunk. I've seen the pictures, an' they're dretful. Penn he saw his folk drowned all 'n a heap 'fore he rightly knew what was comin'. His mind give out from that on. He mistrusted somethin' hed happened up to Johnstown, but for the poor life of him he couldn't remember what, an' he jest drifted araound smilin' an' wonderin'. He didn't know what he was, nor yit what he hed bin, an' thet way he run ag'in' Uncle Salters, who was visitin' 'n Allegheny City. Ha'af my mother's folks they live scattered inside o' Pennsylvania, an' Uncle Salters he visits araound winters. Uncle Salters he kinder adopted Penn, well knowin' what his trouble wuz; an' he brought him East, an' he give him work on his farm." "Why, I heard him calling Penn a farmer last night when the boats bumped. Is your Uncle Salters a farmer?" "Farmer!" shouted Dan. "There ain't water enough 'tween here an' Hatt'rus to wash the furrer-mould off'n his boots. He's Jest everlastin' farmer. Why, Harve, I've seen thet man hitch up a bucket, long towards sundown, an' set twiddlin' the spigot to the scuttle-butt same's ef 'twuz a cow's bag. He's thet much farmer. Well, Penn an' he they ran the farm--up Exeter way, 'twuz. Uncle Salters he sold it this spring to a jay from Boston as wanted to build a summerhaouse, an' he got a heap for it. Well, them two loonies scratched along till, one day, Penn's church he'd belonged to--the Moravians--found out where he wuz drifted an' layin', an' wrote to Uncle Salters. 'Never heerd what they said exactly; but Uncle Salters was mad. He's a 'piscopalian mostly--but he jest let 'em hev it both sides o' the bow, 'sif he was a Baptist, an' sez he warn't goin' to give up Penn to any blame Moravian connection in Pennsylvania or anywheres else. Then he come to dad, towin' Penn,--thet was two trips back,--an' sez he an' Penn must fish a trip fer their health. 'Guess he thought the Moravians wouldn't hunt the Banks fer Jacob Boller. Dad was agreeable, fer Uncle Salters he'd been fishin' off an' on fer thirty years, when he warn't inventin' patent manures, an' he took quarter-share in the 'We're Here'; an' the trip done Penn so much good, dad made a habit o' takin' him. Some day, dad sez, he'll remember his wife an' kids an' Johnstown, an' then, like's not, he'll die, dad sez. Don't yer talk about Johnstown ner such things to Penn, 'r Uncle Salters he'll heave ye overboard." "Poor Penn!" murmured Harvey. "I shouldn't ever have thought Uncle Salters cared for him by the look of 'em together." "I like Penn, though; we all do," said Dan. "We ought to ha' give him a tow, but I wanted to tell ye first." They were close to the schooner now, the other boats a little behind them. "You needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said Troop, from the deck. "We'll dress-daown right off. Fix table, boys!" "Deeper'n the Whale-deep," said Dan, with a wink, as he set the gear for dressing-down. "Look at them boats that hev edged up sence mornin'. They're all waitin' on dad. See 'em, Harve?" "They are all alike to me." And, indeed, to a landsman the nodding schooners around seemed run from the same mould. "They ain't, though. That yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit steeved that way, she's the 'Hope of Prague'. Nick Brady's her skipper, the meanest man on the Banks. We'll tell him so when we strike the Main Ledge. 'Way off yander's the 'Day's Eye'. The two Jeraulds own her. She's from Harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good luck; but dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. Them other three, side along, they're the 'Margie Smith', 'Rose', and 'Edith S. Walen', all frum home. 'Guess we'll see the 'Abbie M. Deering' to-morrer, dad, won't we? They're all slippin' over from the shoal o' 'Queereau." "You won't see many boats to-morrow, Danny." When Troop called his son Danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "Boys, we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they clambered inboard. "We'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small." He looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how little and level the fish ran. Save for Harvey's halibut, there was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck. "I'm waitin' on the weather," he added. "Ye'll have to make it yourself, Disko, for there's no sign I can see," said Long Jack, sweeping the clear horizon. And yet, half an hour later, as they were dressing-down, the Bank fog dropped on them, "between fish and fish," as they say. It drove steadily and in wreaths, curling and smoking along the colourless water. The men stopped dressing-down without a word. Long Jack and Uncle Salters slipped the windlass-brakes into their sockets, and began to heave up the anchor, the windlass jarring as the wet hempen cable strained on the barrel. Manuel and Tom Platt gave a hand at the last. The anchor came up with a sob, and the riding-sail bellied as Troop steadied her at the wheel. "Up jib and foresail," said he. "Slip 'em in the smother," shouted Long Jack, making fast the jib-sheet, while the others raised the clacking, rattling rings of the foresail; and the fore-boom creaked as the "We're Here" looked up into the wind and dived off into blank, whirling white. "There's wind behind this fog," said Troop. It was all wonderful beyond words to Harvey; and the most wonderful part was that he heard no orders except an occasional grunt from Troop, ending with, "That's good, my son!" "'Never seen anchor weighed before?" said Tom Platt, to Harvey gaping at the damp canvas of the foresail. "No. Where are we going?" "Fish and make berth, as you'll find out 'fore you've bin a week aboard. It's all new to you, but we never know what may come to us. Now, take me--Tom Platt--I'd never ha' thought--" "It's better than fourteen dollars a month an' a bullet in your belly," said Troop, from the wheel. "Ease your jumbo a grind." "Dollars an' cents better," returned the man-o'-war's man, doing something to a big jib with a wooden spar tied to it. "But we didn't think o' that when we manned the windlass-brakes on the 'Miss Jim Buck',[1] outside Beaufort Harbor, with Fort Macon heavin' hot shot at our stern, an' a livin' gale atop of all. Where was you then, Disko?" "Jest here, or hereabouts," Disko replied, "earnin' my bread on the deep waters, and dodgin' Reb privateers. 'Sorry I can't accommodate you with red-hot shot, Tom Platt; but I guess we'll come aout all right on wind 'fore we see Eastern Point." There was an incessant slapping and chatter at the bows now, varied by a solid thud and a little spout of spray that clattered down on the fo'c'sle. The rigging dripped clammy drops, and the men lounged along the lee of the house--all save Uncle Salters, who sat stiffly on the main-hatch nursing his stung hands. [1] The Gemsbok, U. S. N.? "'Guess she'd carry stays'l," said Disko, rolling one eye at his brother. "Guess she wouldn't to any sorter profit. What's the sense o' wastin' canvas?" the farmer-sailor replied. The wheel twitched almost imperceptibly in Disko's hands. A few seconds later a hissing wave-top slashed diagonally across the boat, smote Uncle Salters between the shoulders, and drenched him from head to foot. He rose sputtering, and went forward, only to catch another. "See dad chase him, all around the deck," said Dan. "Uncle Salters he thinks his quarter-share's our canvas. Dad's put this duckin' act up on him two trips runnin'. Hi! That found him where he feeds." Uncle Salters had taken refuge by the foremast, but a wave slapped him over the knees. Disko's face was as blank as the circle of the wheel. "'Guess she'd lie easier under stays'l, Salters," said Disko, as though he had seen nothing. "Set your old kite, then," roared the victim, through a cloud of spray; "only don't lay it to me if anything happens. Penn, you go below right off an' git your coffee. You ought to hev more sense than to bum araound on deck this weather." "Now they'll swill coffee an' play checkers till the cows come home," said Dan, as Uncle Salters hustled Penn into the fore-cabin. "'Looks to me like's if we'd all be doin' so fer a spell. There's nothin' in creation deader-limpsey-idler'n a Banker when she ain't on fish." "I'm glad ye spoke, Danny," cried Long Jack, who had been casting round in search of amusement. "I'd clean forgot we'd a passenger under that T-wharf hat. There's no idleness for thim that don't know their ropes. Pass him along, Tom Platt, an' we'll l'arn him." "'Tain't my trick this time," grinned Dan. "You've got to go it alone. Dad learned me with a rope's end." For an hour Long Jack walked his prey up and down, teaching, as he said, "things at the sea that ivry man must know, blind, dhrunk, or asleep." There is not much gear to a seventy-ton schooner with a stump-foremast, but Long Jack had a gift of expression. When he wished to draw Harvey's attention to the peak-halyards, he dug his knuckles into the back of the boy's neck and kept him at gaze for half a minute. He emphasised the difference between fore and aft generally by rubbing Harvey's nose along a few feet of the boom, and the lead of each rope was fixed in Harvey's mind by the end of the rope itself. The lesson would have been easier had the deck been at all free; but there appeared to be a place on it for everything and anything except a man. Forward lay the windlass and its tackle, with the chain and hemp cables, all very unpleasant to trip over; the fo'c'sle stovepipe, and the gurry-butts by the fo'c'sle-hatch to hold the fish-livers. Aft of these the fore-boom and booby of the main-hatch took all the space that was not needed for the pumps and dressing-pens. Then came the nests of dories lashed to ring-bolts by the quarter-deck; the house, with tubs and oddments lashed all around it; and, last, the sixty-foot main-boom in its crutch, splitting things lengthwise, to duck and dodge under every time. Tom Platt, of course, could not keep his oar out of the business, but ranged alongside with enormous and unnecessary descriptions of sails and spars on the old Ohio. "Niver mind fwhat he says; attind to me, Innocince. Tom Platt, this bally-hoo's not the Ohio, an' you're mixing the bhoy bad." "He'll be ruined for life, beginnin' on a fore-an'-after this way," Tom Platt pleaded. "Give him a chance to know a few leadin' principles. Sailin's an art, Harvey, as I'd show you if I had ye in the foretop o' the--" "I know ut. Ye'd talk him dead an' cowld. Silince, Tom Platt! Now, after all I've said, how'd you reef the foresail, Harve'? Take your time answerin'." "Haul that in," said Harvey, pointing to leeward. "Fwhat? The North Atlantuc?" "No, the boom. Then run that rope you showed me back there--" "That's no way," Tom Platt burst in. "Quiet! He's l'arnin', an' has not the names good yet. Go on, Harve." "Oh, it's the reef-pennant. I'd hook the tackle on to the reef-pennant, and then let down--" "Lower the sail, child! Lower!" said Tom Platt, in a professional agony. "Lower the throat-and peak-halyards," Harvey went on. Those names stuck in his head. "Lay your hand on thim," said Long Jack. Harvey obeyed. "Lower till that rope-loop--on the after-leach--kris--no, it's cringle--till the cringle was down on the boom. Then I'd tie her up the way you said, and then I'd hoist up the peak-and throat-halyards again." "You've forgot to pass the tack-earing, but wid time and help ye'll l'arn. There's good and just reason for ivry rope aboard, or else 'twould be overboard. D'ye follow me? 'Tis dollars an' cents I'm puttin' into your pocket, ye skinny little supercargo, so that fwhin ye've filled out ye can ship from Boston to Cuba an' tell thim Long Jack l'arned you. Now I'll chase ye around a piece, callin' the ropes, an' you'll lay your hand on thim as I call." He began, and Harvey, who was feeling rather tired, walked slowly to the rope named. A rope's end licked round his ribs, and nearly knocked the breath out of him. "When you own a boat," said Tom Platt, with severe eyes, "you can walk. Till then, take all orders at the run. Once more--to make sure!" Harvey was in a glow with the exercise, and this last cut warmed him thoroughly. Now, he was a singularly smart boy, the son of a very clever man and a very sensitive woman, with a fine resolute temper that systematic spoiling had nearly turned to mulish obstinacy. He looked at the other men, and saw that even Dan did not smile. It was evidently all in the day's work, though it hurt abominably; so he swallowed the hint with a gulp and a gasp and a grin. The same smartness that led him to take such advantage of his mother made him very sure that no one on the boat, except, maybe, Penn, would stand the least nonsense. One learns a great deal from a mere tone. Long Jack called over half a dozen more ropes, and Harvey danced over the deck like an eel at ebb-tide, one eye on Tom Platt. "Ver' good. Ver' good done," said Manuel. "After supper I show you a little schooner I make, with all her ropes. So we shall learn." "Fust-class fer--a passenger," said Dan. "Dad he's jest allowed you'll be wuth your salt maybe 'fore you're draownded. Thet's a heap fer dad. I'll learn you more our next watch together." "Taller!" grunted Disko, peering through the fog as it smoked over the bows. There was nothing to be seen ten feet beyond the surging jib-boom, while alongside rolled the endless procession of solemn, pale waves whispering and upping one to the other. "Now I'll learn you something Long Jack can't," shouted Tom Platt, as from a locker by the stern he produced a battered deep-sea lead hollowed at one end, smeared the hollow from a saucer full of mutton tallow, and went forward. "I'll learn you how to fly the Blue Pigeon. Shooo!" Disko did something to the wheel that checked the schooner's way, while Manuel, with Harvey to help (and a proud boy was Harvey), let down the jib in a lump on the boom. The lead sung a deep droning song as Tom Platt whirled it round and round. "Go ahead, man," said Long Jack, impatiently. "We're not drawin' twenty-five fut off Fire Island in a fog. There's no trick to ut." "Don't be jealous, Galway." The released lead plopped into the sea far ahead as the schooner surged slowly forward. "Soundin' is a trick, though," said Dan, "when your dipsey lead's all the eye you're like to hev for a week. What d'you make it, dad?" Disko's face relaxed. His skill and honour were involved in the march he had stolen on the rest of the fleet, and he had his reputation as a master artist who knew the Banks blindfold. "Sixty, mebbe--ef I'm any judge," he replied, with a glance at the tiny compass in the window of the house. "Sixty," sung out Tom Platt, hauling in great wet coils. The schooner gathered way once more. "Heave!" said Disko, after a quarter of an hour. "What d'you make it?" Dan whispered, and he looked at Harvey proudly. But Harvey was too proud of his own performances to be impressed just then. "Fifty," said the father. "I mistrust we're right over the nick o' Green Bank on old Sixty-Fifty." "Fifty!" roared Tom Platt. They could scarcely see him through the fog. "She's bu'st within a yard--like the shells at Fort Macon." "Bait up, Harve," said Dan, diving for a line on the reel. The schooner seemed to be straying promiscuously through the smother, her head-sail banging wildly. The men waited and looked at the boys, who began fishing. "Heugh!" Dan's lines twitched on the scored and scarred rail. "Now haow in thunder did dad know? Help us here, Harve. It's a big un. Poke-hooked, too." They hauled together, and landed a goggle-eyed twenty-pound cod. He had taken the bait right into his stomach. "Why, he's all covered with little crabs," cried Harvey, turning him over. "By the great hook-block, they're lousy already," said Long Jack. "Disko, ye kape your spare eyes under the keel." Splash went the anchor, and they all heaved over the lines, each man taking his own place at the bulwarks. "Are they good to eat?" Harvey panted, as he lugged in another crab-covered cod. "Sure. When they're lousy it's a sign they've all been herdin' together by the thousand, and when they take the bait that way they're hungry. Never mind how the bait sets. They'll bite on the bare hook." "Say, this is great!" Harvey cried, as the fish came in gasping and splashing--nearly all poke-hooked, as Dan had said. "Why can't we always fish from the boat instead of from the dories?" "Allus can, till we begin to dress-daown. Efter thet, the heads and offals 'u'd scare the fish to Fundy. Boat-fishin' ain't reckoned progressive, though, unless ye know as much as dad knows. Guess we'll run aout aour trawl to-night. Harder on the back, this, than frum the dory, ain't it?" It was rather back-breaking work, for in a dory the weight of a cod is water-borne till the last minute, and you are, so to speak, abreast of him; but the few feet of a schooner's free-board make so much extra dead-hauling, and stooping over the bulwarks cramps the stomach. But it was wild and furious sport so long as it lasted; and a big pile lay aboard when the fish ceased biting. "Where's Penn and Uncle Salters?" Harvey asked, slapping the slime off his oilskins, and reeling up the line in careful imitation of the others. "Git's coffee and see." Under the yellow glare of the lamp on the pawl-post, the fo'c'sle table down and opened, utterly unconscious of fish or weather, sat the two men, a checker-board between them, Uncle Salters snarling at Penn's every move. "What's the matter naow?" said the former, as Harvey, one hand in the leather loop at the head of the ladder, hung shouting to the cook. "Big fish and lousy-heaps and heaps," Harvey replied, quoting Long Jack. "How's the game?" Little Penn's jaw dropped. "Tweren't none o' his fault," snapped Uncle Salters. "Penn's deef." "Checkers, weren't it?" said Dan, as Harvey staggered aft with the steaming coffee in a tin pail. "That lets us out o' cleanin' up to-night. Dad's a jest man. They'll have to do it." "An' two young fellers I know'll bait up a tub or so o' trawl, while they're cleanin'," said Disko, lashing the wheel to his taste. "Urn! 'Guess I'd ruther clean up, dad." "Don't doubt it. Ye wun't, though. Dress-daown! Dress-daown! Penn'll pitch while you two bait up." "Why in thunder didn't them blame boys tell us you'd struck on?" said Uncle Salters, shuffling to his place at the table. "This knife's gum-blunt, Dan." "Ef stickin' out cable don't wake ye, guess you'd better hire a boy o' your own," said Dan, muddling about in the dusk over the tubs full of trawl-line lashed to windward of the house. "Oh, Harve, don't ye want to slip down an' git's bait?" "Bait ez we are," said Disko. "I mistrust shag-fishin' will pay better, ez things go." That meant the boys would bait with selected offal of the cod as the fish were cleaned--an improvement on paddling barehanded in the little bait-barrels below. The tubs were full of neatly coiled line carrying a big hook each few feet; and the testing and baiting of every single hook, with the stowage of the baited line so that it should run clear when shot from the dory, was a scientific business. Dan managed it in the dark without looking, while Harvey caught his fingers on the barbs and bewailed his fate. But the hooks flew through Dan's fingers like tatting on an old maid's lap. "I helped bait up trawl ashore 'fore I could well walk," he said. "But it's a putterin' job all the same. Oh, dad!" This shouted towards the hatch, where Disko and Tom Platt were salting. "How many skates you reckon we'll need?" "Baout three. Hurry!" "There's three hundred fathom to each tub," Dan explained; "more'n enough to lay out tonight. Ouch! 'Slipped up there, I did." He stuck his finger in his mouth. "I tell you, Harve, there ain't money in Gloucester'u'd hire me to ship on a reg'lar trawler. It may be progressive, but, barrin' that, it's the putterin'est, slimjammest business top of earth." "I don't know what this is, if 'tisn't regular trawling," said Harvey, sulkily. "My fingers are all cut to frazzles." "Pshaw! This is jest one o' dad's blame experiments. He don't trawl 'less there's mighty good reason fer it. Dad knows. Thet's why he's baitin' ez he is. We'll hev her saggin' full when we take her up er we won't see a fin." Penn and Uncle Salters cleaned up as Disko had ordained, but the boys profited little. No sooner were the tubs furnished than Tom Platt and Long Jack, who had been exploring the inside of a dory with a lantern, snatched them away, loaded up the tubs and some small, painted trawl-buoys, and hove the boat overboard into what Harvey regarded as an exceedingly rough sea. "They'll be drowned. Why, the dory's loaded like a freight-car," he cried. "We'll be back," said Long Jack, "an' in case you'll not be lookin' for us, we'll lay into you both if the trawl's snarled." The dory surged up on the crest of a wave, and just when it seemed impossible that she could avoid smashing against the schooner's side, slid over the ridge, and was swallowed up in the damp dusk. "Take a-hold here, an' keep ringin' steady," said Dan, passing Harvey the lanyard of a bell that hung just behind the windlass. Harvey rang lustily, for he felt two lives depended on him. But Disko in the cabin, scrawling in the log-book, did not look like a murderer, and when he went to supper he even smiled drily at the anxious Harvey. "This ain't no weather," said Dan. "Why, you an' me could set thet trawl! They've only gone out jest far 'nough so's not to foul our cable. They don't need no bell reelly." "Clang! cling! clang!" Harvey kept it up, varied with occasional rub-a-dubs, for another half-hour. There was a bellow and a bump alongside. Manuel and Dan raced to the hooks of the dory-tackle; Long Jack and Tom Platt arrived on deck together, it seemed, one half the North Atlantic at their backs, and the dory followed them in the air, landing with a clatter. "Nary snarl," said Tom Platt, as he dripped. "Danny, you'll do yet." "The pleasure av your comp'ny to the banquit," said Long Jack, squelching the water from his boots as he capered like an elephant and stuck an oilskinned arm into Harvey's face. "We do be condescending to honour the second half wid our presence." And off they all four rolled to supper, where Harvey stuffed himself to the brim on fish-chowder and fried pies, and fell fast asleep just as Manuel produced from a locker a lovely two-foot model of the Lucy Holmes, his first boat, and was going to show Harvey the ropes. Harvey never even twiddled his fingers as Penn pushed him into his bunk. "It must be a sad thing--a very sad thing," said Penn, watching the boy's face, "for his mother and his father, who think he is dead. To lose a child--to lose a man-child!" "Git out o' this, Penn," said Dan. "Go aft and finish your game with Uncle Salters. Tell dad I'll stand Harve's watch ef he don't keer. He's played aout." "Ver' good boy," said Manuel, slipping out of his boots and disappearing into the black shadows of the lower bunk. "Expec' he make good man, Danny. I no see he is any so mad as your parpa he says. Eh, wha-at?" Dan chuckled, but the chuckle ended in a snore. It was thick weather outside, with a rising wind, and the elder men stretched their watches. The hours struck clear in the cabin; the nosing bows slapped and scuffled with the seas; the fo'c'sle stovepipe hissed and sputtered as the spray caught it; and the boys slept on, while Disko, Long Jack, Tom Plait, and Uncle Salters, each in turn, stumped aft to look at the wheel, forward to see that the anchor held, or to veer out a little more cable against chafing, with a glance at the dim anchor-light between each round. CHAPTER IV Harvey waked to find the "first half" at 'breakfast, the fo'c'sle door drawn to a crack, and every square inch of the schooner singing its own tune. The black bulk of the cook balanced behind the tiny galley over the glare of the stove, and the pots and pans in the pierced wooden board before it jarred and racketed to each plunge. Up and up the fo'c'sle climbed, yearning and surging and quivering, and then, with a clear, sickle-like swoop, came down into the seas. He could hear the flaring bows cut and squelch, and there was a pause ere the divided waters came down on the deck above, like a volley of buck-shot. Followed the woolly sound of the cable in the hawse-hole; a grunt and squeal of the windlass; a yaw, a punt, and a kick, and the "We're Here" gathered herself together to repeat the motions. "Now, ashore," he heard Long Jack saying, "ye've chores, an' ye must do thim in any weather. Here we're well clear of the fleet, an' we've no chores--an' that's a blessin'. Good night, all." He passed like a big snake from the table to his bunk, and began to smoke. Tom Platt followed his example; Uncle Salters, with Penn, fought his way up the ladder to stand his watch, and the cook set for the "second half." It came out of its bunks as the others had entered theirs, with a shake and a yawn. It ate till it could eat no more; and then Manuel filled his pipe with some terrible tobacco, crotched himself between the pawl-post and a forward bunk, cocked his feet up on the table, and smiled tender and indolent smiles at the smoke. Dan lay at length in his bunk, wrestling with a gaudy, gilt-stopped accordion, whose tunes went up and down with the pitching of the "We're Here". The cook, his shoulders against the locker where he kept the fried pies (Dan was fond of fried pies), peeled potatoes, with one eye on the stove in event of too much water finding its way down the pipe; and the general smell and smother were past all description. Harvey considered affairs, wondered that he was not deathly sick, and crawled into his bunk again, as the softest and safest place, while Dan struck up, "I don't want to play in your yard," as accurately as the wild jerks allowed. "How long is this for?" Harvey asked of Manuel. "Till she get a little quiet, and we can row to trawl. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps two days more. You do not like? Eh, wha-at?" "I should have been crazy sick a week ago, but it doesn't seem to upset me now--much." "That is because we make you fisherman, these days. If I was you, when I come to Gloucester I would give two, three big candles for my good luck." "Give who?" "To be sure--the Virgin of our Church on the Hill. She is very good to fishermen all the time. That is why so few of us Portugee men ever are drowned." "You're a Roman Catholic, then?" "I am a Madeira man. I am not a Porto Pico boy. Shall I be Baptist, then? Eh, wha-at? I always give candles--two, three more when I come to Gloucester. The good Virgin she never forgets me, Manuel." "I don't sense it that way," Tom Platt put in from his bunk, his scarred face lit up by the glare of a match as he sucked at his pipe. "It stands to reason the sea's the sea; and you'll git jest about what's goin', candles or kerosene, fer that matter." "Tis a mighty good thing," said Long Jack, "to have a fri'nd at coort, though. I'm o' Manuel's way o' thinkin'. About tin years back I was crew to a Sou' Boston market-boat. We was off Minot's Ledge wid a northeaster, butt first, atop of us, thicker'n burgoo. The ould man was dhrunk, his chin waggin' on the tiller, an' I sez to myself, 'If iver I stick my boat-huk into T-wharf again, I'll show the saints fwhat manner o' craft they saved me out av.' Now, I'm here, as ye can well see, an' the model of the dhirty ould Kathleen, that took me a month to make, I gave ut to the priest, an' he hung Ut up forninst the altar. There's more sense in givin' a model that's by way o' bein' a work av art than any candle. Ye can buy candles at store, but a model shows the good saints ye've tuk trouble an' are grateful." "D'you believe that, Irish?" said Tom Platt, turning on his elbow. "Would I do Ut if I did not, Ohio?" "Wa-al, Enoch Fuller he made a model o' the old Ohio, and she's to Salem museum now. Mighty pretty model, too, but I guess Enoch he never done it fer no sacrifice; an' the way I take it is--" There were the makings of an hour-long discussion of the kind that fishermen love, where the talk runs in shouting circles and no one proves anything at the end, had not Dan struck up this cheerful rhyme: "Up jumped the mackerel with his striped back. Reef in the mainsail, and haul on the tack; For it's windy weather--" Here Long Jack joined in: "And it's blowy weather; When the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!" Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Plait, holding the accordion low in the bunk: "Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead; For it's windy weather," etc. Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but sang louder: "Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!" Tom Platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the fo'c'sle and caught Dan's uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead. "Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, returning the gift with precision. "Ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' Long Jack arguin' 'baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I'll learn Harve here the tune!" Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a _machette_. "'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. "A reg'lar Boston concert." There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended. "Ye're just in time, Disko. Fwhat's she doin' outside?" "Jest this!" He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the "We're Here". "We're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. Ye'll lead, av course, Disko," said Long Jack. "Guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs I know, an' ye've heerd them both." His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little: "There is a crack packet--crack packet o' fame, She hails from Noo York, an' the Dreadnought's her name. You may talk o' your fliers--Swallow-tail and Black Ball-- But the Dreadnought's the packet that can beat them all. "Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey, Because of the tugboat to take her to sea; But when she's off soundings you shortly will know (Chorus.) She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord, let her go! "Now the Dreadnought she's howlin' 'crost the Banks o' Newfoundland, Where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand. Sez all the little fishes that swim to an' fro: (Chorus.) 'She's the Liverpool packet--O Lord, let her go!'" There were scores of verses, for he worked the Dreadnought every mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Platt followed with something about "the rough and tough McGinn, who would pilot the vessel in." Then they called on Harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of "Skipper Ireson's Ride" that he had been taught at the camp-school in the Adirondacks. It seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when Disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, "Don't go on, young feller. That's a mistaken jedgment--one o' the worst kind, too, becaze it's catchin' to the ear." "I orter ha' warned you," said Dan. "Thet allus fetches dad." "What's wrong?" said Harvey, surprised and a little angry. "All you're goin' to say," said Disko. "All dead wrong from start to finish, an' Whittier he's to blame. I have no special call to right any Marblehead man, but 'tweren't no fault o' Ireson's. My father he told me the tale time an' again, an' this is the way 'twuz." "For the wan hundreth time," put in Long Jack, under his breath. "Ben Ireson he was skipper o' the Betty, young feller, comin' home frum the Banks--that was before the war of 1812, but jestice is jestice at all times. They f'und the Active o' Portland, an' Gibbons o' that town he was her skipper; they f'und her leakin' off Cape Cod Light. There was a terr'ble gale on, an' they was gettin' the Betty home's fast as they could craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there warn't any sense to reskin' a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn't hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the Active till the sea run daown a piece. They wouldn't hev that either, hangin' araound the Cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. They jest up stays'l an' quit, nat'rally takin' Ireson with 'em. Folks to Marblehead was mad at him not runnin' the risk, and becaze nex' day, when the sea was ca'am (they never stopped to think o' that), some of the Active's folk was took off by a Truro man. They come into Marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin' how Ireson had shamed his town, an' so forth an' so on; an' Ireson's men they was scared, seem' public feelin' ag'in' 'em, an' they went back on Ireson, an' swore he was respons'ble for the hull act. 'Tweren't the women neither that tarred and feathered him--Marblehead women don't act that way--'twas a passel o' men an' boys, an' they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, an' Ireson he told 'em they'd be sorry for it some day. Well, the facts came aout later, same's they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an' Whittier he come along an' picked up the slack eend of a lyin' tale, an' tarred and feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more after he was dead. 'Twas the only time Whittier ever slipped up, an' 'tweren't fair. I whaled Dan good when he brought that piece back from school. You don't know no better, o' course; but I've give you the facts, hereafter an' evermore to be remembered. Ben Ireson weren't no sech kind o' man as Whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an' after that business, an' you beware o' hasty jedgments, young feller. Next!" Harvey had never heard Disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast. Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little _machette_ to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about "Nina, innocente!" ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza: "Now Aprile is over and melted the snow, And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow; Yes, out o' Noo Bedford we shortly must clear, We're the whalers that never see wheat in the ear." Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then: "Wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love's posy blowin'; Wheat-in-the-ear, we're goin' off to sea; Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin'; When I come back a loaf o' bread you'll be!" That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail. "Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles," said Dan. "What in thunder is it?" "The song of Fin McCoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to Norway." His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph. "Faith, I've been to Norway, but I didn't make that unwholesim noise. 'Tis like some of the old songs, though," said Long Jack, sighing. "Don't let's hev another 'thout somethin' between," said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended: "It's six an' twenty Sundays sence las' we saw the land, With fifteen hunder quintal, An' fifteen hunder quintal, 'Teen hunder toppin' quintal, 'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand!" "Hold on!" roared Tom Plait "D'ye want to nail the trip, Dan? That's Jonah sure, 'less you sing it after all our salt's wet." "No, 'tain't. Is it, dad? Not unless you sing the very las' verse. You can't learn me anything on Jonahs!" "What's that?" said Harvey. "What's a Jonah?" "A Jonah's anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it's a man--sometimes it's a boy--or a bucket. I've known a splittin'-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her," said Tom Plait. "There's all sorts o' Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. I'd never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin'. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood. Thet was a Jonah too, the worst sort o' Jonah. Drowned four men she did, an' used to shine fiery o' nights in the nest." "And you believe that?" said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. "Haven't we all got to take what's served?" A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. "Outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen," said Disko. "Don't you go makin' a mock of Jonahs, young feller." "Well, Harve ain't no Jonah. Day after we catched him," Dan cut in, "we had a toppin' good catch." The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly--a queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger. "Murder!" said Long Jack. "Don't do that again, doctor. We ain't used to Ut." "What's wrong?" said Dan. "Ain't he our mascot, and didn't they strike on good after we'd struck him?" "Oh! yess," said the cook. "I know that, but the catch iss not finish yet." "He ain't goin' to do us any harm," said Dan, hotly. "Where are ye hintin' an' edgin' to? He's all right." "No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny." "That all?" said Dan, placidly. "He wun't--not by a jugful." "Master!" said the cook, pointing to Harvey. "Man!" and he pointed to Dan. "That's news. Haow soon?" said Dan, with a laugh. "In some years, and I shall see it. Master and man--man and master." "How in thunder d'ye work that out?" said Tom Platt. "In my head, where I can see." "Haow?" This from all the others at once. "I do not know, but so it will be." He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him. "Well," said Dan, "a heap o' things'll hev to come abaout 'fore Harve's any master o' mine; but I'm glad the doctor ain't choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the fleet regardin' his own special luck. Dunno ef it's spreadin' same's smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman. That boat's her own Jonah, sure--crews an' gear make no differ to her driftin'. Jimmy Christmas! She'll etch loose in a flat ca'am." "We're well dear o' the fleet, anyway," said Disko, "Carrie Pitman an' all." There was a rapping on the deck. "Uncle Salters has catched his luck," said Dan, as his father departed. "It's blown clear," Disko cried, and all the fo'c'sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The "We're Here" slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand grey hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst in a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harvey's eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and greys. Four or five Mother Carey's chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down wind and back again, and melted away. "'Seems to me I saw somethin' flicker jest naow over yonder," said Uncle Salters, pointing to the northeast. "Can't be any of the fleet," said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the fo'c'sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. "Sea's oilin' over dretful fast. Danny, don't you want to skip up a piece an' see how aour trawl-buoy lays?" Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling crosstrees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell. "She's all right," he hailed. "Sail O! Dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! Schooner she be, too." They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits. The sails were red-tanned. "Frenchmen!" shouted Dan. "No, 'tain't, neither. Da-ad!" "That's no French," said Disko. "Salters, your blame luck holds tighter'n a screw in a keg-head." "I've eyes. It's Uncle Abishai." "You can't nowise tell fer sure." "The head-king of all Jonahs," groaned Tom Platt. "Oh, Salters, Salters, why wasn't you abed an' asleep? "How could I tell?" said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up. She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarter-deck was some four or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the wind--yawing frightfully--her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,--"scandalised," they call it,--and her fore-boom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate's; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blowzy, frousy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl. "That's Abishai," said Salters. "Full o' gin an' Judique men, an' the judgments o' Providence layin' fer him an' never takin' good holt. He's run in to bait, Miquelon way." "He'll run her under," said Long Jack. "That's no rig fer this weather." "Not he, 'r he'd 'a' done it long ago," Disko replied. "Looks's if he cal'lated to run us under. Ain't she daown by the head more'n natural, Tom Platt?" "Ef it's his style o' loadin' her she ain't safe," said the sailor, slowly. "Ef she's spewed her oakum he'd better git to his pumps mighty quick." The creature thrashed up, wore round with a clatter and rattle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot. A greybeard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Disko's face darkened. "He'd resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. Says we're in fer a shift o' wind. He's in fer worse. Abishai! Abishai!" He waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. The crew mocked him and laughed. "Jounce ye, an' strip ye, an' trip ye!" yelled Uncle Abishai. "A livin' gale--a livin' gale. Yah! Cast up fer your last trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You won't see Gloucester no more, no more!" "Crazy full--as usual," said Tom Platt. "Wish he hadn't spied us, though." She drifted out of hearing while the greyhead yelled something about a dance at the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the fo'c'sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew. "An' that's a fine little floatin' hell fer her draught," said Long Jack. "I wondher what mischief he's been at ashore." "He's a trawler," Dan explained to Harvey, "an' he runs in fer bait all along the coast. Oh, no, not home, he don't go. He deals along the south an' east shore up yonder." He nodded in the direction of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. "Dad won't never take me ashore there. They're a mighty tough crowd--an' Abishai's the toughest. You saw his boat? Well, she's nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o' the old Marblehead heel-tappers. They don't make them quarter-decks any more. Abishai don't use Marblehead, though. He ain't wanted there. He jes' drif's araound, in debt, trawlin' an' cussin' like you've heard. Bin a Jonah fer years an' years, he hez. 'Gits liquor frum the Feecamp boats fer makin' spells an' selling winds an' such truck. Crazy, I guess." "Twon't be any use underrunnin' the trawl to-night," said Tom Platt, with quiet despair. "He come alongside special to cuss us. I'd give my wage an' share to see him at the gangway o' the old Ohio 'fore we quit floggin'. Jest abaout six dozen, an' Sam Mocatta layin' 'em on crisscross!" The dishevelled "heel-tapper" danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: "It wass his own death made him speak so! He iss fey--fey, I tell you! Look!" She sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. The patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. She dropped into a hollow and--was not. "Run under, by the great hook-block!" shouted Disko, jumping aft. "Drunk or sober, we've got to help 'em. Heave short and break her out! Smart!" Harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. This is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little "We're Here" complained like a human. They ran down to where Abishai's craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. "Let 'em go," said Disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. "I wouldn't hev a match that belonged to Abishai aboard. 'Guess she run clear under. 'Must ha' been spewin' her oakum fer a week, an' they never thought to pump her. That's one more boat gone along o' leavin' port all hands drunk." "Glory be!" said Long Jack. "We'd ha' been obliged to help 'em if they was top o' water." "'Thinkin' o' that myself," said Tom Platt. "Fey! Fey!" said the cook, rolling his eyes. "He hass taken his own luck with him." "Ver' good thing, I think, to tell the fleet when we see. Eh, wha-at'?" said Manuel. "If you runna that way before the wind, and she work open her seams--" He threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while Penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. Harvey could not realise that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. Then Dan went up the crosstrees, and Disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again. "We go mighty quick hereabouts when we do go," was all he said to Harvey. "You think on that for a spell, young feller. That was liquor." After dinner it was calm enough to fish from the decks,--Penn and Uncle Salters were very zealous this time,--and the catch was large and large fish. "Abishai has shorely took his luck with him," said Salters. "The wind hain't backed ner riz ner nothin'. How abaout the trawl? I despise superstition, anyway." Tom Platt insisted that they had much better haul the thing and make a new berth. But the cook said: "The luck iss in two pieces. You will find it so when you look. I know." This so tickled Long Jack that he overbore Tom Platt, and the two went out together. Underrunning a trawl means pulling it in on one side of the dory, picking off the fish, rebaiting the hooks, and passing them back to the sea again something like pinning and unpinning linen on a wash-line. It is a lengthy business and rather dangerous, for the long, sagging line may twitch a boat under in a flash. But when they heard, "And naow to thee, O Capting," booming out of the fog, the crew of the "We're Here" took heart. The dory swirled alongside well loaded, Tom Platt yelling for Manuel to act as relief-boat. "The luck's cut square in two pieces," said Long Jack, forking in the fish, while Harvey stood open-mouthed at the skill with which the plunging dory was saved from destruction. "One half was jest punkins. Tom Platt wanted to haul her an' ha' done wid ut; but I said, 'I'll back the doctor that has the second sight,' an' the other half come up sagging full o' big uns. Hurry, Man'nle, an' bring's a tub o' bait. There's luck afloat tonight." The fish bit at the newly baited hooks from which their brethren had just been taken, and Tom Platt and Long Jack moved methodically up and down the length of the trawl, the boat's nose surging under the wet line of hooks, stripping the sea-cucumbers that they called pumpkins, slatting off the fresh-caught cod against the gunwale, rebaiting, and loading Manuel's dory till dusk. "I'll take no risks," said Disko, then--"not with him floatin' around so near. Abishai won't sink fer a week. Heave in the dories, an' we'll dressdaown after supper." That was a mighty dressing-down, attended by three or four blowing grampuses. It lasted till nine o'clock, and Disko was thrice heard to chuckle as Harvey pitched the split fish into the hold. "Say, you're haulin' ahead dretful fast," said Dan, when they ground the knives after the men had turned in. "There's somethin' of a sea tonight, an' I hain't heard you make no remarks on it." "Too busy," Harvey replied, testing a blade's edge. "Come to think of it, she is a high-kicker." The little schooner was gambolling all around her anchor among the silver-tipped waves. Backing with a start of affected surprise at the sight of the strained cable, she pounced on it like a kitten, while the spray of her descent burst through the hawse-holes with the report of a gun. Shaking her head, she would say: "Well, I'm sorry I can't stay any longer with you. I'm going North," and would sidle off, halting suddenly with a dramatic rattle of her rigging. "As I was just going to observe," she would begin, as gravely as a drunken man addressing a lamp-post. The rest of the sentence (she acted her words in dumb-show, of course) was lost in a fit of the fidgets, when she behaved like a puppy chewing a string, a clumsy woman in a side-saddle, a hen with her head cut off, or a cow stung by a hornet, exactly as the whims of the sea took her. "See her sayin' her piece. She's Patrick Henry naow," said Dan. She swung sideways on a roller, and gesticulated with her jib-boom from port to starboard. "But-ez---fer-me, give me liberty--er give me-death!" Wop! She sat down in the moon-path on the water, courtesying with a flourish of pride impressive enough had not the wheel-gear sniggered mockingly in its box. Harvey laughed aloud. "Why, it's just as if she was alive," he said. "She's as stiddy as a haouse an' as dry as a herrin'," said Dan, enthusiastically, as he was stung across the deck in a batter of spray. "Fends 'em off an 'fends 'em off, an' 'Don't ye come anigh me,' she sez. Look at her--jest look at her! Sakes! You should see one o' them toothpicks h'istin' up her anchor on her spike outer fifteen-fathom water." "What's a toothpick, Dan?" "Them new haddockers an' herrin'-boats. Fine's a yacht forward, with yacht sterns to 'em, an' spike bowsprits, an' a haouse that u'd take our hold. I've heard that Burgess himself he made the models fer three or four of 'em, Dad's sot ag'in' 'em on account o' their pitchin' an' joltin', but there's heaps o' money in 'em. Dad can find fish, but he ain't no ways progressive--he don't go with the march o' the times. They're chock-full o' labour-savin' jigs an' sech all. 'Ever seed the Elector o' Gloucester? She's a daisy, ef she is a toothpick." "What do they cost, Dan?" "Hills o' dollars. Fifteen thousand, p'haps; more, mebbe. There's gold-leaf an' everything you kin think of." Then to himself, half under his breath "Guess I'd call her Hattie S., too." CHAPTER V That was the first of many talks with Dan, who told Harvey why he would transfer his dory's name to the imaginary Burgess-modelled haddocker. Harvey heard a good deal about the real Hattie at Gloucester; saw a lock of her hair--which Dan, finding fair words of no avail, had "hooked" as she sat in front of him at school that winter--and a photograph. Hattie was about fourteen years old, with an awful contempt for boys, and had been trampling on Dan's heart through the winter. All this was revealed under oath of solemn secrecy on moonlit decks, in the dead dark, or in choking fog; the whining wheel behind them, the climbing deck before, and without, the unresting, clamorous sea. Once, of course, as the boys came to know each other, there was a fight, which raged from bow to stern till Penn came up and separated them, but promised not to tell Disko, who thought fighting on watch rather worse than sleeping. Harvey was no match for Dan physically, but it says a great deal for his new training that he took his defeat and did not try to get even with his conqueror by underhand methods. That was after he had been cured of a string of boils between his elbows and wrists, where the wet jersey and oilskins cut into the flesh. The salt water stung them unpleasantly, but when they were ripe Dan treated them with Disko's razor, and assured Harvey that now he was a "blooded Banker"; the affliction of gurry-sores being the mark of the caste that claimed him. Since he was a boy and very busy, he did not bother his head with too much thinking. He was exceedingly sorry for his mother, and often longed to see her and above all to tell her of his wonderful new life, and how brilliantly he was acquitting himself in it. Otherwise he preferred not to wonder too much how she was bearing the shock of his supposed death. But one day, as he stood on the fo'c'sle ladder, guying the cook, who had accused him and Dan of hooking fried pies, it occurred to him that this was a vast improvement on being snubbed by strangers in the smoking-room of a hired liner. He was a recognised part of the scheme of things on the "We're Here"; had his place at the table and among the bunks; and could hold his own in the long talks on stormy days, when the others were always ready to listen to what they called his "fairy-tales" of his life ashore. It did not take him more than two days and a quarter to feel that if he spoke of his own life--it seemed very far away--no one except Dan (and even Dan's belief was sorely tried) credited him. So he invented a friend, a boy he had heard of, who drove a miniature four-pony drag in Toledo, Ohio, and ordered five suits of clothes at a time, and led things called "germans" at parties where the oldest girl was not quite fifteen, but all the presents were solid silver. Salters protested that this kind of yarn was desperately wicked, if not indeed positively blasphemous, but he listened as greedily as the others; and their criticisms at the end gave Harvey entirely new notions on "germans," clothes, cigarettes with gold-leaf tips, rings, watches, scent, small dinner-parties, champagne, card-playing, and hotel accommodation. Little by little he changed his tone when speaking of his "friend," whom Long Jack had christened "the Crazy Kid," "the Gilt-edged Baby," "the Suckin' Vanderpoop," and other pet names; and with his sea-booted feet cocked up on the table would even invent histories about silk pajamas and specially imported neckwear, to the "friend's" discredit. Harvey was a very adaptable person, with a keen eye and ear for every face and tone about him. Before long he knew where Disko kept the old green-crusted quadrant that they called the "hog-yoke"--under the bed-bag in his bunk. When he 'took the sun, and with the help of "The Old Farmer's" almanac found the latitude, Harvey would jump down into the cabin and scratch the reckoning and date with a nail on the rust of the stove-pipe. Now, the chief engineer of the liner could have done no more, and no engineer of thirty years' service could have assumed one half of the ancient-mariner air with which Harvey, first careful to spit over the side, made public the schooner's position for that day, and then and not till then relieved Disko of the quadrant. There is an etiquette in all these things. The said "hog-yoke," an Eldridge chart, the farming almanac, Blunt's "Coast Pilot," and Bowditch's "Navigator" were all the weapons Disko needed to guide him, except the deep-sea lead that was his spare eye. Harvey nearly slew Penn with it when Tom Platt taught him first how to "fly the blue pigeon"; and, though his strength was not equal to continuous sounding in any sort of a sea, for calm weather with a seven-pound lead on shoal water Disko used him freely. As Dan said: "'Tain't soundin's dad wants. It's samples. Grease her up good, Harve." Harvey would tallow the cup at the end, and carefully bring the sand, shell, sludge, or whatever it might be, to Disko, who fingered and smelt it and gave judgment. As has been said, when Disko thought of cod he thought as a cod; and by some long-tested mixture of instinct and experience, moved the "We're Here" from berth to berth, always with the fish, as a blindfolded chess-player moves on the unseen board. But Disko's board was the Grand Bank--a triangle two hundred and fifty miles on each side a waste of wallowing sea, cloaked with dank fog, vexed with gales, harried with drifting ice, scored by the tracks of the reckless liners, and dotted with the sails of the fishing-fleet. For days they worked in fog--Harvey at the bell--till, grown familiar with the thick airs, he went out with Tom Platt, his heart rather in his mouth. But the fog would not lift, and the fish were biting, and no one can stay helplessly afraid for six hours at a time. Harvey devoted himself to his lines and the gaff or gob-stick as Tom Platt called for them; and they rowed back to the schooner guided by the bell and Tom's instinct; Manuel's conch sounding thin and faint beside them. But it was an unearthly experience, and, for the first time in a month, Harvey dreamed of the shifting, smoking floors of water round the dory, the lines that strayed away into nothing, and the air above that melted on the sea below ten feet from his straining eyes. A few days later he was out with Manuel on what should have been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole length of the roding ran out, and still the anchor found nothing, and Harvey grew mortally afraid, for that his last touch with earth was lost. "Whale-hole," said Manuel, hauling in. "That is good joke on Disko. Come!" and he rowed to the schooner to find Tom Platt and the others jeering at the skipper because, for once, he had led them to the edge of the barren Whale-deep, the blank hole of the Grand Bank. They made another berth through the fog, and that time the hair of Harvey's head stood up when he went out in Manuel's dory. A whiteness moved in the whiteness of the fog with a breath like the breath of the grave, and there was a roaring, a plunging, and spouting. It was his first introduction to the dread summer berg of the Banks, and he cowered in the bottom of the boat while Manuel laughed. There were days, though, clear and soft and warm, when it seemed a sin to do anything but loaf over the hand-lines and spank the drifting "sun-scalds" with an oar; and there were days of light airs, when Harvey was taught how to steer the schooner from one berth to another. It thrilled through him when he first felt the keel answer to his hand on the spokes and slide over the long hollows as the foresail scythed back and forth against the blue sky. That was magnificent, in spite of Disko saying that it would break a snake's back to follow his wake. But, as usual, pride ran before a fall. They were sailing on the wind with the staysail--an old one, luckily--set, and Harvey jammed her right into it to show Dan how completely he had mastered the art. The foresail went over with a bang, and the foregaff stabbed and ripped through the stay-sail, which, was of course, prevented from going over by the mainstay. They lowered the wreck in awful silence, and Harvey spent his leisure hours for the next few days under Tom Platt's lee, learning to use a needle and palm. Dan hooted with joy, for, as he said, he had made the very same blunder himself in his early days. Boylike, Harvey imitated all the men by turns, till he had combined Disko's peculiar stoop at the wheel, Long Jack's swinging overhand when the lines were hauled, Manuel's round-shouldered but effective stroke in a dory, and Tom Platt's generous Ohio stride along the deck. "'Tis beautiful to see how he takes to ut," said Long Jack, when Harvey was looking out by the windlass one thick noon. "I'll lay my wage an' share 'tis more'n half play-actin' to him, an' he consates himself he's a bowld mariner. 'Watch his little bit av a back now!" "That's the way we all begin," said Tom Platt. "The boys they make believe all the time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein' men, an' so till they die--pretendin' an' pretendin'. I done it on the old Ohio, I know. Stood my first watch--harbor-watch--feelin' finer'n Farragut. Dan's full o' the same kind o' notions. See 'em now, actin' to be genewine moss-backs--every hair a rope-yarn an' blood Stockholm tar." He spoke down the cabin stairs. "'Guess you're mistook in your judgments fer once, Disko. What in Rome made ye tell us all here the kid was crazy?" "He wuz," Disko replied. "Crazy ez a loon when he come aboard; but I'll say he's sobered up consid'ble sence. I cured him." "He yarns good," said Tom Platt. "T'other night he told us abaout a kid of his own size steerin' a cunnin' little rig an' four ponies up an' down Toledo, Ohio, I think 'twas, an' givin' suppers to a crowd o' sim'lar kids. Cur'us kind o' fairy-tale, but blame interestin'. He knows scores of 'em." "'Guess he strikes 'em outen his own head," Disko called from the cabin, where he was busy with the log-book. "'Stands to reason that sort is all made up. It don't take in no one but Dan, an' he laughs at it. I've heard him, behind my back." "Y'ever hear what Sim'on Peter Ca'houn said when they whacked up a match 'twix' his sister Hitty an' Lorin' Jerauld, an' the boys put up that joke on him daown to Georges?" drawled Uncle Salters, who was dripping peaceably under the lee of the starboard dory-nest. Tom Platt puffed at his pipe in scornful silence: he was a Cape Cod man, and had not known that tale more than twenty years. Uncle Salters went on with a rasping chuckle: "Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he said, an' he was jest right, abaout Lorin', 'Ha'af on the taown,' he said, 'an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' they told me she's married a 'ich man.' Sim'on Peter Ca'houn he hedn't no roof to his mouth, an' talked that way." "He didn't talk any Pennsylvania Dutch," Tom Platt replied. "You'd better leave a Cape man to tell that tale. The Ca'houns was gipsies frum 'way back." "Wal, I don't profess to be any elocutionist," Salters said. "I'm comin' to the moral o' things. That's jest abaout what aour Harve be! Ha'af on the taown, an' t'other ha'af blame fool; an' there's some'll believe he's a rich man. Yah!" "Did ye ever think how sweet 'twould be to sail wid a full crew o' Salterses?" said Long Jack. "Ha'af in the furrer an' other ha'af in the muck-heap, as Ca'houn did not say, an' makes out he's a fisherman!" A little laugh went round at Salters's expense. Disko held his tongue, and wrought over the log-book that he kept in a hatchet-faced, square hand; this was the kind of thing that ran on, page after soiled page: "July 17. This day thick fog and few fish. Made berth to northward. So ends this day. "July 18. This day comes in with thick fog. Caught a few fish. "July 19. This day comes in with light breeze from N. E. and fine weather. Made a berth to eastward. Caught plenty fish. "July 20. This, the Sabbath, comes in with fog and light winds. So ends this day. Total fish caught this week, 3,478." They never worked on Sundays, but shaved, and washed themselves if it were fine, and Pennsylvania sang hymns. Once or twice he suggested that, if it was not an impertinence, he thought he could preach a little. Uncle Salters nearly jumped down his throat at the mere notion, reminding him that he was not a preacher and mustn't think of such things. We'd hev him rememberin' Johnstown next," Salters explained, "an' what would happen then?" So they compromised on his reading aloud from a book called "Josephus." It was an old leather-bound volume, smelling of a hundred voyages, very solid and very like the Bible, but enlivened with accounts of battles and sieges; and they read it nearly from cover to cover. Otherwise Penn was a silent little body. He would not utter a word for three days on end sometimes, though he played checkers, listened to the songs, and laughed at the stories. When they tried to stir him up, he would answer. "I don't wish to seem unneighbourly, but it is because I have nothing to say. My head feels quite empty. I've almost forgotten my name." He would turn to Uncle Salters with an expectant smile. "Why, Pennsylvania Pratt," Salters would shout. "You'll fergit me next!" "No--never," Penn would say, shutting his lips firmly. "Pennsylvania Pratt, of course," he would repeat over and over. Sometimes it was Uncle Salters who forgot, and told him he was Haskins or Rich or McVitty; but Penn was equally content--till next time. He was always very tender with Harvey, whom he pitied both as a lost child and as a lunatic; and when Salters saw that Penn liked the boy, he relaxed, too. Salters was not an amiable person (he esteemed it his business to keep the boys in order); and the first time Harvey, in fear and trembling, on a still day, managed to shin up to the main-truck (Dan was behind him ready to help), he esteemed it his duty to hang Salters's big sea-boots up there--a sight of shame and derision to the nearest schooner. With Disko, Harvey took no liberties; not even when the old man dropped direct orders, and treated him, like the rest of the crew, to "Don't you want to do so and so?" and "Guess you'd better," and so forth. There was something about the clean-shaven lips and the puckered corners of the eyes that was mightily sobering to young blood. Disko showed him the meaning of the thumbed and pricked chart, which, he said, laid over any government publication whatsoever; led him, pencil in hand, from berth to berth over the whole string of banks--Le Have, Western, Banquereau, St. Pierre, Green, and Grand--talking "cod" meantime. Taught him, too, the principle on which the "hog-yoke" was worked. In this Harvey excelled Dan, for he had inherited a head for figures, and the notion of stealing information from one glimpse of the sullen Bank sun appealed to all his keen wits. For other sea-matters his age handicapped him. As Disko said, he should have begun when he was ten. Dan could bait up trawl or lay his hand on any rope in the dark; and at a pinch, when Uncle Salters had a gurry-sore on his palm, could dress down by sense of touch. He could steer in anything short of half a gale from the feel of the wind on his face, humouring the "We're Here" just when she needed it. These things he did as automatically as he skipped about the rigging, or made his dory a part of his own will and body. But he could not communicate his knowledge to Harvey. Still there was a good deal of general information flying about the schooner on stormy days, when they lay up in the fo'c'sle or sat on the cabin lockers, while spare eye-bolts, leads, and rings rolled and rattled in the pauses of the talk. Disko spoke of whaling voyages in the Fifties; of great she-whales slain beside their young; of death agonies on the black, tossing seas, and blood that spurted forty feet in the air; of boats smashed to splinters; of patent rockets that went off wrong-end-first and bombarded the trembling crews; of cutting-in and boiling-down, and that terrible "nip" of '71, when twelve hundred men were made homeless on the ice in three days--wonderful tales, all true. But more wonderful still were his stories of the cod, and how they argued and reasoned on their private businesses deep down below the keel. Long Jack's tastes ran more to the supernatural. He held them silent with ghastly stories of the "Yo-hoes" on Monomoy Beach, that mock and terrify lonely clam-diggers; of sand-walkers and dune-haunters who were never properly buried; of hidden treasure on Fire Island guarded by the spirits of Kidd's men; of ships that sailed in the fog straight over Truro township; of that harbour in Maine where no one but a stranger will lie at anchor twice in a certain place because of a dead crew who row alongside at midnight with the anchor in the bow of their old-fashioned boat, whistling--not calling, but whistling--for the soul of the man who broke their rest. Harvey had a notion that the east coast of his native land, from Mount Desert south, was populated chiefly by people who took their horses there in the summer and entertained in country-houses with hardwood floors and Vantine portieres. He laughed at the ghost-tales,--not as much as he would have done a month before,--but ended by sitting still and shuddering. Tom Platt dealt with his interminable trip round the Horn on the old Ohio in the flogging days, with a navy more extinct than the dodo--the navy that passed away in the great war. He told them how red-hot shot are dropped into a cannon, a wad of wet clay between them and the cartridge; how they sizzle and reek when they strike wood, and how the little ship-boys of the Miss Jim Buck hove water over them and shouted to the fort to try again. And he told tales of blockade--long weeks of swaying at anchor, varied only by the departure and return of steamers that had used up their coal (there was no change for the sailing-ships); of gales and cold--cold that kept two hundred men, night and day, pounding and chopping at the ice on cable, blocks, and rigging, when the galley was as red-hot as the fort's shot, and men drank cocoa by the bucket. Tom Platt had no use for steam. His service closed when that thing was comparatively new. He admitted that it was a specious invention in time of peace, but looked hopefully for the day when sails should come back again on ten-thousand-ton frigates with hundred-and-ninety-foot booms. Manuel's talk was slow and gentle--all about pretty girls in Madeira washing clothes in the dry beds of streams, by moonlight, under waving bananas; legends of saints, and tales of queer dances or fights away in the cold Newfoundland baiting-ports. Salters was mainly agricultural; for, though he read "Josephus" and expounded it, his mission in life was to prove the value of green manures, and specially of clover, against every form of phosphate whatsoever. He grew libellous about phosphates; he dragged greasy "Orange Judd" books from his bunk and intoned them, wagging his finger at Harvey, to whom it was all Greek. Little Penn was so genuinely pained when Harvey made fun of Salters's lectures that the boy gave it up, and suffered in polite silence. That was very good for Harvey. The cook naturally did not join in these conversations. As a rule, he spoke only when it was absolutely necessary; but at times a queer gift of speech descended on him, and he held forth, half in Gaelic, half in broken English, an hour at a time. He was specially communicative with the boys, and he never withdrew his prophecy that one day Harvey would be Dan's master, and that he would see it. He told them of mail-carrying in the winter up Cape Breton way, of the dog-train that goes to Coudray, and of the ram-steamer Arctic, that breaks the ice between the mainland and Prince Edward Island. Then he told them stories that his mother had told him, of life far to the southward, where water never froze; and he said that when he died his soul would go to lie down on a warm white beach of sand with palm-trees waving above. That seemed to the boys a very odd idea for a man who had never seen a palm in his life. Then, too, regularly at each meal, he would ask Harvey, and Harvey alone, whether the cooking was to his taste; and this always made the "second half" laugh. Yet they had a great respect for the cook's judgment, and in their hearts considered Harvey something of a mascot by consequence. And while Harvey was taking in knowledge of new things at each pore and hard health with every gulp of the good air, the "We're Here" went her ways and did her business on the Bank, and the silvery-grey kenches of well-pressed fish mounted higher and higher in the hold. No one day's work was out of the common, but the average days were many and close together. Naturally, a man of Disko's reputation was closely watched--"scrowged upon," Dan called it--by his neighbours, but he had a very pretty knack of giving them the slip through the curdling, glidy fog-banks. Disko avoided company for two reasons. He wished to make his own experiments, in the first place; and in the second, he objected to the mixed gatherings of a fleet of all nations. The bulk of them were mainly Gloucester boats, with a scattering from Provincetown, Harwich, Chatham, and some of the Maine ports, but the crews drew from goodness knows where. Risk breeds recklessness, and when greed is added there are fine chances for every kind of accident in the crowded fleet, which, like a mob of sheep, is huddled round some unrecognised leader. "Let the two Jeraulds lead 'em," said Disko. "We're baound to lay among 'em fer a spell on the Eastern Shoals; though ef luck holds, we won't hev to lay long. Where we are naow, Harve, ain't considered noways good graound." "Ain't it?" said Harvey, who was drawing water (he had learned just how to wiggle the bucket), after an unusually long dressing-down. "Shouldn't mind striking some poor ground for a change, then." "All the graound I want to see--don't want to strike her--is Eastern Point," said Dan. "Say, dad, it looks 's if we wouldn't hev to lay more'n two weeks on the Shoals. You'll meet all the comp'ny you want then, Harve. That's the time we begin to work. No reg'lar meals fer no one then. 'Mug-up when ye're hungry, an' sleep when ye can't keep awake. Good job you wasn't picked up a month later than you was, or we'd never ha' had you dressed in shape fer the Old Virgin." Harvey understood from the Eldridge chart that the Old Virgin and a nest of curiously named shoals were the turning-point of the cruise, and that with good luck they would wet the balance of their salt there. But seeing the size of the Virgin (it was one tiny dot), he wondered how even Disko with the hog-yoke and the lead could find her. He learned later that Disko was entirely equal to that and any other business, and could even help others. A big four-by-five blackboard hung in the cabin, and Harvey never understood the need of it till, after some blinding thick days, they heard the unmelodious tooting of a foot-power fog-horn--a machine whose note is as that of a consumptive elephant. They were making a short berth, towing the anchor under their foot to save trouble. "Squarerigger bellowin' fer his latitude," said Long Jack. The dripping red headsails of a bark glided out of the fog, and the "We're Here" rang her bell thrice, using sea shorthand. The larger boat backed her topsail with shrieks and shoutings. "Frenchman," said Uncle Salters, scornfully. "Miquelon boat from St. Malo." The farmer had a weatherly sea-eye. "I'm most outer 'baccy, too, Disko." "Same here," said Tom Platt. "Hi! Backez vouz--backez vouz! Standez awayez, you butt-ended mucho-bono! Where you from--St. Malo, eh?" Ah, ha! Mucho bono! Oui! oui! Clos Poulet--St. Malo! St. Pierre et Miquelon," cried the other crowd, waving woollen caps and laughing. Then all together, "Bord! Bord!" "Bring up the board, Danny. Beats me how them Frenchmen fetch anywheres, exceptin' America's fairish broadly. Forty-six forty-nine's good enough fer them; an' I guess it's abaout right, too." Dan chalked the figures on the board, and they hung it in the main-rigging to a chorus of mercis from the bark. "Seems kinder unneighbourly to let 'em swedge off like this," Salters suggested, feeling in his pockets. "Hev ye learned French then sence last trip'?" said Disko. "I don't want no more stone-ballast hove at us 'long o' your calm' Miquelon boats 'footy cochins,' same's you did off Le Have." "Harmon Rush he said that was the way to rise 'em. Plain United States is good enough fer me. We're all dretful short on terbakker. Young feller, don't you speak French?" "Oh, yes," said Harvey, valiantly; and he bawled: "Hi! Say! Arretez vous! Attendez! Nous sommes venant pour tabac." "Ah, tabac, tabac!" they cried, and laughed again. "That hit 'em. Let's heave a dory over, anyway," said Tom Platt. "I don't exactly hold no certificates on French, but I know another lingo that goes, I guess. Come on, Harve, an' interpret." The raffle and confusion when he and Harvey were hauled up the bark's black side was indescribable. Her cabin was all stuck round with glaring coloured prints of the Virgin--the Virgin of Newfoundland, they called her. Harvey found his French of no recognised Bank brand, and his conversation was limited to nods and grins. But Tom Platt waved his arms and got along swimmingly. The captain gave him a drink of unspeakable gin, and the opera-comique crew, with their hairy throats, red caps, and long knives, greeted him as a brother. Then the trade began. They had tobacco, plenty of it--American, that had never paid duty to France. They wanted chocolate and crackers. Harvey rowed back to arrange with the cook and Disko, who owned the stores, and on his return the cocoa-tins and cracker-bags were counted out by the Frenchman's wheel. It looked like a piratical division of loot; but Tom Platt came out of it roped with black pigtail and stuffed with cakes of chewing and smoking tobacco. Then those jovial mariners swung off into the mist, and the last Harvey heard was a gay chorus: "Par derriere chez ma tante, Il y a un bois joli, Et le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit... Que donneriez vous, belle, Qui l'amènerait ici? Je donnerai Québec, Sorel et Saint Denis." "How was it my French didn't go, and your sign-talk did?" Harvey demanded when the barter had been distributed among the "We're Heres". "Sign-talk!" Platt guffawed. "Well, yes, 'twas sign-talk, but a heap older'n your French, Harve. Them French boats are chock-full o' Freemasons, an' that's why." "Are you a Freemason, then?" "Looks that way, don't it?" said the man-o'war's man, stuffing his pipe; and Harvey had another mystery of the deep sea to brood upon. CHAPTER VI The thing that struck him most was the exceedingly casual way in which some craft loafed about the broad Atlantic. Fishing-boats, as Dan said, were naturally dependent on the courtesy and wisdom of their neighbours; but one expected better things of steamers. That was after another interesting interview, when they had been chased for three miles by a big lumbering old cattle-boat, all boarded over on the upper deck, that smelt like a thousand cattle-pens. A very excited officer yelled at them through a speaking-trumpet, and she lay and lollopped helplessly on the water while Disko ran the "We're Here" under her lee and gave the skipper a piece of his mind. "Where might ye be--eh? Ye don't deserve to be anywheres. You barn-yard tramps go hoggin' the road on the high seas with no blame consideration fer your neighbours, an' your eyes in your coffee-cups instid o' in your silly heads." At this the skipper danced on the bridge and said something about Disko's own eyes. "We haven't had an observation for three days. D'you suppose we can run her blind?" he shouted. "Wa-al, I can," Disko retorted. "What's come to your lead'? Et it'? Can't ye smell bottom, or are them cattle too rank?" "What d'ye feed 'em?" said Uncle Salters with intense seriousness, for the smell of the pens woke all the farmer in him. "They say they fall off dretful on a v'yage. Dunno as it's any o' my business, but I've a kind o' notion that oil-cake broke small an' sprinkled--" "Thunder!" said a cattle-man in a red jersey as he looked over the side. "What asylum did they let His Whiskers out of?" "Young feller," Salters began, standing up in the fore-rigging, "let me tell yeou 'fore we go any further that I've--" The officer on the bridge took off his cap with immense politeness. "Excuse me," he said, "but I've asked for my reckoning. If the agricultural person with the hair will kindly shut his head, the sea-green barnacle with the wall-eye may perhaps condescend to enlighten us." "Naow you've made a show o' me, Salters," said Disko, angrily. He could not stand up to that particular sort of talk, and snapped out the latitude and longitude without more lectures. "'Well, that's a boat-load of lunatics, sure," said the skipper, as he rang up the engine-room and tossed a bundle of newspapers into the schooner. "Of all the blamed fools, next to you, Salters, him an' his crowd are abaout the likeliest I've ever seen," said Disko as the "We're Here" slid away. "I was jest givin' him my jedgment on lullsikin' round these waters like a lost child, an' you must cut in with your fool farmin'. Can't ye never keep things sep'rate?" Harvey, Dan, and the others stood back, winking one to the other and full of joy; but Disko and Salters wrangled seriously till evening, Salters arguing that a cattle-boat was practically a barn on blue water, and Disko insisting that, even if this were the case, decency and fisher-pride demanded that he should have kept "things sep'rate." Long Jack stood it in silence for a time,--an angry skipper makes an unhappy crew,--and then he spoke across the table after supper: "Fwhat's the good o' bodderin' fwhat they'll say?" said he. "They'll tell that tale ag'in' us fer years--that's all," said Disko. "Oil-cake sprinkled!" "With salt, o' course," said Salters, impenitent, reading the farming reports from a week-old New York paper. "It's plumb mortifyin' to all my feelin's," the skipper went on. "Can't see ut that way," said Long Jack, the peacemaker. "Look at here, Disko! Is there another packet afloat this day in this weather c'u'd ha' met a tramp an', over an' above givin' her her reckonin',--over an' above that, I say,--c'u'd ha' discoorsed wid her quite intelligent on the management av steers an' such at sea'? Forgit ut! Av coorse they will not. 'Twas the most compenjus conversation that iver accrued. Double game an' twice runnin'--all to us." Dan kicked Harvey under the table, and Harvey choked in his cup. "'Well," said Salters, who felt that his honour had been somewhat plastered, "I said I didn't know as 'twuz any business o' mine, 'fore I spoke." "An' right there," said Tom Platt, experienced in discipline and etiquette--"right there, I take it, Disko, you should ha' asked him to stop ef the conversation wuz likely, in your jedgment, to be anyways--what it shouldn't." "Dunno but that's so," said Disko, who saw his way to an honourable retreat from a fit of the dignities. "'Why, o' course it was so," said Salters, "you bein' skipper here; an' I'd cheerful hev stopped on a hint--not from any leadin' or conviction, but fer the sake o' bearin' an example to these two blame boys of aours." "Didn't I tell you, Harve, 'twould come araound to us 'fore we'd done'? Always those blame boys. But I wouldn't have missed the show fer a half-share in a halibutter," Dan whispered. "Still, things should ha' been kep' sep'rate," said Disko, and the light of new argument lit in Salters's eye as he crumbled cut plug into his pipe. "There's a power av vartue in keepin' things sep'rate," said Long Jack, intent on stilling the storm. "That's fwhat Steyning of Steyning and Hare's f'und when he sent Counahan fer skipper on the Marilla D. Kuhn, instid o' Cap. Newton that was took with inflam't'ry rheumatism an' couldn't go. Counahan the Navigator we called him." "Nick Counahan he never went aboard fer a night 'thout a pond o' rum somewheres in the manifest," said Tom Platt, playing up to the lead. "He used to bum araound the c'mission houses to Boston lookin' fer the Lord to make him captain of a towboat on his merits. Sam Coy, up to Atlantic Avenoo, give him his board free fer a year or more on account of his stories. Counahan the Navigator! Tck! Tck! Dead these fifteen year, ain't he?" "Seventeen, I guess. He died the year the Caspar McVeagh was built; but he could niver keep things sep'rate. Steyning tuk him fer the reason the thief tuk the hot stove--bekaze there was nothin' else that season. The men was all to the Banks, and Counahan he whacked up an iverlastin' hard crowd fer crew. Rum! Ye c'u'd ha' floated the Marilla, insurance and all, in fwhat they stowed aboard her. They lef' Boston Harbour for the great Grand Bank wid a roarin' nor'wester behind 'em an' all hands full to the bung. An' the hivens looked after thim, for divil a watch did they set, an' divil a rope did they lay hand to, till they'd seen the bottom av a fifteen-gallon cask o' bug-juice. That was about wan week, so far as Counahan remembered. (If' I c'u'd only tell the tale as he told ut!) All that whoile the wind blew like ould glory, an' the Marilla--'twas summer, and they'd give her a foretopmast--struck her gait and kept ut. Then Counahan tuk the hog-yoke an' thrembled over it for a whoile, an' made out, betwix' that an' the chart an' the singin' in his head, that they was to the south'ard o' Sable Island, gettin' along glorious, but speakin' nothin'. Then they broached another keg, an' quit speculatin' about anythin' fer another spell. The Marilla she lay down whin she dropped Boston Light, and she never lufted her lee-rail up to that time--hustlin' on one an' the same slant. But they saw no weed, nor gulls, nor schooners; an' prisintly they obsarved they'd been out a matter o' fourteen days, and they mistrusted the Bank had suspinded payment. So they sounded, an' got sixty fathom. 'That's me,' sez Counahan. 'That's me iv'ry time! I've run her slat on the Bank fer you, an' when we get thirty fathom we'll turn in like little men. Counahan is the b'y,' sez he. 'Counahan the Navigator!' "Nex' cast they got ninety. Sez Counahan: 'Either the lead-line's tuk too stretchin' or else the Bank's sunk.' "They hauled ut up, bein' just about in that state when ut seemed right an' reasonable, and sat down on the deck countin' the knots, an' gettin' her snarled up hijjus. The Marilla she'd struck her gait, and she hild ut, an' prisintly along come a tramp, an' Counahan spoke her. "'Hey ye seen any fishin'-boats now?' sez he, quite casual. "'There's lashin's av them off the Irish coast,' sez the tramp. "Aah! go shake yerself,' sez Counahan. 'Fwhat have I to do wid the Irish coast?' "'Then fwhat are ye doin' here?' sez the tramp. "'Sufferin' Christianity!' sez Counahan (he always said that whin his pumps sucked an' he was not feelin' good)--'Sufferin' Christianity!' he sez, 'where am I at?' "'Thirty-five mile west-sou'west o' Cape Clear,' sez the tramp, 'if that's any consolation to you.' "Counahan fetched wan jump, four feet sivin inches, measured by the cook. "'Consolation!' sez he, bould ez brass. 'D'ye take me fer a dialect? Thirty-five mile from Cape Clear, an' fourteen days from Boston Light. Sufferin' Christianity, 'tis a record, an' by the same token I've a mother to Skibbereen!' Think av ut! The gall av um! But ye see he could niver keep things sep'rate. "The crew was mostly Cork an' Kerry men, barrin' one Marylander that wanted to go back, but they called him a mutineer, an' they ran the ould Marilla into Skibbereen, an' they had an illigant time visitin' around with frinds on the ould sod fer a week. Thin they wint back, an' it cost 'em two an' thirty days to beat to the Banks again. 'Twas gettin' on towards fall, and grub was low, so Counahan ran her back to Boston, wid no more bones to ut." "And what did the firm say?" Harvey demanded. "Fwhat could they'? The fish was on the Banks, an' Counahan was at T-wharf talkin' av his record trip east! They tuk their satisfaction out av that, an' ut all came av not keepin' the crew and the rum sep'rate in the first place; an' confusin' Skibbereen wid 'Queereau, in the second. Counahan the Navigator, rest his sowl! He was an imprompju citizen! "Once I was in the Lucy Holmes," said Manuel, in his gentle voice. "They not want any of her feesh in Gloucester. Eh, wha-at? Give us no price. So we go across the water, and think to sell to some Fayal man. Then it blow fresh, and we cannot see well. Eh, wha-at? Then it blow some more fresh, and we go down below and drive very fast--no one know where. By-and-by we see a land, and it get some hot. Then come two, three nigger in a brick. Eh, wha-at? We ask where we are, and they say--now, what you all think?" "Grand Canary," said Disko, after a moment. Manuel shook his head, smiling. "Blanco," said Tom Platt. "No. Worse than that. We was below Bezagos, and the brick she was from Liberia! So we sell our feesh there! Not bad, so? Eh, wha-at?" "Can a schooner like this go right across to Africa?" said Harvey. "Go araound the Horn ef there's anythin' worth goin' fer, and the grub holds aout," said Disko. "My father he run his packet, an' she was a kind o' pinkey, abaout fifty ton, I guess,--the Rupert,--he run her over to Greenland's icy mountains the year ha'af our fleet was tryin' after cod there. An' what's more, he took my mother along with him,--to show her haow the money was earned, I presoom,--an' they was all iced up, an' I was born at Disko. Don't remember nothin' abaout it, o' course. We come back when the ice eased in the spring, but they named me fer the place. Kinder mean trick to put up on a baby, but we're all baound to make mistakes in aour lives." "Sure! Sure!" said Salters, wagging his head. "All baound to make mistakes, an' I tell you two boys here thet after you've made a mistake--ye don't make fewer'n a hundred a day--the next best thing's to own up to it like men." Long Jack winked one tremendous wink that embraced all hands except Disko and Salters, and the incident was closed. Then they made berth after berth to the northward, the dories out almost every day, running along the east edge of the Grand Bank in thirty-to forty-fathom water, and fishing steadily. It was here Harvey first met the squid, who is one of the best cod-baits, but uncertain in his moods. They were waked out of their bunks one black night by yells of "Squid O!" from Salters, and for an hour and a half every soul aboard hung over his squid-jig--a piece of lead painted red and armed at the lower end with a circle of pins bent backward like half-opened umbrella ribs. The squid--for some unknown reason--likes, and wraps himself round, this thing, and is hauled up ere he can escape from the pins. But as he leaves his home he squirts first water and next ink into his captor's face; and it was curious to see the men weaving their heads from side to side to dodge the shot. They were as black as sweeps when the flurry ended; but a pile of fresh squid lay on the deck, and the large cod thinks very well of a little shiny piece of squid-tentacle at the tip of a clam-baited hook. Next day they caught many fish, and met the Carrie Pitman, to whom they shouted their luck, and she wanted to trade--seven cod for one fair-sized squid; but Disko would not agree at the price, and the Carrie dropped sullenly to leeward and anchored half a mile away, in the hope of striking on to some for herself. Disko said nothing till after supper, when he sent Dan and Manuel out to buoy the "We're Here's" cable and announced his intention of turning in with the broad-axe. Dan naturally repeated these remarks to a dory from the Carrie, who wanted to know why they were buoying their cable, since they were not on rocky bottom. "Dad sez he wouldn't trust a ferryboat within five mile o' you," Dan howled cheerfully. "Why don't he git out, then'? Who's hinderin'?" said the other. "Cause you've jest the same ez lee-bowed him, an' he don't take that from any boat, not to speak o' sech a driftin' gurry-butt as you be." "She ain't driftin' any this trip," said the man, angrily, for the Carrie Pitman had an unsavoury reputation for breaking her ground-tackle. "Then haow d'you make berths?" said Dan. "It's her best p'int o' sailin'. An' ef she's quit driftin', what in thunder are you doin' with a new jib-boom?" That shot went home. "Hey, you Portugoosy organ-grinder, take your monkey back to Gloucester. Go back to school, Dan Troop," was the answer. "O-ver-alls! O-ver-alls!" yelled Dan, who knew that one of the Carrie's crew had worked in an overall factory the winter before. "Shrimp! Gloucester shrimp! Git aout, you Novy!" To call a Gloucester man a Nova Scotian is not well received. Dan answered in kind. "Novy yourself, ye Scrabble-towners! ye Chatham wreckers' Git aout with your brick in your stock in'!" And the forces separated, but Chatham had the worst of it. "I knew haow 'twould be," said Disko. "She's drawed the wind raound already. Some one oughter put a deesist on thet packet. She'll snore till midnight, an' jest when we're gittin' our sleep she'll strike adrift. Good job we ain't crowded with craft hereaways. But I ain't goin' to up anchor fer Chatham. She may hold." The wind, which had hauled round, rose at sundown and blew steadily. There was not enough sea, though, to disturb even a dory's tackle, but the Carrie Pitman was a law unto herself. At the end of the boys' watch they heard the crack-crack-crack of a huge muzzle-loading revolver aboard her. "Glory, glory, hallelujah!" sung Dan. "Here she comes, dad; butt-end first, walkin' in her sleep same's she done on 'Queereau." Had she been any other boat Disko would have taken his chances, but now he cut the cable as the Carrie Pitman, with all the North Atlantic to play in, lurched down directly upon them. The "We're Here", under jib and riding-sail, gave her no more room than was absolutely necessary,--Disko did not wish to spend a week hunting for his cable,--but scuttled up into the wind as the Carrie passed within easy hail, a silent and angry boat, at the mercy of a raking broadside of Bank chaff. "Good evenin'," said Disko, raising his headgear, "an' haow does your garden grow?" "Go to Ohio an' hire a mule," said Uncle Salters. "We don't want no farmers here." "Will I lend you my dory-anchor?" cried Long Jack. "Unship your rudder an' stick it in the mud," said Tom Platt. "Say!" Dan's voice rose shrill and high, as he stood on the wheel-box. "Sa-ay! Is there a strike in the o-ver-all factory; or hev they hired girls, ye Shackamaxons?" "Veer out the tiller-lines," cried Harvey, "and nail 'em to the bottom." That was a salt-flavoured jest he had been put up to by Tom Platt. Manuel leaned over the stern and yelled; "Johnna Morgan play the organ! Ahaaaa!" He flourished his broad thumb with a gesture of unspeakable contempt and derision, while little Penn covered himself with glory by piping up: "Gee a little! Hssh! Come here. Haw!" They rode on their chain for the rest of the night, a short, snappy, uneasy motion, as Harvey found, and wasted half the forenoon recovering the cable. But the boys agreed the trouble was cheap at the price of triumph and glory, and they thought with grief over all the beautiful things that they might have said to the discomfited Carrie. CHAPTER VII Next day they fell in with more sails, all circling slowly from the east northerly towards the west. But just when they expected to make the shoals by the Virgin the fog shut down, and they anchored, surrounded by the tinklings of invisible bells. There was not much fishing, but occasionally dory met dory in the fog and exchanged news. That night, a little before dawn, Dan and Harvey, who had been sleeping most of the day, tumbled out to "hook" fried pies. There was no reason why they should not have taken them openly; but they tasted better so, and it made the cook angry. The heat and smell below drove them on deck with their plunder, and they found Disko at the bell, which he handed over to Harvey. "Keep her goin'," said he. "I mistrust I hear somethin'. Ef it's anything, I'm best where I am so's to get at things." It was a forlorn little jingle; the thick air seemed to pinch it off; and in the pauses Harvey heard the muffled shriek of a liner's siren, and he knew enough of the Banks to know what that meant. It came to him, with horrible distinctness, how a boy in a cherry-coloured jersey--he despised fancy blazers now with all a fisherman's contempt--how an ignorant, rowdy boy had once said it would be "great" if a steamer ran down a fishing-boat. That boy had a state-room with a hot and cold bath, and spent ten minutes each morning picking over a gilt-edged bill of fare. And that same boy--no, his very much older brother--was up at four of the dim dawn in streaming, crackling oilskins, hammering, literally for the dear life, on a bell smaller than the steward's breakfast-bell, while somewhere close at hand a thirty-foot steel stem was storming along at twenty miles an hour! The bitterest thought of all was that there were folks asleep in dry, upholstered cabins who would never learn that they had massacred a boat before breakfast. So Harvey rang the bell. "Yes, they slow daown one turn o' their blame propeller," said Dan, applying himself to Manuel's conch, "fer to keep inside the law, an' that's consolin' when we're all at the bottom. Hark to her' She's a humper!" "Aoooo--whoooo--whupp!" went the siren. "Wingle--tingle--tink," went the bell. "Graaa--ouch!" went the conch, while sea and sky were all milled up in milky fog. Then Harvey felt that he was near a moving body, and found himself looking up and up at the wet edge of a cliff-like bow, leaping, it seemed, directly over the schooner. A jaunty little feather of water curled in front of it, and as it lifted it showed a long ladder of Roman numerals--XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII., and so forth--on a salmon-coloured, gleaming side. It tilted forward and downward with a heart-stilling "Ssssooo"; the ladder disappeared; a line of brass-rimmed port-holes flashed past; a jet of Steam puffed in Harvey's helplessly uplifted hands; a spout of hot water roared along the rail of the "We're Here", and the little schooner staggered and shook in a rush of screw-torn water, as a liner's stern vanished in the fog. Harvey got ready to faint or be sick, or both, when he heard a crack like a trunk thrown on a sidewalk, and, all small in his ear, a far-away telephone voice drawling: "Heave to! You've sunk us!" "Is it us?" he gasped. "No! Boat out yonder. Ring! We're goin' to look," said Dan, running out a dory. In half a minute all except Harvey, Penn, and the cook were overside and away. Presently a schooner's stump-foremast, snapped clean across, drifted past the bows. Then an empty green dory came by, knocking on the 'We're Here's' side, as though she wished to be taken in. Then followed something, face down, in a blue jersey, but it was not the whole of a man. Penn changed colour and caught his breath with a click. Harvey pounded despairingly at the bell, for he feared they might be sunk at any minute, and he jumped at Dan's hail as the crew came back. "The Jennie Cushman," said Dan, hysterically, "cut clean in half--graound up an' trompled on at that! Not a quarter of a mile away. Dad's got the old man. There ain't any one else, and--there was his son, too. Oh, Harve, Harve, I can't stand it! I've seen--" He dropped his head on his arms and sobbed while the others dragged a grey-headed man aboard. "What did you pick me up for?" the stranger groaned. "Disko, what did you pick me up for?" Disko dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder, for the man's eyes were wild and his lips trembled as he stared at the silent crew. Then up and spoke Pennsylvania Pratt, who was also Haskins or Rich or McVitty when Uncle Salters forgot; and his face was changed on him from the face of a fool to the countenance of an old, wise man, and he said in a strong voice: "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord! I was--I am a minister of the Gospel. Leave him to me." "Oh, you be, be you?" said the man. "Then pray my son back to me! Pray back a nine-thousand-dollar boat an' a thousand quintal of fish. If you'd left me alone my widow could ha' gone on to the Provident an' worked fer her board, an' never known--an' never known. Now I'll hev to tell her." "There ain't nothin' to say," said Disko. "Better lie down a piece, Jason Olley." When a man has lost his only son, his summer's work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation. "All Gloucester men, wasn't they," said Tom Platt, fiddling helplessly with a dory-becket. "Oh, that don't make no odds," said Jason, wringing the wet from his beard. "I'll be rowin' summer boarders araound East Gloucester this fall." He rolled heavily to the rail, singing. "Happy birds that sing and fly Round thine altars, O Most High!" "Come with me. Come below!" said Penn, as though he had a right to give orders. Their eyes met and fought for a quarter of a minute. "I dunno who you be, but I'll come," said Jason, submissively. "Mebbe I'll get back some o' the--some o' the--nine thousand dollars." Penn led him into the cabin and slid the door behind. "That ain't Penn," cried Uncle Salters. "It's Jacob Boiler, an'--he's remembered Johnstown! I never seed such eyes in any livin' man's head. What's to do naow? What'll I do naow?" They could hear Penn's voice and Jason's together. Then Penn's went on alone, and Salters slipped off his hat, for Penn was praying. Presently the little man came up the steps, huge drops of sweat on his face, and looked at the crew. Dan was still sobbing by the wheel. "He don't know us," Salters groaned. "It's all to do over again, checkers and everything--an' what'll he say to me?" Penn spoke; they could hear that it was to strangers. "I have prayed," said he. "Our people believe in prayer. I have prayed for the life of this man's son. Mine were drowned before my eyes--she and my eldest and--the others. Shall a man be more wise than his Maker? I prayed never for their lives, but I have prayed for this man's son, and he will surely be sent him." Salters looked pleadingly at Penn to see if he remembered. "How long have I been mad?" Penn asked suddenly. His mouth was twitching. "Pshaw, Penn! You weren't never mad," Salters began. "Only a little distracted like." "I saw the houses strike the bridge before the fires broke out. I do not remember any more. How long ago is that?" "I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" cried Dan, and Harvey whimpered in sympathy. "Abaout five year," said Disko, in a shaking voice. "Then I have been a charge on some one for every day of that time. Who was the man?" Disko pointed to Salters. "Ye hain't--ye hain't!" cried the sea-farmer, twisting his hands together. "Ye've more'n earned your keep twice-told; an' there's money owin' you, Penn, besides ha'af o' my quarter-share in the boat, which is yours fer value received." "You are good men. I can see that in your faces. But--" "Mother av Mercy," whispered Long Jack, "an' he's been wid us all these trips! He's clean bewitched." A schooner's bell struck up alongside, and a voice hailed through the fog: "O Disko! 'Heard abaout the Jennie Cushman?" "They have found his son," cried Penn. "Stand you still and see the salvation of the Lord!" "Got Jason aboard here," Disko answered, but his voice quavered. "There--warn't any one else?" "We've f'und one, though. 'Run acrost him snarled up in a mess o' lumber thet might ha' bin a fo'c'sle. His head's cut some." "Who is he?" The "We're Heres'" heart-beats answered one another. "Guess it's young Olley," the voice drawled. Penn raised his hands and said something in German. Harvey could have sworn that a bright sun was shining upon his lifted face; but the drawl went on: "Sa-ay! You fellers guyed us consid'rable t'other night." "We don't feel like guyin' any now," said Disko. "I know it; but to tell the honest truth we was kinder--kinder driftin' when we run ag'in' young Olley." It was the irrepressible Carrie Pitman, and a roar of unsteady laughter went up from the deck of the "We're Here". "Hedn't you 'baout's well send the old man aboard? We're runnin' in fer more bait an' graound-tackle. 'Guess you won't want him, anyway, an' this blame windlass work makes us short-handed. We'll take care of him. He married my woman's aunt." "I'll give you anything in the boat," said Troop. "Don't want nothin', 'less, mebbe, an anchor that'll hold. Say! Young Olley's gittin' kinder baulky an' excited. Send the old man along." Penn waked him from his stupor of despair, and Tom Platt rowed him over. He went away without a word of thanks, not knowing what was to come; and the fog closed over all. "And now," said Penn, drawing a deep breath as though about to preach. "And now"--the erect body sank like a sword driven home into the scabbard; the light faded from the overbright eyes; the voice returned to its usual pitiful little titter--"and now," said Pennsylvania Pratt, "do you think it's too early for a little game of checkers, Mr. Salters?" "The very thing--the very thing I was goin' to say myself," cried Salters, promptly. "It beats all, Penn, how you git on to what's in a man's mind." The little fellow blushed and meekly followed Salters forward. "Up anchor! Hurry! Let's quit these crazy waters," shouted Disko, and never was he more swiftly obeyed. "Now what in creation d'ye suppose is the meanin' o' that all?" said Long Jack, when they were working through the fog once more, damp, dripping, and bewildered. "The way I sense it," said Disko, at the wheel, "is this: The Jennie Cushman business comin' on an empty stummick--" "He--we saw one of them go by," sobbed Harvey. "An' that, o' course, kinder hove him outer water, Julluk runnin' a craft ashore; hove him right aout, I take it, to rememberin' Johnstown an' Jacob Boiler an' such-like reminiscences. Well, consolin' Jason there held him up a piece, same's shorin' up a boat. Then, bein' weak, them props slipped an' slipped, an' he slided down the ways, an' naow he's water-borne ag'in. That's haow I sense it." They decided that Disko was entirely correct. "'Twould ha' bruk Salters all up," said Long Jack, "if Penn had stayed Jacob Bollerin'. Did ye see his face when Penn asked who he'd been charged on all these years'? How is ut, Salters?" "Asleep--dead asleep. Turned in like a child," Salters replied, tiptoeing aft. "There won't be no grub till he wakes, natural. Did ye ever see sech a gift in prayer? He everlastin'ly hiked young Olley outer the ocean. Thet's my belief. Jason was tur'ble praoud of his boy, an' I mistrusted all along 'twas a jedgment on worshippin' vain idols." "There's others jest as sot," said Disko. "That's dif'runt," Salters retorted quickly. "Penn's not all caulked, an' I ain't only but doin' my duty by him." They waited, those hungry men, three hours, till Penn reappeared with a smooth face and a blank mind. He said he believed that he had been dreaming. Then he wanted to know why they were so silent, and they could not tell him. Disko worked all hands mercilessly for the next three or four days; and when they could not go out, turned them into the hold to stack the ship's stores into smaller compass, to make more room for the fish. The packed mass ran from the cabin partition to the sliding door behind the fo'c'sle stove; and Disko showed how there is great art in stowing cargo so as to bring a schooner to her best draft. The crew were thus kept lively till they recovered their spirits; and Harvey was tickled with a rope's end by Long Jack for being, as the Galway man said, "sorrowful as a sick cat over fwhat couldn't be helped." He did a great deal of thinking in those dreary days; and told Dan what he thought, and Dan agreed with him--even to the extent of asking for fried pies instead of hooking them. But a week later the two nearly upset the Hattie S. in a wild attempt to stab a shark with an old bayonet tied to a stick. The grim brute rubbed alongside the dory begging for small fish, and between the three of them it was a mercy they all got off alive. At last, after playing blindman's-buff in the fog, there came a morning when Disko shouted down the fo'c'sle: "Hurry, boys! We're in taown!" CHAPTER VIII To the end of his days, Harvey will never forget that sight. The sun was just clear of the horizon they had not seen for nearly a week, and his low red light struck into the riding-sails of three fleets of anchored schooners--one to the north, one to the westward, and one to the south. There must have been nearly a hundred of them, of every possible make and build, with, far away, a square-rigged Frenchman, all bowing and courtesying one to the other. From every boat dories were dropping away like bees from a crowded hive; and the clamour of voices, the rattling of ropes and blocks, and the splash of the oars carried for miles across the heaving water. The sails turned all colours, black, pearly-grey, and white, as the sun mounted; and more boats swung up through the mists to the southward. The dories gathered in clusters, separated, reformed, and broke again, all heading one way; while men hailed and whistled and cat-called and sang, and the water was speckled with rubbish thrown overboard. "It's a town," said Harvey. "Disko was right. It is a town!" "I've seen smaller," said Disko. "There's about a thousand men here; an' yonder's the Virgin." He pointed to a vacant space of greenish sea, where there were no dories. The "We're Here" skirted round the northern squadron, Disko waving his hand to friend after friend, and anchored as neatly as a racing yacht at the end of the season. The Bank fleet pass good seamanship in silence; but a bungler is jeered all along the line. "Jest in time fer the caplin," cried the Mary Chilton. "'Salt 'most wet?" asked the King Philip. "Hey, Tom Platt! Come t' supper to-night?" said the Henry Clay; and so questions and answers flew back and forth. Men had met one another before, dory-fishing in the fog, and there is no place for gossip like the Bank fleet. They all seemed to know about Harvey's rescue, and asked if he were worth his salt yet. The young bloods jested with Dan, who had a lively tongue of his own, and inquired after their health by the town--nicknames they least liked. Manuel's countrymen jabbered at him in their own language; and even the silent cook was seen riding the jib-boom and shouting Gaelic to a friend as black as himself. After they had buoyed the cable--all around the Virgin is rocky bottom, and carelessness means chafed ground-tackle and danger from drifting--after they had buoyed the cable, their dories went forth to join the mob of boats anchored about a mile away. The schooners rocked and dipped at a safe distance, like mother ducks watching their brood, while the dories behaved like mannerless ducklings. As they drove into the confusion, boat banging boat, Harvey's ears tingled at the comments on his rowing. Every dialect from Labrador to Long Island, with Portuguese, Neapolitan, Lingua Franca, French, and Gaelic, with songs and shoutings and new oaths, rattled round him, and he seemed to be the butt of it all. For the first time in his life he felt shy--perhaps that came from living so long with only the "We're Heres"--among the scores of wild faces that rose and fell with the reeling small craft. A gentle, breathing swell, three furlongs from trough to barrel, would quietly shoulder up a string of variously painted dories. They hung for an instant, a wonderful frieze against the sky-line, and their men pointed and hailed, Next moment the open mouths, waving arms, and bare chests disappeared, while on another swell came up an entirely new line of characters like paper figures in a toy theatre. So Harvey stared. "Watch out!" said Dan, flourishing a dip-net. "When I tell you dip, you dip. The caplin'll school any time from naow on. Where'll we lay, Tom Platt?" Pushing, shoving, and hauling, greeting old friends here and warning old enemies there, Commodore Tom Platt led his little fleet well to leeward of the general crowd, and immediately three or four men began to haul on their anchors with intent to lee-bow the "We're Heres". But a yell of laughter went up as a dory shot from her station with exceeding speed, its occupant pulling madly on the roding. "Give her slack!" roared twenty voices. "Let him shake it out." "What's the matter?" said Harvey, as the boat flashed away to the southward. "He's anchored, isn't he?" "Anchored, sure enough, but his graound-tackle's kinder shifty," said Dan, laughing. "Whale's fouled it. . . . Dip, Harve! Here they come!" The sea round them clouded and darkened, and then frizzed up in showers of tiny silver fish, and over a space of five or six acres the cod began to leap like trout in May; while behind the cod three or four broad grey-black backs broke the water into boils. Then everybody shouted and tried to haul up his anchor to get among the school, and fouled his neighbour's line and said what was in his heart, and dipped furiously with his dip-net, and shrieked cautions and advice to his companions, while the deep fizzed like freshly opened soda-water, and cod, men, and whales together flung in upon the luckless bait. Harvey was nearly knocked overboard by the handle of Dan's net. But in all the wild tumult he noticed, and never forgot, the wicked, set little eye--something like a circus elephant's eye--of a whale that drove along almost level with the water, and, so he said, winked at him. Three boats found their rodings fouled by these reckless mid-sea hunters, and were towed half a mile ere their horses shook the line free. Then the caplin moved off and five minutes later there was no sound except the splash of the sinkers overside, the flapping of the cod, and the whack of the muckles as the men stunned them. It was wonderful fishing. Harvey could see the glimmering cod below, swimming slowly in droves, biting as steadily as they swam. Bank law strictly forbids more than one hook on one line when the dories are on the Virgin or the Eastern Shoals; but so close lay the boats that even single hooks snarled, and Harvey found himself in hot argument with a gentle, hairy Newfoundlander on one side and a howling Portuguese on the other. Worse than any tangle of fishing-lines was the confusion of the dory-rodings below water. Each man had anchored where it seemed good to him, drifting and rowing round his fixed point. As the fish struck on less quickly, each man wanted to haul up and get to better ground; but every third man found himself intimately connected with some four or five neighbours. To cut another's roding is crime unspeakable on the Banks; yet it was done, and done without detection, three or four times that day. Tom Platt caught a Maine man in the black act and knocked him over the gunwale with an oar, and Manuel served a fellow-countryman in the same way. But Harvey's anchor-line was cut, and so was Penn's, and they were turned into relief-boats to carry fish to the "We're Here" as the dories filled. The caplin schooled once more at twilight, when the mad clamour was repeated; and at dusk they rowed back to dress down by the light of kerosene-lamps on the edge of the pen. It was a huge pile, and they went to sleep while they were dressing. Next day several boats fished right above the cap of the Virgin; and Harvey, with them, looked down on the very weed of that lonely rock, which rises to within twenty feet of the surface. The cod were there in legions, marching solemnly over the leathery kelp. When they bit, they bit all together; and so when they stopped. There was a slack time at noon, and the dories began to search for amusement. It was Dan who sighted the Hope of Prague just coming up, and as her boats joined the company they were greeted with the question: "Who's the meanest man in the Fleet?" Three hundred voices answered cheerily: "Nick Bra-ady." It sounded an organ chant. "Who stole the lamp-wicks?" That was Dan's contribution. "Nick Bra-ady," sang the boats. "Who biled the salt bait fer soup?" This was an unknown backbiter a quarter of a mile away. Again the joyful chorus. Now, Brady was not especially mean, but he had that reputation, and the Fleet made the most of it. Then they discovered a man from a Truro boat who, six years before, had been convicted of using a tackle with five or six hooks--a "scrowger," they call it--on the Shoals. Naturally, he had been christened "Scrowger Jim"; and though he had hidden himself on the Georges ever since, he found his honours waiting for him full blown. They took it up in a sort of fire-cracker chorus: "Jim! O Jim! Jim! O Jim! Sssscrowger Jim!" That pleased everybody. And when a poetical Beverly man--he had been making it up all day, and talked about it for weeks--sang, "The Carrie Pitman's anchor doesn't hold her for a cent!" the dories felt that they were indeed fortunate. Then they had to ask that Beverly man how he was off for beans, because even poets must not have things all their own way. Every schooner and nearly every man got it in turn. Was there a careless or dirty cook anywhere? The dories sang about him and his food. Was a schooner badly found? The Fleet was told at full length. Had a man hooked tobacco from a messmate? He was named in meeting; the name tossed from roller to roller. Disko's infallible judgments, Long Jack's market-boat that he had sold years ago, Dan's sweetheart (oh, but Dan was an angry boy!), Penn's bad luck with dory-anchors, Salters's views on manure, Manuel's little slips from virtue ashore, and Harvey's ladylike handling of the oar--all were laid before the public; and as the fog fell around them in silvery sheets beneath the sun, the voices sounded like a bench of invisible judges pronouncing sentence. The dories roved and fished and squabbled till a swell underran the sea. Then they drew more apart to save their sides, and some one called that if the swell continued the Virgin would break. A reckless Galway man with his nephew denied this, hauled up anchor, and rowed over the very rock itself. Many voices called them to come away, while others dared them to hold on. As the smooth-backed rollers passed to the south-ward, they hove the dory high and high into the mist, and dropped her in ugly, sucking, dimpled water, where she spun round her anchor, within a foot or two of the hidden rock. It was playing with death for mere bravado; and the boats looked on in uneasy silence till Long Jack rowed up behind his countrymen and quietly cut their roding. "Can't ye hear ut knockin'?" he cried. "Pull for your miserable lives! Pull!" The men swore and tried to argue as the boat drifted; but the next swell checked a little, like a man tripping on a carpet. There was a deep sob and a gathering roar, and the Virgin flung up a couple of acres of foaming water, white, furious, and ghastly over the shoal sea. Then all the boats greatly applauded Long Jack, and the Galway men held their tongue. "Ain't it elegant?" said Dan, bobbing like a young seal at home. "She'll break about once every ha'af hour now, 'less the swell piles up good. What's her reg'lar time when she's at work, Tom Platt?" "Once ivry fifteen minutes, to the tick. Harve, you've seen the greatest thing on the Banks; an' but for Long Jack you'd seen some dead men too." There came a sound of merriment where the fog lay thicker and the schooners were ringing their bells. A big bark nosed cautiously out of the mist, and was received with shouts and cries of, "Come along, darlin'," from the Irishry. "Another Frenchman?" said Harvey. "Hain't you eyes? She's a Baltimore boat; goin' in fear an' tremblin'," said Dan. "We'll guy the very sticks out of her. 'Guess it's the fust time her skipper ever met up with the Fleet this way." She was a black, buxom, eight-hundred-ton craft. Her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving. Now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys. That was very much her situation. She knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way. This is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories: "The Virgin? Fwhat are you talk in' of'? This is Le Have on a Sunday mornin'. Go home an' sober up." "Go home, ye tarrapin! Go home an' tell 'em we're comin'." Half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: "Thay-aah--she--strikes!" "Hard up! Hard up fer your life! You're on top of her now." "Daown! Hard daown! Let go everything!" "All hands to the pumps!" "Daown jib an' pole her!" Here the skipper lost his temper and said things. Instantly fishing was suspended to answer him, and he heard many curious facts about his boat and her next port of call. They asked him if he were insured; and whence he had stolen his anchor, because, they said, it belonged to the Carrie Pitman; they called his boat a mud-scow, and accused him of dumping garbage to frighten the fish; they offered to tow him and charge it to his wife; and one audacious youth slipped almost under the counter, smacked it with his open palm, and yelled: "Gid up, Buck!" The cook emptied a pan of ashes on him, and he replied with cod-heads. The bark's crew fired small coal from the galley, and the dories threatened to come aboard and "razee" her. They would have warned her at once had she been in real peril; but, seeing her well clear of the Virgin, they made the most of their chances. The fun was spoilt when the rock spoke again, a half-mile to windward, and the tormented bark set everything that would draw and went her ways; but the dories felt that the honours lay with them. All that night the Virgin roared hoarsely and next morning, over an angry, white-headed sea, Harvey saw the Fleet with flickering masts waiting for a lead. Not a dory was hove out till ten o'clock, when the two Jeraulds of the 'Day's Eye', imagining a lull which did not exist, set the example. In a minute half the boats were out and bobbing in the cockly swells, but Troop kept the "We're Heres" at work dressing-down. He saw no sense in "dares"; and as the storm grew that evening they had the pleasure of receiving wet strangers only too glad to make any refuge in the gale. The boys stood by the dory-tackles with lanterns, the men ready to haul, one eye cocked for the sweeping wave that would make them drop everything and hold on for the dear life. Out of the dark would come a yell of "Dory, dory!" They would hook up and haul in a drenched man and a half-sunk boat, till their decks were littered down with nests of dories and the bunks were full. Five times in their watch did Harvey, with Dan, jump at the foregaff where it lay lashed on the boom, and cling with arms, legs, and teeth to rope and spar and sodden canvas as a big wave filled the decks. One dory was smashed to pieces, and the sea pitched the man head first on to the decks, cutting his forehead open; and about dawn, when the racing seas glimmered white all along their cold edges, another man, blue and ghastly, crawled in with a broken hand, asking news of his brother. Seven extra mouths sat down to breakfast: a Swede; a Chatham skipper; a boy from Hancock, Maine; one Duxbury, and three Provincetown men. There was a general sorting out among the Fleet next day; and though no one said anything, all ate with better appetites when boat after boat reported full crews aboard. Only a couple of Portuguese and an old man from Gloucester were drowned, but many were cut or bruised; and two schooners had parted their tackle and been blown to the southward, three days' sail. A man died on a Frenchman--it was the same bark that had traded tobacco with the "We're Heres". She slipped away quite quietly one wet, white morning, moved to a patch of deep water, her sails all hanging anyhow, and Harvey saw the funeral through Disko's spy-glass. It was only an oblong bundle slid overside. They did not seem to have any form of service, but in the night, at anchor, Harvey heard them across the star-powdered black water, singing something that sounded like a hymn. It went to a very slow tune. La brigantine Qui va tourner, Roule et s'incline Pour m'entrainer. Oh, Vierge Marie, Pour moi priez Dieu! Adieu, patrie; Québec, adieu! Tom Platt visited her, because, he said, the dead man was his brother as a Freemason. It came out that a wave had doubled the poor fellow over the heel of the bowsprit and broken his back. The news spread like a flash, for, contrary to general custom, the Frenchman held an auction of the dead man's kit,--he had no friends at St. Malo or Miquelon,--and everything was spread out on the top of the house, from his red knitted cap to the leather belt with the sheath-knife at the back. Dan and Harvey were out on twenty-fathom water in the Hattie S., and naturally rowed over to join the crowd. It was a long pull, and they stayed some little time while Dan bought the knife, which had a curious brass handle. When they dropped overside and pushed off into a drizzle of rain and a lop of sea, it occurred to them that they might get into trouble for neglecting the lines. "Guess 'twon't hurt us any to be warmed up," said Dan, shivering under his oilskins, and they rowed on into the heart of a white fog, which, as usual, dropped on them without warning. "There's too much blame tide hereabouts to trust to your instinks," he said. "Heave over the anchor, Harve, and we'll fish a piece till the thing lifts. Bend on your biggest lead. Three pound ain't any too much in this water. See how she's tightened on her rodin' already." There was quite a little bubble at the bows, where some irresponsible Bank current held the dory full stretch on her rope; but they could not see a boat's length in any direction. Harvey turned up his collar and bunched himself over his reel with the air of a wearied navigator. Fog had no special terrors for him now. They fished awhile in silence, and found the cod struck on well. Then Dan drew the sheath-knife and tested the edge of it on the gunwale. "That's a daisy," said Harvey. "How did you get it so cheap?" "On account o' their blame Cath'lic superstitions," said Dan, jabbing with the bright blade. "They don't fancy takin' iron frum off of a dead man, so to speak. 'See them Arichat Frenchmen step back when I bid?" "But an auction ain't taking anything off a dead man. It's business." "We know it ain't, but there's no goin' in the teeth o' superstition. That's one o' the advantages o' livin' in a progressive country." And Dan began whistling: "Oh, Double Thatcher, how are you? Now Eastern Point comes inter view. The girls an' boys we soon shall see, At anchor off Cape Ann!" "Why didn't that Eastport man bid, then? He bought his boots. Ain't Maine progressive?" "Maine? Pshaw! They don't know enough, or they hain't got money enough, to paint their haouses in Maine. I've seen 'em. The Eastport man he told me that the knife had been used--so the French captain told him--used up on the French coast last year." "Cut a man? Heave's the muckle." Harvey hauled in his fish, rebaited, and threw over. "Killed him! 'Course, when I heard that I was keener 'n ever to get it." "Christmas! I didn't know it," said Harvey, turning round. "I'll give you a dollar for it when I--get my wages. Say, I'll give you two dollars." "Honest? D'you like it as much as all that?" said Dan, flushing. "Well, to tell the truth, I kinder got it for you--to give; but I didn't let on till I saw how you'd take it. It's yours and welcome, Harve, because we're dory-mates, and so on and so forth, an' so followin'. Catch a-holt!" He held it out, belt and all. "But look at here. Dan, I don't see--" "Take it. 'Tain't no use to me. I wish you to hev it." The temptation was irresistible. "Dan, you're a white man," said Harvey. "I'll keep it as long as I live." "That's good hearin'," said Dan, with a pleasant laugh; and then, anxious to change the subject: "Look's if your line was fast to somethin'." "Fouled, I guess," said Harve, tugging. Before he pulled up he fastened the belt round him, and with deep delight heard the tip of the sheath click on the thwart. "Concern the thing!" he cried. "She acts as though she were on strawberry-bottom. It's all sand here, ain't it'?" Dan reached over and gave a judgmatic tweak. "Holibut'll act that way 'f he's sulky. Thet's no strawberry-bottom. Yank her once or twice. She gives, sure. 'Guess we'd better haul up an' make certain." They pulled together, making fast at each turn on the cleats, and the hidden weight rose sluggishly. "Prize, oh! Haul!" shouted Dan, but the shout ended in a shrill, double shriek of horror, for out of the sea came--the body of the dead Frenchman buried two days before! The hook had caught him under the right armpit, and he swayed, erect and horrible, head and shoulders above water. His arms were tied to his side, and--he had no face. The boys fell over each other in a heap at the bottom of the dory, and there they lay while the thing bobbed alongside, held on the shortened line. "The tide--the tide brought him!" said Harvey, with quivering lips, as he fumbled at the clasp of the belt. "Oh, Lord! Oh, Harve!" groaned Dan, "be quick. He's come for it. Let him have it. Take it off." "I don't want it! I don't want it!" cried Harvey. "I can't find the bu-buckle." "Quick, Harve! He's on your line!" Harvey sat up to unfasten the belt, facing the head that had no face under its streaming hair. "He's fast still," he whispered to Dan, who slipped out his knife and cut the line, as Harvey flung the belt far overside. The body shot down with a plop, and Dan cautiously rose to his knees, whiter than the fog. "He come for it. He come for it. I've seen a stale one hauled up on a trawl and I didn't much care, but he come to us special." "I wish--I wish I hadn't taken the knife. Then he'd have come on your line." "Dunno as thet would ha' made any differ. We're both scared out o' ten years' growth. Oh, Harve, did ye see his head?" "Did I'? I'll never forget it. But look at here, Dan; it couldn't have been meant. It was only the tide." "Tide! He come for it, Harve. Why, they sunk him six mile to south'ard o' the Fleet, an' we're two miles from where she's lyin' now. They told me he was weighted with a fathom an' a half o' chain-cable." "Wonder what he did with the knife--up on the French coast?" "Something bad. 'Guess he's bound to take it with him to the Judgment, an' so--What are you doin' with the fish?" "Heaving 'em overboard," said Harvey. "What for? We sha'n't eat 'em." "I don't care. I had to look at his face while I was takin' the belt off. You can keep your catch if you like. I've no use for mine." Dan said nothing, but threw his fish over again. "'Guess it's best to be on the safe side," he murmured at last. "I'd give a month's pay if this fog 'u'd lift. Things go abaout in a fog that ye don't see in clear weather--yo-hoes an' hollerers and such like. I'm sorter relieved he come the way he did instid o' walkin'. He might ha' walked." "Do-on't, Dan! We're right on top of him now. 'Wish I was safe aboard, bein' pounded by Uncle Salters." "They'll be lookin' fer us in a little. Gimme the tooter." Dan took the tin dinner-horn, but paused before he blew. "Go on," said Harvey. "I don't want to stay here all night." "Question is, haow he'd take it. There was a man frum down the coast told me once he was in a schooner where they darsen't ever blow a horn to the dories, becaze the skipper--not the man he was with, but a captain that had run her five years before--he'd drownded a boy alongside in a drunk fit; an' ever after, that boy he'd row alongside too and shout, 'Dory! dory!' with the rest." "Dory! dory!" a muffled voice cried through the fog. They cowered again, and the horn dropped from Dan's hand. "Hold on!" cried Harvey; "it's the cook." "Dunno what made me think o' thet fool tale, either," said Dan. "It's the doctor, sure enough." "Dan! Danny! Oooh, Dan! Harve! Harvey! Oooh, Haarveee!" "We're here," sung both boys together. They heard oars, but could see nothing till the cook, shining and dripping, rowed into them. "What iss happened?" said he. "You will be beaten at home." "Thet's what we want. Thet's what we're sufferin' for," said Dan. "Anything homey's good enough fer us. We've had kinder depressin' company." As the cook passed them a line, Dan told him the tale. "Yess! He come for hiss knife," was all he said at the end. Never had the little rocking "We're Here" looked so deliciously home--like as when the cook, born and bred in fogs, rowed them back to her. There was a warm glow of light from the cabin and a satisfying smell of food forward, and it was heavenly to hear Disko and the others, all quite alive and solid, leaning over the rail and promising them a first-class pounding. But the cook was a black master of strategy. He did not get the dories aboard till he had given the more striking points of the tale, explaining as he backed and bumped round the counter how Harvey was the mascot to destroy any possible bad luck. So the boys came overside as rather uncanny heroes, and every one asked them questions instead of pounding them for making trouble. Little Penn delivered quite a speech on the folly of superstitions; but public opinion was against him and in favour of Long Jack, who told the most excruciating ghost-stories to nearly midnight. Under that influence no one except Salters and Penn said anything about "idolatry" when the cook put a lighted candle, a cake of flour and water, and a pinch of salt on a shingle, and floated them out astern to keep the Frenchman quiet in case he was still restless. Dan lit the candle because he had bought the belt, and the cook grunted and muttered charms as long as he could see the ducking point of flame. Said Harvey to Dan, as they turned in after watch: "How about progress and Catholic superstitions?" "Huh! I guess I'm as enlightened and progressive as the next man, but when it comes to a dead St. Malo deck-hand scarin' a couple o' pore boys stiff fer the sake of a thirty-cent knife, why, then, the cook can take hold fer all o' me. I mistrust furriners, livin' or dead." Next morning all, except the cook, were rather ashamed of the ceremonies, and went to work double tides, speaking gruffly to one another. The "We're Here" was racing neck and neck for her last few loads against the "Parry Norman"; and so close was the struggle that the Fleet took sides and betted tobacco. All hands worked at the lines or dressing-down till they fell asleep where they stood--beginning before dawn and ending when it was too dark to see. They even used the cook as pitcher, and turned Harvey into the hold to pass salt, while Dan helped to dress down. Luckily a "Parry Norman" man sprained his ankle falling down the fo'c'sle, and the "We're Heres" gained. Harvey could not see how one more fish could be crammed into her, but Disko and Tom Platt stowed and stowed, and planked the mass down with big stones from the ballast, and there was always "jest another day's work." Disko did not tell them when all the salt was wetted. He rolled to the lazarette aft the cabin and began hauling out the big mainsail. This was at ten in the morning. The riding-sail was down and the main- and top-sail were up by noon, and dories came alongside with letters for home, envying their good fortune. At last she cleared decks, hoisted her flag,--as is the right of the first boat off the Banks,--up-anchored, and began to move. Disko pretended that he wished to accommodate folk who had not sent in their mail, and so worked her gracefully in and out among the schooners. In reality, that was his little triumphant procession, and for the fifth year running it showed what kind of mariner he was. Dan's accordion and Tom Platt's fiddle supplied the music of the magic verse you must not sing till all the salt is wet: "Hih! Yih! Yoho! Send your letters raound! All our salt is wetted, an' the anchor's off the graound! Bend, oh, bend your mains'l!, we're back to Yankeeland-- With fifteen hunder' quintal, An' fifteen hunder' quintal, 'Teen hunder' toppin' quintal, 'Twix' old 'Queereau an' Grand." The last letters pitched on deck wrapped round pieces of coal, and the Gloucester men shouted messages to their wives and womenfolk and owners, while the "We're Here" finished the musical ride through the Fleet, her head-sails quivering like a man's hand when he raises it to say good-bye. Harvey very soon discovered that the "We're Here", with her riding-sail, strolling from berth to berth, and the "We're Here" headed west by south under home canvas, were two very different boats. There was a bite and kick to the wheel even in "boy's" weather; he could feel the dead weight in the hold flung forward mightily across the surges, and the streaming line of bubbles overside made his eyes dizzy. Disko kept them busy fiddling with the sails; and when those were flattened like a racing yacht's, Dan had to wait on the big topsail, which was put over by hand every time she went about. In spare moments they pumped, for the packed fish dripped brine, which does not improve a cargo. But since there was no fishing, Harvey had time to look at the sea from another point of view. The low-sided schooner was naturally on most intimate terms with her surroundings. They saw little of the horizon save when she topped a swell; and usually she was elbowing, fidgeting, and coaxing her steadfast way through grey, grey-blue, or black hollows laced across and across with streaks of shivering foam; or rubbing herself caressingly along the flank of some bigger water-hill. It was as if she said: "You wouldn't hurt me, surely? I'm only the little 'We're Here'." Then she would slide away chuckling softly to herself till she was brought up by some fresh obstacle. The dullest of folk cannot see this kind of thing hour after hour through long days without noticing it; and Harvey, being anything but dull, began to comprehend and enjoy the dry chorus of wave-tops turning over with a sound of incessant tearing; the hurry of the winds working across open spaces and herding the purple-blue cloud-shadows; the splendid upheaval of the red sunrise; the folding and packing away of the morning mists, wall after wall withdrawn across the white floors; the salty glare and blaze of noon; the kiss of rain falling over thousands of dead, flat square miles; the chilly blackening of everything at the day's end; and the million wrinkles of the sea under the moonlight, when the jib-boom solemnly poked at the low stars, and Harvey went down to get a doughnut from the cook. But the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, Tom Platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass. Then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of Thatcher's Island. They left the cold grey of the Bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for Quebec by the Straits of St. Lawrence, with the Jersey salt-brigs from Spain and Sicily; found a friendly northeaster off Artimon Bank that drove them within view of the East light of Sable Island,--a sight Disko did not linger over,--and stayed with them past Western and Le Have, to the northern fringe of George's. From there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily. "Hattie's pulling on the string," Dan confided to Harvey. "Hattie an' ma. Next Sunday you'll be hirin' a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep. 'Guess you'll keep with us till your folks come. Do you know the best of gettin' ashore again?" "Hot bath'?" said Harvey. His eyebrows were all white with dried spray. "That's good, but a night-shirt's better. I've been dreamin' o' night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail. Ye can wiggle your toes then. Ma'll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft. It's home, Harve. It's home! Ye can sense it in the air. We're runnin' into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an' I can smell the bayberries. Wonder if we'll get in fer supper. Port a trifle." The hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them. When they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-August. They lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight. A Gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourishing his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet. "And all's well!" he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner. "Wouverman's waiting fer you, Disko. What's the news o' the Fleet?" Disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once. It gave the low circle of hills round Gloucester Harbour, Ten Pound Island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the "We're Here" crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her. Then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence. "The flag, the flag!" said Disko, suddenly, pointing upward. "What is ut?" said Long Jack. "Otto! Ha'af mast. They can see us frum shore now." "I'd clean forgot. He's no folk to Gloucester, has he?" "Girl he was goin' to be married to this fall." "Mary pity her!" said Long Jack, and lowered the little flag half-mast for the sake of Otto, swept overboard in a gale off Le Have three months before. Disko wiped the wet from his eyes and led the "We're Here" to Wouverman's wharf, giving his orders in whispers, while she swung round moored tugs and night-watchmen hailed her from the ends of inky-black piers. Over and above the darkness and the mystery of the procession, Harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. They heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse-tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds full of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound. Then Harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed Dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the "We're Here" by the lightning-flashes. She took no notice of Harvey till he had recovered himself a little and Disko had told her his story. Then they went to Disko's house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire to his folk, Harvey Cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all America. But the curious thing was that Disko and Dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying. Wouverman was not ready for Disko's prices till Disko, sure that the "We're Here" was at least a week ahead of any other Gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and Long Jack stopped the Rocky Neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. But Dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bungful of mystery and most haughty to his family. "Dan, I'll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way," said Troop, pensively. "Sence we've come ashore this time you've bin a heap too fresh." "I'd lay into him naow ef he was mine," said Uncle Salters, sourly. He and Penn boarded with the Troops. "Oho!" said Dan, shuffling with the accordion round the back-yard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. "Dad, you're welcome to your own jedgment, but remember I've warned ye. Your own flesh an' blood ha' warned ye! 'Tain't any o' my fault ef you're mistook, but I'll be on deck to watch ye. An' ez fer yeou, Uncle Salters, Pharaoh's chief butler ain't in it 'longside o' you! You watch aout an' wait. You'll be ploughed under like your own blamed clover; but me--Dan Troop--I'll flourish like a green bay-tree because I warn't stuck on my own opinion." Disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet-slippers. "You're gettin' ez crazy as poor Harve. You two go araound gigglin' an' squinchin' an' kickin' each other under the table till there's no peace in the haouse," said he. "There's goin' to be a heap less--fer some folks," Dan replied. "You wait an' see." He and Harvey went out on the trolley to East Gloucester, where they tramped through the bayberry-bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. Harvey had shown Dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst. "Harve's folk?" said Dan, with an unruffled face after supper. "Well, I guess they don't amount to much of anything, or we'd ha' heard frum 'em by naow. His pop keeps a kind o' store out West. Maybe he'll give you's much as five dollars, dad." "What did I tell ye?" said Salters. "Don't sputter over your vittles, Dan." CHAPTER IX Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the grey seas. He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. Hope she had none, and who could offer it? All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. Of his own sorrow he spoke little--hardly realised the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, "What's the use of going on?" There had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. Then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together--the old head backing the young fire. Now his boy was dead--lost at sea, as it might have been a Swede sailor from one of Cheyne's big tea-ships; the wife was dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies. He had taken the wife to his raw new palace in San Diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and Cheyne, in a verandah-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. There was a war of rates among four Western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber-camps in Oregon, and the legislature of the State of California, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him. Ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. But now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the Chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary's questions as he opened the Saturday mail. Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. On the other hand... The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white. He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco: Picked up by fishing schooner "We're Here" having fallen off boat great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is mama Harvey N. Cheyne. The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs. Cheyne's doctor, who found Cheyne pacing to and fro. "What-what d'you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning to it? I can't quite make it out," he cried. "I can," said the doctor. "I lose seven thousand a year--that's all." He thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at Cheyne's imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh. "You mean you'd tell her? 'Maybe a fraud?" "What's the motive?" said the doctor, coolly. "Detection's too certain. It's the boy sure enough." Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages. "Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are seek." The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: "What is it? what has happened?" No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news. "And that's all right," said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. "About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don't kill, Miss Kinzey." "I know it; but we've a heap to do first." Miss Kinzey was from Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall. "Milsom, we're going right across. Private car straight through--Boston. Fix the connections," shouted Cheyne down the staircase. "I thought so." The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story--nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand. musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey's white fingers called up the Continent of America. "K. H. Wade, Los Angeles--The 'Constance' is at Los Angeles, isn't she, Miss Kinzey?" "Yep." Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch. "Ready? Send 'Constance,' private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next." Click--click--click! "Couldn't you better that'?" "Not on those grades. That gives 'em sixty hours from here to Chicago. They won't gain anything by taking a special east of that. Ready? Also arrange with Lake Shore and Michigan Southern to take 'Constance' on New York Central and Hudson River Buffalo to Albany, and B. and A. the same Albany to Boston. Indispensable I should reach Boston Wednesday evening. Be sure nothing prevents. Have also wired Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes.--Sign, Cheyne." Miss Kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on. "Now then. Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes, of course. Ready? Canniff Chicago. Please take my private car 'Constance 'from Santa Fe at Sixteenth Street next Tuesday p. m. on N. Y. Limited through to Buffalo and deliver N. Y. C. for Albany.--Ever bin to N' York, Miss Kinzey? We'll go some day. Ready? Take car Buffalo to Albany on Limited Tuesday p. m. That's for Toucey." "Haven't bin to Noo York, but I know that!" with a toss of the head. "Beg pardon. Now, Boston and Albany, Barnes, same instructions from Albany through to Boston. Leave three-five P. M. (you needn't wire that); arrive nine-five P. M. Wednesday. That covers everything Wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers." "It's great," said Miss Kinzey, with a look of admiration. This was the kind of man she understood and appreciated. "'Tisn't bad," said Milsom, modestly. "Now, any one but me would have lost thirty hours and spent a week working out the run, instead of handing him over to the Santa Fe straight through to Chicago." "But see here, about that Noo York Limited. Chauncey Depew himself couldn't hitch his car to her," Miss Kinzey suggested, recovering herself. "Yes, but this isn't Chauncey. It's Cheyne--lightning. It goes." "Even so. Guess we'd better wire the boy. You've forgotten that, anyhow." "I'll ask." When he returned with the father's message bidding Harvey meet them in Boston at an appointed hour, he found Miss Kinzey laughing over the keys. Then Milsom laughed too, for the frantic clicks from Los Angeles ran: "We want to know why--why--why? General uneasiness developed and spreading." Ten minutes later Chicago appealed to Miss Kinzey in these words: "If crime of century is maturing please warn friends in time. We are all getting to cover here." This was capped by a message from Topeka (and wherein Topeka was concerned even Milsom could not guess): "Don't shoot, Colonel. We'll come down." Cheyne smiled grimly at the consternation of his enemies when the telegrams were laid before him. "They think we're on the war-path. Tell 'em we don't feel like fighting just now, Milsom. Tell 'em what we're going for. I guess you and Miss Kinzey had better come along, though it isn't likely I shall do any business on the road. Tell 'em the truth--for once." So the truth was told. Miss Kinzey clicked in the sentiment while the secretary added the memorable quotation, "Let us have peace," and in board-rooms two thousand miles away the representatives of sixty-three million dollars' worth of variously manipulated railroad interests breathed more freely. Cheyne was flying to meet the only son, so miraculously restored to him. The bear was seeking his cub, not the bulls. Hard men who had their knives drawn to fight for their financial lives put away the weapons and wished him God-speed, while half a dozen panic-smitten tin-pot roads perked up their heads and spoke of the wonderful things they would have done had not Cheyne buried the hatchet. It was a busy week-end among the wires; for, now that their anxiety was removed, men and cities hastened to accommodate. Los Angeles called to San Diego and Barstow that the Southern California engineers might know and be ready in their lonely round-houses; Barstow passed the word to the Atlantic and Pacific; the Albuquerque flung it the whole length of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe management, even into Chicago. An engine, combination-car with crew, and the great and gilded "Constance" private car were to be "expedited" over those two thousand three hundred and fifty miles. The train would take precedence of one hundred and seventy-seven others meeting and passing; despatches and crews of every one of those said trains must be notified. Sixteen locomotives, sixteen engineers, and sixteen firemen would be needed--each and every one the best available. Two and one half minutes would be allowed for changing engines, three for watering, and two for coaling. "Warn the men, and arrange tanks and chutes accordingly; for Harvey Cheyne is in a hurry, a hurry-a hurry," sang the wires. "Forty miles an hour will be expected, and division superintendents will accompany this special over their respective divisions. From San Diego to Sixteenth Street, Chicago, let the magic carpet be laid down. Hurry! oh, hurry!" "It will be hot," said Cheyne, as they rolled out of San Diego in the dawn of Sunday. "We're going to hurry, mama, just as fast as ever we can; but I really don't think there's any good of your putting on your bonnet and gloves yet. You'd much better lie down and take your medicine. I'd play you a game o' dominoes, but it's Sunday." "I'll be good. Oh, I will be good. Only--taking off my bonnet makes me feel as if we'd never get there." "Try to sleep a little, mama, and we'll be in Chicago before you know." "But it's Boston, father. Tell them to hurry." The six-foot drivers were hammering their way to San Bernardino and the Mohave wastes, but this was no grade for speed. That would come later. The heat of the desert followed the heat of the hills as they turned east to the Needles and the Colorado River. The car cracked in the utter drought and glare, and they put crushed ice to Mrs. Cheyne's neck, and toiled up the long, long grades, past Ash Fork, towards Flagstaff, where the forests and quarries are, under the dry, remote skies. The needle of the speed-indicator flicked and wagged to and fro; the cinders rattled on the roof, and a whirl of dust sucked after the whirling wheels, The crew of the combination sat on their bunks, panting in their shirt-sleeves, and Cheyne found himself among them shouting old, old stories of the railroad that every trainman knows, above the roar of the car. He told them about his son, and how the sea had given up its dead, and they nodded and spat and rejoiced with him; asked after "her, back there," and whether she could stand it if the engineer "let her out a piece," and Cheyne thought she could. Accordingly, the great fire-horse was "let out" from Flagstaff to Winslow, till a division superintendent protested. But Mrs. Cheyne, in the boudoir state-room, where the French maid, sallow-white with fear, clung to the silver door-handle, only moaned a little and begged her husband to bid them "hurry." And so they dropped the dry sands and moon-struck rocks of Arizona behind them, and grilled on till the crash of the couplings and the wheeze of the brake-hose told them they were at Coolidge by the Continental Divide. Three bold and experienced men--cool, confident, and dry when they began; white, quivering, and wet when they finished their trick at those terrible wheels--swung her over the great lift from Albuquerque to Glorietta and beyond Springer, up and up to the Raton Tunnel on the State line, whence they dropped rocking into La Junta, had sight of the Arkansaw, and tore down the long slope to Dodge City, where Cheyne took comfort once again from setting his watch an hour ahead. There was very little talk in the car. The secretary and typewriter sat together on the stamped Spanish-leather cushions by the plate-glass observation-window at the rear end, watching the surge and ripple of the ties crowded back behind them, and, it is believed, making notes of the scenery. Cheyne moved nervously between his own extravagant gorgeousness and the naked necessity of the combination, an unlit cigar in his teeth, till the pitying crews forgot that he was their tribal enemy, and did their best to entertain him. At night the bunched electrics lit up that distressful palace of all the luxuries, and they fared sumptuously, swinging on through the emptiness of abject desolation. Now they heard the swish of a water-tank, and the guttural voice of a China-man, the clink-clink of hammers that tested the Krupp steel wheels, and the oath of a tramp chased off the rear platform; now the solid crash of coal shot into the tender; and now a beating back of noises as they flew past a waiting train. Now they looked out into great abysses, a trestle purring beneath their tread, or up to rocks that barred out half the stars. Now scaur and ravine changed and rolled back to jagged mountains on the horizon's edge, and now broke into hills lower and lower, till at last came the true plains. At Dodge City an unknown hand threw in a copy of a Kansas paper containing some sort of an interview with Harvey, who had evidently fallen in with an enterprising reporter, telegraphed on from Boston. The joyful journalese revealed that it was beyond question their boy, and it soothed Mrs. Cheyne for a while. Her one word "hurry" was conveyed by the crews to the engineers at Nickerson, Topeka, and Marceline, where the grades are easy, and they brushed the Continent behind them. Towns and villages were close together now, and a man could feel here that he moved among people. "I can't see the dial, and my eyes ache so. What are we doing?" "The very best we can, mama. There's no sense in getting in before the Limited. We'd only have to wait." "I don't care. I want to feel we're moving. Sit down and tell me the miles." Cheyne sat down and read the dial for her (there were some miles which stand for records to this day), but the seventy-foot car never changed its long, steamer-like roll, moving through the heat with the hum of a giant bee. Yet the speed was not enough for Mrs. Cheyne; and the heat, the remorseless August heat, was making her giddy; the clock-hands would not move, and when, oh, when would they be in Chicago? It is not true that, as they changed engines at Fort Madison, Cheyne passed over to the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers an endowment sufficient to enable them to fight him and his fellows on equal terms for evermore. He paid his obligations to engineers and firemen as he believed they deserved, and only his bank knows what he gave the crews who had sympathised with him. It is on record that the last crew took entire charge of switching operations at Sixteenth Street, because "she" was in a doze at last, and Heaven was to help any one who bumped her. Now the highly paid specialist who conveys the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern Limited from Chicago to Elkhart is something of an autocrat, and he does not approve of being told how to back up to a car. None the less he handled the "Constance" as if she might have been a load of dynamite, and when the crew rebuked him, they did it in whispers and dumb show. "Pshaw!" said the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe men, discussing life later, "we weren't runnin' for a record. Harvey Cheyne's wife, she were sick back, an' we didn't want to jounce her. 'Come to think of it, our runnin' time from San Diego to Chicago was 57.54. You can tell that to them Eastern way-trains. When we're tryin' for a record, we'll let you know." To the Western man (though this would not please either city) Chicago and Boston are cheek by jowl, and some railroads encourage the delusion. The Limited whirled the "Constance" into Buffalo and the arms of the New York Central and Hudson River (illustrious magnates with white whiskers and gold charms on their watch-chains boarded her here to talk a little business to Cheyne), who slid her gracefully into Albany, where the Boston and Albany completed the run from tide-water to tide-water--total time, eighty-seven hours and thirty-five minutes, or three days, fifteen hours and one half. Harvey was waiting for them. After violent emotion most people and all boys demand food. They feasted the returned prodigal behind drawn curtains, cut off in their great happiness, while the trains roared in and out around them. Harvey ate, drank, and enlarged on his adventures all in one breath, and when he had a hand free his mother fondled it. His voice was thickened with living in the open, salt air; his palms were rough and hard, his wrists dotted with the marks of gurry-sores; and a fine full flavour of cod-fish hung round rubber boots and blue jersey. The father, well used to judging men, looked at him keenly. He did not know what enduring harm the boy might have taken. Indeed, he caught himself thinking that he knew very little whatever of his son; but he distinctly remembered an unsatisfied, dough-faced youth who took delight in "calling down the old man" and reducing his mother to tears--such a person as adds to the gaiety of public rooms and hotel piazzas, where the ingenuous young of the wealthy play with or revile the bell-boys. But this well set-up fisher-youth did not wriggle, looked at him with eyes steady, clear, and unflinching, and spoke in a tone distinctly, even startlingly, respectful. There was that in his voice, too, which seemed to promise that the change might be permanent, and that the new Harvey had come to stay. "Some one's been coercing him," thought Cheyne. "Now Constance would never have allowed that. Don't see as Europe could have done it any better." "But why didn't you tell this man, Troop, who you were?" the mother repeated, when Harvey had expanded his story at least twice. "Disko Troop, dear. The best man that ever walked a deck. I don't care who the next is." "Why didn't you tell him to put you ashore? You know papa would have made it up to him ten times over." "I know it; but he thought I was crazy. I'm afraid I called him a thief because I couldn't find the bills in my pocket." "A sailor found them by the flagstaff that--that night," sobbed Mrs. Cheyne. "That explains it, then. I don't blame Troop any. I just said I wouldn't work--on a Banker, too--and of course he hit me on the nose, and oh! I bled like a stuck hog." "My poor darling! They must have abused you horribly." "Dunno quite. Well, after that, I saw a light." Cheyne slapped his leg and chuckled. This was going to be a boy after his own hungry heart. He had never seen precisely that twinkle in Harvey's eye before. "And the old man gave me ten and a half a month; he's paid me half now; and I took hold with Dan and pitched right in. I can't do a man's work yet. But I can handle a dory 'most as well as Dan, and I don't get rattled in a fog--much; and I can take my trick in light winds--that's steering, dear--and I can 'most bait up a trawl, and I know my ropes, of course; and I can pitch fish till the cows come home, and I'm great on old Josephus, and I'll show you how I can clear coffee with a piece of fish-skin, and--I think I'll have another cup, please. Say, you've no notion what a heap of work there is in ten and a half a month!" "I began with eight and a half, my son," said Cheyne. "'That so? You never told me, sir." "You never asked, Harve. I'll tell you about it some day, if you care to listen. Try a stuffed olive." "Troop says the most interesting thing in the world is to find out how the next man gets his vittles. It's great to have a trimmed-up meal again. We were well fed, though. Best mug on the Banks. Disko fed us first-class. He's a great man. And Dan--that's his son--Dan's my partner. And there's Uncle Salters and his manures, an' he reads Josephus. He's sure I'm crazy yet. And there's poor little Penn, and he is crazy. You mustn't talk to him about Johnstown, because--And, oh, you must know Tom Platt and Long Jack and Manuel. Manuel saved my life. I'm sorry he's a Portugee. He can't talk much, but he's an everlasting musician. He found me struck adrift and drifting, and hauled me in." "I wonder your nervous system isn't completely wrecked," said Mrs. Cheyne. "What for, mama? I worked like a horse and I ate like a hog and I slept like a dead man." That was too much for Mrs. Cheyne, who began to think of her visions of a corpse rocking on the salty seas. She went to her state-room, and Harvey curled up beside his father, explaining his indebtedness. "You can depend upon me to do everything I can for the crowd, Harve. They seem to be good men on your showing." "Best in the Fleet, sir. Ask at Gloucester," said Harvey. "But Disko believes still he's cured me of being crazy. Dan's the only one I've let on to about you, and our private cars and all the rest of it, and I'm not quite sure Dan believes. I want to paralyse 'em to-morrow. Say, can't they run the 'Constance' over to Gloucester? Mama don't look fit to be moved, anyway, and we're bound to finish cleaning out by to-morrow. Wouverman takes our fish. You see, we're first off the Banks this season, and it's four twenty-five a quintal. We held out till he paid it. They want it quick." "You mean you'll have to work to-morrow, then?" "I told Troop I would. I'm on the scales. I've brought the tallies with me." He looked at the greasy notebook with an air of importance that made his father choke. "There isn't but three--no--two ninety-four or five quintal more by my reckoning." "Hire a substitute," suggested Cheyne, to see what Harvey would say. "Can't, sir. I'm tally-man for the schooner. Troop says I've a better head for figures than Dan. Troop's a mighty just man." "Well, suppose I don't move the 'Constance' to-night, how'll you fix it?" Harvey looked at the clock, which marked twenty past eleven. "Then I'll sleep here till three and catch the four o'clock freight. They let us men from the Fleet ride free, as a rule." "That's a notion. But I think we can get the 'Constance' around about as soon as your men's freight. Better go to bed now." Harvey spread himself on the sofa, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before his father could shade the electrics. Cheyne sat watching the young face under the shadow of the arm thrown over the forehead, and among many things that occurred to him was the notion that he might perhaps have been neglectful as a father. "One never knows when one's taking one's biggest risks," he said. "It might have been worse than drowning; but I don't think it has--I don't think it has. If it hasn't, I haven't enough to pay Troop, that's all; and I don't think it has." Morning brought a fresh sea breeze through the windows, the "Constance" was side-tracked among freight-cars at Gloucester, and Harvey had gone to his business. "Then he'll fall overboard again and be drowned," the mother said bitterly. "We'll go and look, ready to throw him a rope in case. You've never seen him working for his bread," said the father. "What nonsense! As if any one expected--" "Well, the man that hired him did. He's about right, too." They went down between the stores full of fishermen's oilskins to Wouverman's wharf, where the "We're Here" rode high, her Bank flag still flying, all hands busy as beavers in the glorious morning light. Disko stood by the main hatch superintending Manuel, Penn, and Uncle Salters at the tackle. Dan was swinging the loaded baskets inboard as Long Jack and Tom Platt filled them, and Harvey, with a notebook, represented the skipper's interests before the clerk of the scales on the salt-sprinkled wharf-edge. "Ready!" cried the voices below. "Haul!" cried Disko. "Hi!" said Manuel. "Here!" said Dan, swinging the basket. Then they heard Harvey's voice, clear and fresh, checking the weights. The last of the fish had been whipped out, and Harvey leaped from the string-piece six feet to a ratline, as the shortest way to hand Disko the tally, shouting, "Two ninety-seven, and an empty hold!" "What's total, Harve?" said Disko. "Eight sixty-five. Three thousand six hundred and seventy-six dollars and a quarter. 'Wish I'd share as well as wage." "Well, I won't go so far as to say you hevn't deserved it, Harve. Don't you want to slip up to Wouverman's office and take him our tallies?" "Who's that boy?" said Cheyne to Dan, well used to all manner of questions from those idle imbeciles called summer boarders. "Well, he's a kind o' supercargo," was the answer. "We picked him up struck adrift on the Banks. Fell overboard from a liner, he sez. He was a passenger. He's by way o' bein' a fisherman now." "Is he worth his keep?" "Ye-ep. Dad, this man wants to know ef Harve's worth his keep. Say, would you like to go aboard? We'll fix a ladder for her." "I should very much, indeed. 'Twon't hurt you, mama, and you'll be able to see for yourself." The woman who could not lift her head a week ago scrambled down the ladder, and stood aghast amid the mess and tangle aft. "Be you anyways interested in Harve?" said Disko. "Well, ye-es." "He's a good boy, an' ketches right hold jest as he's bid. You've heard haow we found him? He was sufferin' from nervous prostration, I guess, 'r else his head had hit somethin', when we hauled him aboard. He's all over that naow. Yes, this is the cabin. 'Tain't anyways in order, but you're quite welcome to look around. Those are his figures on the stove-pipe, where we keep the reckonin' mostly." "Did he sleep here?" said Mrs. Cheyne, sitting on a yellow locker and surveying the disorderly bunks. "No. He berthed forward, madam, an' only fer him an' my boy hookin' fried pies an' muggin' up when they ought to ha' been asleep, I dunno as I've any special fault to find with him." "There weren't nothin' wrong with Harve," said Uncle Salters, descending the steps. "He hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain't over an' above respectful to such as knows more'n he do, especially about farmin'; but he were mostly misled by Dan." Dan, in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from Harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. "Tom, Tom!" he whispered down the hatch. "His folks has come, an' dad hain't caught on yet, an' they're pow-wowin' in the cabin. She's a daisy, an' he's all Harve claimed he was, by the looks of him." "Howly Smoke!" said Long Jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. "D'ye belave his tale av the kid an' the little four-horse rig was thrue?" "I knew it all along," said Dan. "Come an' see dad mistook in his judgments." They came delightedly, just in time to hear Cheyne say: "I'm glad he has a good character, because--he's my son." Disko's jaw fell,--Long Jack always vowed that he heard the click of it,--and he stared alternately at the man and the woman. "I got his telegram in San Diego four days ago, and we came over." "In a private car?" said Dan. "He said ye might." "In a private car, of course." Dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks. "There was a tale he tould us av drivin' four little ponies in a rig av his own," said Long Jack. "Was that thrue now?" "Very likely," said Cheyne. "Was it, mama?" "He had a little drag when we were in Toledo, I think," said the mother. Long Jack whistled. "Oh, Disko!" said he, and that was all. "I wuz--I am mistook in my jedgments--worse'n the men o' Marblehead," said Disko, as though the words were being windlassed out of him. "I don't mind ownin' to you, Mister Cheyne, as I mistrusted the boy to be crazy. He talked kinder odd about money." "So he told me." "Did he tell ye anything else? 'Cause I pounded him once." This with a somewhat anxious glance at Mrs. Cheyne. "Oh, yes," Cheyne replied. "I should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world." "I jedged 'twuz necessary, er I wouldn't ha' done it. I don't want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet." "I don't think you do, Mr. Troop." Mrs. Cheyne had been looking at the faces--Disko's ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; Uncle Salters's, with its rim of agricultural hair; Penn's bewildered simplicity; Manuel's quiet smile; Long Jack's grin of delight; and Tom Platt's scar. Rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother's wits in her eyes, and she rose with outstretched hands. "Oh, tell me, which is who?" said she, half sobbing. "I want to thank you and bless you--all of you." "Faith, that pays me a hunder time," said Long Jack. Disko introduced them all in due form. The captain of an old-time Chinaman could have done no better, and Mrs. Cheyne babbled incoherently. She nearly threw herself into Manuel's arms when she understood that he had first found Harvey. "But how shall I leave him dreeft?" said poor Manuel. "What do you yourself if you find him so? Eh, wha-at'? We are in one good boy, and I am ever so pleased he come to be your son." "And he told me Dan was his partner!" she cried. Dan was already sufficiently pink, but he turned a rich crimson when Mrs. Cheyne kissed him on both cheeks before the assembly. Then they led her forward to show her the fo'c'sle, at which she wept again, and must needs go down to see Harvey's identical bunk, and there she found the nigger cook cleaning up the stove, and he nodded as though she were some one he had expected to meet for years. They tried, two at a time, to explain the boat's daily life to her, and she sat by the pawl-post, her gloved hands on the greasy table, laughing with trembling lips and crying with dancing eyes. "And who's ever to use the "We're Here" after this?" said Long Jack to Tom Platt. "I feel it as if she'd made a cathedral av ut all." "Cathedral!" sneered Tom Platt. "Oh, ef it had bin even the Fish C'mmission boat instid o' this bally-hoo o' blazes. Ef we only hed some decency an' order an' side-boys when she goes over! She'll have to climb that ladder like a hen, an' we--we ought to be mannin' the yards!" "Then Harvey was not mad," said Penn, slowly, to Cheyne. "No, indeed--thank God," the big millionaire replied, stooping down tenderly. "It must be terrible to be mad. Except to lose your child, I do not know anything more terrible. But your child has come back? Let us thank God for that." "Hello!" said Harvey, looking down upon them benignly from the wharf. "I wuz mistook, Harve. I wuz mistook," said Disko, swiftly, holding up a hand. "I wuz mistook in my jedgments. Ye needn't rub it in any more." "'Guess I'll take care o' that," said Dan, under his breath. "You'll be goin' off naow, won't ye?" "Well, not without the balance of my wages, 'less you want to have the "We're Here" attached." "Thet's so; I'd clean forgot"; and he counted out the remaining dollars. "You done all you contracted to do, Harve; and you done it 'baout's well as ef you'd been brought up--" Here Disko brought himself up. He did not quite see where the sentence was going to end. "Outside of a private car?" suggested Dan, wickedly. "Come on, and I'll show her to you," said Harvey. Cheyne stayed to talk to Disko, but the others made a procession to the depot, with Mrs. Cheyne at the head. The French maid shrieked at the invasion; and Harvey laid the glories of the "Constance" before them without a word. They took them in in equal silence--stamped leather, silver door-handles and rails, cut velvet, plate-glass, nickel, bronze, hammered iron, and the rare woods of the Continent inlaid. "I told you," said Harvey; "I told you." This was his crowning revenge, and a most ample one. Mrs. Cheyne decreed a meal; and that nothing might be lacking to the tale Long Jack told afterwards in his boarding-house, she waited on them herself. Men who are accustomed to eat at tiny tables in howling gales have curiously neat and finished table-manners; but Mrs. Cheyne, who did not know this, was surprised. She longed to have Manuel for a butler; so silently and easily did he comport himself among the frail glassware and dainty silver. Tom Platt remembered great days on the Ohio and the manners of foreign potentates who dined with the officers; and Long Jack, being Irish, supplied the small talk till all were at their ease. In the "We're Here's" cabin the fathers took stock of each other behind their cigars. Cheyne knew well enough when he dealt with a man to whom he could not offer money; equally well he knew that no money could pay for what Disko had done. He kept his own counsel and waited for an opening. "I hevn't done anything to your boy or fer your boy excep' make him work a piece an' learn him how to handle the hog-yoke," said Disko. "He has twice my boy's head for figgers." "By the way," Cheyne answered casually, "what d'you calculate to make of your boy?" Disko removed his cigar and waved it comprehensively round the cabin. "Dan's jest plain boy, an' he don't allow me to do any of his thinkin'. He'll hev this able little packet when I'm laid by. He ain't noways anxious to quit the business. I know that." "Mmm! 'Ever been West, Mr. Troop?" "Bin's fer ez Noo York once in a boat. I've no use for railroads. No more hez Dan. Salt water's good enough fer the Troops. I've been 'most everywhere--in the nat'ral way, o' course." "I can give him all the salt water he's likely to need--till he's a skipper." "Haow's that? I thought you wuz a kinder railroad king. Harve told me so when--I was mistook in my jedgments." "We're all apt to be mistaken. I fancied perhaps you might know I own a line of tea-clippers--San Francisco to Yokohama--six of 'em--iron-built, about seventeen hundred and eighty tons apiece." "Blame that boy! He never told. I'd ha' listened to that, instid o' his truck abaout railroads an' pony-carriages." "He didn't know." "'Little thing like that slipped his mind, I guess." "No, I only capt--took hold of the 'Blue M.' freighters--Morgan and McQuade's old line--this summer." Disko collapsed where he sat, beside the stove. "Great Caesar Almighty! I mistrust I've bin fooled from one end to the other. Why, Phil Airheart he went from this very town six year back--no, seven--an' he's mate on the San José now--twenty-six days was her time out. His sister she's livin' here yet, an' she reads his letters to my woman. An' you own the 'Blue M.' freighters?" Cheyne nodded. "If I'd known that I'd ha' jerked the "We're Here" back to port all standin', on the word." "Perhaps that wouldn't have been so good for Harvey." "Ef I'd only known! Ef he'd only said about the cussed Line, I'd ha' understood! I'll never stand on my own jedgments again--never. They're well-found packets, Phil Airheart he says so." "I'm glad to have a recommend from that quarter. Airheart's skipper of the San José now. What I was getting at is to know whether you'd lend me Dan for a year or two, and we'll see if we can't make a mate of him. Would you trust him to Airheart?" "It's a resk taking a raw boy--" "I know a man who did more for me." "That's diff'runt. Look at here naow, I ain't recommendin' Dan special because he's my own flesh an' blood. I know Bank ways ain't clipper ways, but he hain't much to learn. Steer he can--no boy better, ef I say it--an' the rest's in our blood an' get; but I could wish he warn't so cussed weak on navigation." "Airheart will attend to that. He'll ship as a boy for a voyage or two, and then we can put him in the way of doing better. Suppose you take him in hand this winter, and I'll send for him early in the spring. I know the Pacific's a long ways off--" "Pshaw! We Troops, livin' an' dead, are all around the earth an' the seas thereof." "But I want you to understand--and I mean this--any time you think you'd like to see him, tell me, and I'll attend to the transportation. 'Twon't cost you a cent." "Ef you'll walk a piece with me, we'll go to my house an' talk this to my woman. I've bin so crazy mistook in all my jedgments, it don't seem to me this was like to be real." They went over to Troop's eighteen-hundred-dollar, blue-trimmed white house, with a retired dory full of nasturtiums in the front yard and a shuttered parlor which was a museum of oversea plunder. There sat a large woman, silent and grave, with the dim eyes of those who look long to sea for the return of their beloved. Cheyne addressed himself to her, and she gave consent wearily. "We lose one hundred a year from Gloucester only, Mr. Cheyne," she said--"one hundred boys an' men; and I've come so's to hate the sea as if 'twuz alive an' listenin'. God never made it fer humans to anchor on. These packets o' yours they go straight out, I take it, and straight home again?" "As straight as the winds let 'em, and I give a bonus for record passages. Tea don't improve by being at sea." "When he wuz little he used to play at keeping store, an' I had hopes he might follow that up. But soon's he could paddle a dory I knew that were goin' to be denied me." "They're square-riggers, mother; iron-built an' well found. Remember what Phil's sister reads you when she gits his letters." "I've never known as Phil told lies, but he's too venturesome (like most of 'em that use the sea). Ef Dan sees fit, Mr. Cheyne, he can go--fer all o' me." "She jest despises the ocean," Disko explained, "an' I--I dunno haow to act polite, I guess, er I'd thank you better." "My father--my own eldest brother--two nephews--an' my second sister's man," she said, dropping her head on her hand. "Would you care fer any one that took all those?" Cheyne was relieved when Dan turned up and accepted with more delight than he was able to put into words. Indeed, the offer meant a plain and sure road to all desirable things; but Dan thought most of commanding watch on broad decks, and looking into far-away harbours. Mrs. Cheyne had spoken privately to the unaccountable Manuel in the matter of Harvey's rescue. He seemed to have no desire for money. Pressed hard, he said that he would take five dollars, because he wanted to buy something for a girl. Otherwise--"How shall I take money when I make so easy my eats and smokes? You will giva some if I like or no? Eh, wha-at? Then you shall giva me money, but not that way. You shall giva all you can think." He introduced her to a snuffy Portuguese priest with a list of semi-destitute widows as long as his cassock. As a strict Unitarian, Mrs. Cheyne could not sympathise with the creed, but she ended by respecting the brown, voluble little man. Manuel, faithful son of the Church, appropriated all the blessings showered on her for her charity. "That letta me out," said he. "I have now ver' good absolutions for six months"; and he strolled forth to get a handkerchief for the girl of the hour and to break the hearts of all the others. Salters went West for a season with Penn, and left no address behind. He had a dread that these millionary people, with wasteful private cars, might take undue interest in his companion. It was better to visit inland relatives till the coast was clear. "Never you be adopted by rich folk, Penn," he said in the cars, "or I'll take 'n' break this checker-board over your head. Ef you forgit your name agin--which is Pratt--you remember you belong with Salters Troop, an' set down right where you are till I come fer you. Don't go taggin' araound after them whose eyes bung out with fatness, accordin' to Scripcher." CHAPTER X But it was otherwise with the "We're Here's" silent cook, for he came up, his kit in a handkerchief, and boarded the "Constance." Pay was no particular object, and he did not in the least care where he slept. His business, as revealed to him in dreams, was to follow Harvey for the rest of his days. They tried argument and, at last, persuasion; but there is a difference between one Cape Breton and two Alabama negroes, and the matter was referred to Cheyne by the cook and porter. The millionaire only laughed. He presumed Harvey might need a body-servant some day or other, and was sure that one volunteer was worth five hirelings. Let the man stay, therefore; even though he called himself MacDonald and swore in Gaelic. The car could go back to Boston, where, if he were still of the same mind, they would take him West. With the "Constance," which in his heart of hearts he loathed, departed the last remnant of Cheyne's millionairedom, and he gave himself up to an energetic idleness. This Gloucester was a new town in a new land, and he purposed to "take it in," as of old he had taken in all the cities from Snohomish to San Diego of that world whence he hailed. They made money along the crooked street which was half wharf and half ship's store: as a leading professional he wished to learn how the noble game was played. Men said that four out of every five fish-balls served at New England's Sunday breakfast came from Gloucester, and overwhelmed him with figures in proof--statistics of boats, gear, wharf-frontage, capital invested, salting, packing, factories, insurance, wages, repairs, and profits. He talked with the owners of the large fleets whose skippers were little more than hired men, and whose crews were almost all Swedes or Portuguese. Then he conferred with Disko, one of the few who owned their craft, and compared notes in his vast head. He coiled himself away on chain-cables in marine junk-shops, asking questions with cheerful, unslaked Western curiosity, till all the water-front wanted to know "what in thunder that man was after, anyhow." He prowled into the Mutual Insurance rooms, and demanded explanations of the mysterious remarks chalked up on the blackboard day by day; and that brought down upon him secretaries of every Fisherman's Widow and Orphan Aid Society within the city limits. They begged shamelessly, each man anxious to beat the other institution's record, and Cheyne tugged at his beard and handed them all over to Mrs. Cheyne. She was resting in a boarding-house near Eastern Point--a strange establishment, managed, apparently, by the boarders, where the table-cloths were red-and-white-checkered, and the population, who seemed to have known one another intimately for years, rose up at midnight to make Welsh rare-bits if it felt hungry. On the second morning of her stay Mrs. Cheyne put away her diamond solitaires before she came down to breakfast. "They're most delightful people," she confided to her husband; "so friendly and simple, too, though they are all Boston, nearly." "That isn't simpleness, mama," he said, looking across the boulders behind the apple-trees where the hammocks were slung. "It's the other thing, that we--that I haven't got." "It can't be," said Mrs. Cheyne, quietly. "There isn't a woman here owns a dress that cost a hundred dollars. Why, we--" "I know it, dear. We have--of course we have. I guess it's only the style they wear East. Are you having a good time?" "I don't see very much of Harvey; he's always with you; but I ain't near as nervous as I was." "I haven't had such a good time since Willie died. I never rightly understood that I had a son before this. Harve's got to be a great boy. 'Anything I can fetch you, dear? 'Cushion under your head? Well, we'll go down to the wharf again and look around." Harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled along side by side, Cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his hand on the boy's square shoulder. It was then that Harvey noticed and admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street. "How d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head?" demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft. "I've dealt with quite a few men in my time, Harve, and one sizes 'em up somehow, I guess. I know something about myself, too." Then, after a pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "Men can 'most always tell when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as one of themselves." "Same as they treat me down at Wouverman's wharf. I'm one of the crowd now. Disko has told every one I've earned my pay." Harvey spread out his hands and rubbed the palms together. "They're all soft again," he said dolefully. "Keep 'em that way for the next few years, while you're getting your education. You can harden 'em up after." "Ye-es, I suppose so," was the reply, in no delighted voice. "It rests with you, Harve. You can take cover behind your mama, of course, and put her on to fussing about your nerves and your highstrungness and all that kind of poppycock." "Have I ever done that?" said Harvey, uneasily. His father turned where he sat and thrust out a long hand. "You know as well as I do that I can't make anything of you if you don't act straight by me. I can handle you alone if you'll stay alone, but I don't pretend to manage both you and mama. Life's too short, anyway." "Don't make me out much of a fellow, does it?" "I guess it was my fault a good deal; but if you want the truth, you haven't been much of anything up to date. Now, have you?" "Umm! Disko thinks . . . Say, what d'you reckon it's cost you to raise me from the start--first, last, and all over?" Cheyne smiled. "I've never kept track, but I should estimate, in dollars and cents, nearer fifty than forty thousand; maybe sixty. The young generation comes high. It has to have things, and it tires of 'em, and--the old man foots the bill." Harvey whistled, but at heart he was rather pleased to think that his upbringing had cost so much. "And all that's sunk capital, isn't it?" "Invested, Harve. Invested, I hope." "Making it only thirty thousand, the thirty I've earned is about ten cents on the hundred. That's a mighty poor catch." Harvey wagged his head solemnly. Cheyne laughed till he nearly fell off the pile into the water. "Disko has got a heap more than that out of Dan since he was ten; and Dan's at school half the year, too." "Oh, that's what you're after, is it?" "No. I'm not after anything. I'm not stuck on myself any just now--that's all . . . . I ought to be kicked." "I can't do it, old man; or I would, I presume, if I'd been made that way." "Then I'd have remembered it to the last day I lived--and never forgiven you," said Harvey, his chin on his doubled fists. "Exactly. That's about what I'd do. You see?" "I see. The fault's with me and no one else. All the samey, something's got to be done about it." Cheyne drew a cigar from his vest-pocket, bit off the end, and fell to smoking. Father and son were very much alike; for the beard hid Cheyne's mouth, and Harvey had his father's slightly aquiline nose, close-set black eyes, and narrow, high cheek-bones. With a touch of brown paint he would have made up very picturesquely as a Red Indian of the story-books. "Now you can go on from here," said Cheyne, slowly, "costing me between six or eight thousand a year till you're a voter. Well, we'll call you a man then. You can go right on from that, living on me to the tune of forty or fifty thousand, besides what your mother will give you, with a valet and a yacht or a fancy-ranch where you can pretend to raise trotting stock and play cards with your own crowd." "Like Lorry Tuck?" Harvey put in. "Yep; or the two De Vitré boys or old man McQuade's son. California's full of 'em, and here's an Eastern sample while we're talking." A shiny black steam-yacht, with mahogany deck-house, nickel-plated binnacles, and pink-and-white-striped awnings, puffed up the harbour, flying the burgee of some New York club. Two young men, in what they conceived to be sea costumes, were playing cards by the saloon skylight; and a couple of women with red and blue parasols looked on and laughed noisily. "Shouldn't care to be caught out in her in any sort of a breeze. No, beam," said Harvey, critically, as the yacht slowed to pick up her mooring-buoy. "They're having what stands them for a good time. I can give you that, and twice as much as that, Harve. How'd you like it?" "Caesar! That's no way to get a dinghy over-side," said Harvey, still intent on the yacht. "If I couldn't slip a tackle better than that I'd stay ashore. . . . What if I don't?" "Stay ashore--or what?" "Yacht and ranch and live on 'the old man,' and--get behind mama when there's trouble," said Harvey, with a twinkle in his eye. "Why, in that case, you come right in with me, my son." "Ten dollars a month?" Another twinkle. "Not a cent more until you're worth it, and you won't begin to touch that for a few years." "I'd sooner begin sweeping out the office--isn't that how the big bugs start?--and touch something now than--" "I know it; we all feel that way. But I guess we can hire any sweeping we need. I made the same mistake myself of starting in too soon." "Thirty million dollars' worth o' mistake, wasn't it? I'd risk it for that." "I lost some; and I gained some. I'll tell you." Cheyne pulled his beard and smiled as he looked over the still water, and spoke away from Harvey, who presently began to be aware that his father was telling the story of his life. He talked in a low, even voice, without gesture and without expression; and it was a history for which a dozen leading journals would cheerfully have paid many dollars--the story of forty years that was at the same time the story of the New West, whose story is yet to be written. It began with a kinless boy turned loose in Texas, and went on fantastically through a hundred changes and chops of life, the scenes shifting from State after Western State, from cities that sprang up in a month and in a season utterly withered away, to wild ventures in wilder camps that are now laborious, paved municipalities. It covered the building of three railroads and the deliberate wreck of a fourth. It told of steamers, townships, forests, and mines, and the men of every nation under heaven, manning, creating, hewing, and digging these. It touched on chances of gigantic wealth flung before eyes that could not see, or missed by the merest accident of time and travel; and through the mad shift of things, sometimes on horseback, more often afoot, now rich, now poor, in and out, and back and forth, deck-hand, train-hand, contractor, boardinghouse keeper, journalist, engineer, drummer, real-estate agent, politician, dead-beat, rumseller, mine-owner, speculator, cattle-man, or tramp, moved Harvey Cheyne, alert and quiet, seeking his own ends, and, so he said, the glory and advancement of his country. He told of the faith that never deserted him even when he hung on the ragged edge of despair the faith that comes of knowing men and things. He enlarged, as though he were talking to himself, on his very great courage and resource at all times. The thing was so evident in the man's mind that he never even changed his tone. He described how he had bested his enemies, or forgiven them, exactly as they had bested or forgiven him in those careless days; how he had entreated, cajoled, and bullied towns, companies, and syndicates, all for their enduring good; crawled round, through, or under mountains and ravines, dragging a string and hoop-iron railroad after him, and in the end, how he had sat still while promiscuous communities tore the last fragments of his character to shreds. The tale held Harvey almost breathless, his head a little cocked to one side, his eyes fixed on his father's face, as the twilight deepened and the red cigar-end lit up the furrowed cheeks and heavy eyebrows. It seemed to him like watching a locomotive storming across country in the dark--a mile between each glare of the opened fire-door: but this locomotive could talk, and the words shook and stirred the boy to the core of his soul. At last Cheyne pitched away the cigar-butt, and the two sat in the dark over the lapping water. "I've never told that to any one before," said the father. Harvey gasped. "It's just the greatest thing that ever was!" said he. "That's what I got. Now I'm coming to what I didn't get. It won't sound much of anything to you, but I don't wish you to be as old as I am before you find out. I can handle men, of course, and I'm no fool along my own lines, but--but I can't compete with the man who has been taught! I've picked up as I went along, and I guess it sticks out all over me." "I've never seen it," said the son, indignantly. "You will, though, Harve. You will--just as soon as you're through college. Don't I know it? Don't I know the look on men's faces when they think me a--a 'mucker,' as they call it out here? I can break them to little pieces--yes--but I can't get back at 'em to hurt 'em where they live. I don't say they're 'way, 'way up, but I feel I'm 'way, 'way, 'way off, somehow. Now you've got your chance. You've got to soak up all the learning that's around, and you'll live with a crowd that are doing the same thing. They'll be doing it for a few thousand dollars a year at most; but remember you'll be doing it for millions. You'll learn law enough to look after your own property when I'm out o' the light, and you'll have to be solid with the best men in the market (they are useful later); and above all, you'll have to stow away the plain, common, sit-down-with-your-chin-on-your-elbows book-learning. Nothing pays like that, Harve, and it's bound to pay more and more each year in our country--in business and in politics. You'll see." "There's no sugar my end of the deal," said Harvey. "Four years at college! Wish I'd chosen the valet and the yacht!" "Never mind, my son," Cheyne insisted. "You're investing your capital where it'll bring in the best returns; and I guess you won't find our property shrunk any when you're ready to take hold. Think it over, and let me know in the morning. Hurry! We'll be late for supper!" As this was a business talk, there was no need for Harvey to tell his mother about it; and Cheyne naturally took the same point of view. But Mrs. Cheyne saw and feared, and was a little jealous. Her boy, who rode rough-shod over her, was gone, and in his stead reigned a keen-faced youth, abnormally silent, who addressed most of his conversation to his father. She understood it was business, and therefore a matter beyond her premises. If she had any doubts, they were resolved when Cheyne went to Boston and brought back a new diamond marquise-ring. "What have you two men been doing now?" she said, with a weak little smile, as she turned it in the light. "Talking--just talking, mama; there's nothing mean about Harvey." There was not. The boy had made a treaty on his own account. Railroads, he explained gravely, interested him as little as lumber, real estate, or mining. What his soul yearned after was control of his father's newly purchased sailing-ships. If that could be promised him within what he conceived to be a reasonable time, he, for his part, guaranteed diligence and sobriety at college for four or five years. In vacation he was to be allowed full access to all details connected with the line,--he had asked not more than two thousand questions about it,--from his father's most private papers in the safe to the tug in San Francisco harbour. "It's a deal," said Cheyne at the last. "You'll alter your mind twenty times before you leave college, o' course; but if you take hold of it in proper shape, and if you don't tie it up before you're twenty-three, I'll make the thing over to you. How's that, Harve?" "Nope; never pays to split up a going concern There's too much competition in the world anyway, and Disko says 'blood-kin hev to stick together.' His crowd never go back on him. That's one reason, he says, why they make such big fares. Say, the "We're Here" goes off to the Georges on Monday. They don't stay long ashore, do they?" "Well, we ought to be going, too, I guess. I've left my business hung up at loose ends between two oceans, and it's time to connect again. I just hate to do it, though; haven't had a holiday like this for twenty years." "We can't go without seeing Disko off," said Harvey; "and Monday's Memorial Day. Let's stay over that, anyway." "What is this memorial business? They were talking about it at the boarding-house," said Cheyne, weakly. He, too, was not anxious to spoil the golden days. "Well, as far as I can make out, this business is a sort of song-and-dance act, whacked up for the summer boarders. Disko don't think much of it, he says, because they take up a collection for the widows and orphans. Disko's independent. Haven't you noticed that?" "Well--yes. A little. In spots. Is it a town show, then?" "The summer convention is. They read out the names of the fellows drowned or gone astray since last time, and they make speeches, and recite, and all. Then, Disko says, the secretaries of the Aid Societies go into the back yard and fight over the catch. The real show, he says, is in the spring. The ministers all take a hand then, and there aren't any summer boarders around." "I see," said Cheyne, with the brilliant and perfect comprehension of one born into and bred up to city pride. "We'll stay over for Memorial Day, and get off in the afternoon." "Guess I'll go down to Disko's and make him bring his crowd up before they sail. I'll have to stand with them, of course." "Oh, that's it, is it," said Cheyne. "I'm only a poor summer boarder, and you're--" "A Banker--full-blooded Banker," Harvey called back as he boarded a trolley, and Cheyne went on with his blissful dreams for the future. Disko had no use for public functions where appeals were made for charity, but Harvey pleaded that the glory of the day would be lost, so far as he was concerned, if the "We're Heres" absented themselves. Then Disko made conditions. He had heard--it was astonishing how all the world knew all the world's business along the waterfront--he had heard that a "Philadelphia actress-woman" was going to take part in the exercises; and he mistrusted that she would deliver "Skipper Ireson's Ride." Personally, he had as little use for actresses as for summer boarders; but justice was justice, and though he himself (here Dan giggled) had once slipped up on a matter of judgment, this thing must not be. So Harvey came back to East Gloucester, and spent half a day explaining to an amused actress with a royal reputation on two seaboards the inwardness of the mistake she contemplated; and she admitted that it was justice, even as Disko had said. Cheyne knew by old experience what would happen; but anything of the nature of a public palaver was meat and drink to the man's soul. He saw the trolleys hurrying west, in the hot, hazy morning, full of women in light summer dresses, and white-faced straw-hatted men fresh from Boston desks; the stack of bicycles outside the post-office; the come-and-go of busy officials, greeting one another; the slow flick and swash of bunting in the heavy air; and the important man with a hose sluicing the brick sidewalk. "Mother," he said suddenly, "don't you remember--after Seattle was burned out--and they got her going again?" Mrs. Cheyne nodded, and looked critically down the crooked street. Like her husband, she understood these gatherings, all the West over, and compared them one against another. The fishermen began to mingle with the crowd about the town-hall doors--blue-jowled Portuguese, their women bare-headed or shawled for the most part; clear-eyed Nova Scotians, and men of the Maritime Provinces; French, Italians, Swedes, and Danes, with outside crews of coasting schooners; and everywhere women in black, who saluted one another with a gloomy pride, for this was their day of great days. And there were ministers of many creeds,--pastors of great, gilt-edged congregations, at the seaside for a rest, with shepherds of the regular work,--from the priests of the Church on the Hill to bush-bearded ex-sailor Lutherans, hail-fellow with the men of a score of boats. There were owners of lines of schooners, large contributors to the societies, and small men, their few craft pawned to the mastheads, with bankers and marine-insurance agents, captains of tugs and water-boats, riggers, fitters, lumpers, salters, boat-builders, and coopers, and all the mixed population of the water-front. They drifted along the line of seats made gay with the dresses of the summer boarders, and one of the town officials patrolled and perspired till he shone all over with pure civic pride. Cheyne had met him for five minutes a few days before, and between the two there was entire understanding. "Well, Mr. Cheyne, and what d'you think of our city?--Yes, madam, you can sit anywhere you please.--You have this kind of thing out West, I presume?" "Yes, but we aren't as old as you." "That's so, of course. You ought to have been at the exercises when we celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth birthday. I tell you, Mr. Cheyne, the old city did herself credit." "So I heard. It pays, too. What's the matter with the town that it don't have a first-class hotel, though?" "Right over there to the left, Pedro. Heaps o' room for you and your crowd.--Why, that's what I tell 'em all the time, Mr. Cheyne. There's big money in it, but I presume that don't affect you any. What we want is--" A heavy hand fell on his broadcloth shoulder, and the flushed skipper of a Portland coal-and-ice coaster spun him half round. "What in thunder do you fellows mean by clappin' the law on the town when all decent men are at sea this way? Heh? Town's dry's a bone, an' smells a sight worse sence I quit. 'Might ha' left us one saloon for soft drinks, anyway." "Don't seem to have hindered your nourishment this morning, Carsen. I'll go into the politics of it later. Sit down by the door and think over your arguments till I come back." "What good's arguments to me? In Miquelon champagne's eighteen dollars a case, and--" The skipper lurched into his seat as an organ-prelude silenced him. "Our new organ," said the official proudly to Cheyne. "Cost us four thousand dollars, too. We'll have to get back to high-licence next year to pay for it. I wasn't going to let the ministers have all the religion at their convention. Those are some of our orphans standing up to sing. My wife taught 'em. See you again later, Mr. Cheyne. I'm wanted on the platform." High, clear, and true, children's voices bore down the last noise of those settling into their places. "O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" The women throughout the hall leaned forward to look as the reiterated cadences filled the air. Mrs. Cheyne, with some others, began to breathe short; she had hardly imagined there were so many widows in the world; and instinctively searched for Harvey. He had found the "We're Heres" at the back of the audience, and was standing, as by right, between Dan and Disko. Uncle Salters, returned the night before with Penn, from Pamlico Sound, received him suspiciously. "Hain't your folk gone yet?" he grunted. "What are you doin' here, young feller?" "O ye Seas and Floods, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!" "Hain't he good right?" said Dan. "He's bin there, same as the rest of us." "Not in them clothes," Salters snarled. "Shut your head, Salters," said Disko. "Your bile's gone back on you. Stay right where ye are, Harve." Then up and spoke the orator of the occasion, another pillar of the municipality, bidding the world welcome to Gloucester, and incidentally pointing out wherein Gloucester excelled the rest of the world. Then he turned to the sea-wealth of the city, and spoke of the price that must be paid for the yearly harvest. They would hear later the names of their lost dead--one hundred and seventeen of them. (The widows stared a little, and looked at one another here.) Gloucester could not boast any overwhelming mills or factories. Her sons worked for such wage as the sea gave; and they all knew that neither Georges nor the Banks were cow-pastures. The utmost that folk ashore could accomplish was to help the widows and the orphans; and after a few general remarks he took this opportunity of thanking, in the name of the city, those who had so public-spiritedly consented to participate in the exercises of the occasion. "I jest despise the beggin' pieces in it," growled Disko. "It don't give folk a fair notion of us." "Ef folk won't be fore-handed an' put by when they've the chance," returned Salters, "it stands in the nature o' things they hev to be 'shamed. You take warnin' by that, young feller. Riches endureth but for a season, ef you scatter them araound on lugsuries--" "But to lose everything--everything," said Penn. "What can you do then? Once!"--the watery blue eyes stared up and down, as looking for something to steady them--"once I read--in a book, I think--of a boat where every one was run down--except some one--and he said to me--" "Shucks!" said Salters, cutting in. "You read a little less an' take more int'rust in your vittles, and you'll come nearer earnin' your keep, Penn." Harvey, jammed among the fishermen, felt a creepy, crawly, tingling thrill that began in the back of his neck and ended at his boots. He was cold, too, though it was a stifling day. "'That the actress from Philadelphia?" said Disko Troop, scowling at the platform. "You've fixed it about old man Ireson, hain't ye, Harve? Ye know why naow." It was not "Ireson's Ride" that the woman delivered, but some sort of poem about a fishing-port called Brixham and a fleet of trawlers beating in against storm by night, while the women made a guiding fire at the head of the quay with everything they could lay hands on. "They took the grandam's blanket, Who shivered and bade them go; They took the baby's cradle, Who could not say them no." "Whew!" said Dan, peering over Long Jack's shoulder. "That's great! Must ha' bin expensive, though." "Ground-hog case," said the Galway man. "Badly lighted port, Danny." "And knew not all the while If they were lighting a bonfire Or only a funeral pile." The wonderful voice took hold of people by their heartstrings; and when she told how the drenched crews were flung ashore, living and dead, and they carried the bodies to the glare of the fires, asking: "Child, is this your father?" or "Wife, is this your man?" you could hear hard breathing all over the benches. "And when the boats of Brixham Go out to face the gales, Think of the love that travels Like light upon their sails!" There was very little applause when she finished. The women were looking for their handkerchiefs, and many of the men stared at the ceiling with shiny eyes. "H'm," said Salters; "that 'u'd cost ye a dollar to hear at any theater--maybe two. Some folk, I presoom, can afford it. 'Seems downright waste to me. . . . Naow, how in Jerusalem did Cap Bart Edwardes strike adrift here?" "No keepin' him under," said an Eastport man behind. "He's a poet, an' he's baound to say his piece. 'Comes from daown aour way, too." He did not say that Captain B. Edwardes had striven for five consecutive years to be allowed to recite a piece of his own composition on Gloucester Memorial Day. An amused and exhausted committee had at last given him his desire. The simplicity and utter happiness of the old man, as he stood up in his very best Sunday clothes, won the audience ere he opened his mouth. They sat unmurmuring through seven-and-thirty hatchet-made verses describing at fullest length the loss of the schooner Joan Hasken off the Georges in the gale of 1867, and when he came to an end they shouted with one kindly throat. A far-sighted Boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer Captain Bart Edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and poet, in the seventy-third year of his age. "Naow, I call that sensible," said an Eastport man. "I've bin over that graound with his writin', jest as he read it, in my two hands, and I can testify that he's got it all in." "If Dan here couldn't do better'n that with one hand before breakfast, he ought to be switched," said Salters, upholding the honour of Massachusetts on general principles. "Not but what I'm free to own he's considerable litt'ery--fer Maine. Still--" "Guess Uncle Salters's goin' to die this trip. Fust compliment he's ever paid me," Dan sniggered. "What's wrong with you, Harve? You act all quiet and you look greenish. Feelin' sick?" "Don't know what's the matter with me," Harvey replied. "Seems if my insides were too big for my outsides. I'm all crowded up and shivery." "Dispepsy? Pshaw-too bad. We'll wait for the readin', an' then we'll quit, an' catch the tide." The widows--they were nearly all of that season's making--braced themselves rigidly like people going to be shot in cold blood, for they knew what was coming. The summer-boarder girls in pink and blue shirt-waists stopped tittering over Captain Edwardes's wonderful poem, and looked back to see why all was silent. The fishermen pressed forward as that town official who had talked with Cheyne bobbed up on the platform and began to read the year's list of losses, dividing them into months. Last September's casualties were mostly single men and strangers, but his voice rang very loud in the stillness of the hall. "September 9th.--Schooner "Florrie Anderson" lost, with all aboard, off the Georges. "Reuben Pitman, master, 50, single, Main Street, City. "Emil Olsen, 19, single, 329 Hammond Street, City; Denmark. "Oscar Stanberg, single, 25, Sweden. "Carl Stanberg, single, 28, Main Street, City. "Pedro, supposed Madeira, single, Keene's boarding-house, City. "Joseph Welsh, alias Joseph Wright, 30, St. John's, Newfoundland." "No--Augusty, Maine," a voice cried from the body of the hall. "He shipped from St. John's," said the reader, looking to see. "I know it. He belongs in Augusty. My nevvy." The reader made a pencilled correction on the margin of the list, and resumed: "Same schooner, Charlie Ritchie, Liverpool, Nova Scotia, 33, single. "Albert May, 267 Rogers Street, City, 27, single. "September 27th.--Orvin Dollard, 30, married, drowned in dory off Eastern Point." That shot went home, for one of the widows flinched where she sat, clasping and unclasping her hands. Mrs. Cheyne, who had been listening with wide-opened eyes, threw up her head and choked. Dan's mother, a few seats to the right, saw and heard and quickly moved to her side. The reading went on. By the time they reached the January and February wrecks the shots were falling thick and fast, and the widows drew breath between their teeth. "February 14th.--Schooner "Harry Randolph" dismasted on the way home from Newfoundland; Asa Musie, married, 32, Main Street, City, lost overboard. "February 23d.--Schooner "Gilbert Hope"; went astray in dory, Robert Beavon, 29, married, native of Pubnico, Nova Scotia." But his wife was in the hall. They heard a low cry, as though a little animal had been hit. It was stifled at once, and a girl staggered out of the hall. She had been hoping against hope for months, because some who have gone adrift in dories have been miraculously picked up by deep-sea sailing-ships. Now she had her certainty, and Harvey could see the policeman on the sidewalk hailing a hack for her. "It's fifty cents to the depot"--the driver began, but the policeman held up his hand--"but I'm goin' there anyway. Jump right in. Look at here, Alf; you don't pull me next time my lamps ain't lit. See?" The side-door closed on the patch of bright sunshine, and Harvey's eyes turned again to the reader and his endless list. "April 19th.--Schooner "Mamie Douglas" lost on the Banks with all hands. "Edward Canton," 43, master, married, City. "D. Hawkins," alias Williams, 34, married, Shelbourne, Nova Scotia. "G. W. Clay," coloured, 28, married, City." And so on, and so on. Great lumps were rising in Harvey's throat, and his stomach reminded him of the day when he fell from the liner. "May 10th.--Schooner "We're Here" [the blood tingled all over him]. Otto Svendson, 20, single, City, lost overboard." Once more a low, tearing cry from somewhere at the back of the hall. "She shouldn't ha' come. She shouldn't ha' come," said Long Jack, with a cluck of pity. "Don't scrowge, Harve," grunted Dan. Harvey heard that much, but the rest was all darkness spotted with fiery wheels. Disko leaned forward and spoke to his wife, where she sat with one arm round Mrs. Cheyne, and the other holding down the snatching, catching, ringed hands. "Lean your head daown--right daown!" she whispered. "It'll go off in a minute." "I ca-an't! I do-don't! Oh, let me--" Mrs. Cheyne did not at all know what she said. "You must," Mrs. Troop repeated. "Your boy's jest fainted dead away. They do that some when they're gettin' their growth. 'Wish to tend to him? We can git aout this side. Quite quiet. You come right along with me. Psha', my dear, we're both women, I guess. We must tend to aour men-folk. Come!" The "We're Heres" promptly went through the crowd as a body-guard, and it was a very white and shaken Harvey that they propped up on a bench in an anteroom. "Favours his ma," was Mrs. Troop's only comment, as the mother bent over her boy. "How d'you suppose he could ever stand it?" she cried indignantly to Cheyne, who had said nothing at all. "It was horrible--horrible! We shouldn't have come. It's wrong and wicked! It--it isn't right! Why--why couldn't they put these things in the papers, where they belong? Are you better, darling?" That made Harvey very properly ashamed. "Oh, I'm all right, I guess," he said, struggling to his feet, with a broken giggle. "Must ha' been something I ate for breakfast." "Coffee, perhaps," said Cheyne, whose face was all in hard lines, as though it had been cut out of bronze. "We won't go back again." "Guess 'twould be 'baout's well to git daown to the wharf," said Disko. "It's close in along with them Dagoes, an' the fresh air will fresh Mrs. Cheyne up." Harvey announced that he never felt better in his life; but it was not till he saw the "We're Here", fresh from the lumper's hands, at Wouverman's wharf, that he lost his all-overish feelings in a queer mixture of pride and sorrowfulness. Other people--summer boarders and such-like--played about in cat-boats or looked at the sea from pier-heads; but he understood things from the inside--more things than he could begin to think about. None the less, he could have sat down and howled because the little schooner was going off. Mrs. Cheyne simply cried and cried every step of the way, and said most extraordinary things to Mrs. Troop, who "babied" her till Dan, who had not been "babied" since he was six, whistled aloud. And so the old crowd--Harvey felt like the most ancient of mariners--dropped into the old schooner among the battered dories, while Harvey slipped the stern-fast from the pier-head, and they slid her along the wharf-side with their hands. Every one wanted to say so much that no one said anything in particular. Harvey bade Dan take care of Uncle Salters's sea-boots and Penn's dory-anchor, and Long Jack entreated Harvey to remember his lessons in seamanship; but the jokes fell flat in the presence of the two women, and it is hard to be funny with green harbour-water widening between good friends. "Up jib and fores'l!" shouted Disko, getting to the wheel, as the wind took her. "See you later, Harve. Dunno but I come near thinkin' a heap o' you an' your folks." Then she glided beyond ear-shot, and they sat down to watch her up the harbour. And still Mrs. Cheyne wept. "Psha', my dear," said Mrs. Troop; "we're both women, I guess. Like's not it'll ease your heart to hev your cry aout. God He knows it never done me a mite o' good; but then He knows I've had something to cry fer!" Now it was a few years later, and upon the other edge of America, that a young man came through the clammy sea-fog up a windy street which is flanked with most expensive houses built of wood to imitate stone. To him, as he was standing by a hammered iron gate, entered on horseback--and the horse would have been cheap at a thousand dollars--another young man. And this is what they said: "Hello, Dan!" "Hello, Harve!" "What's the best with you?" "Well, I'm so's to be that kind o' animal called second mate this trip. Ain't you most through with that triple-invoiced college o' yours?" "Getting that way. I tell you, the Leland Stanford Junior isn't a circumstance to the old "We're Here"; but I'm coming into the business for keeps next fall." "Meanin' aour packets?" "Nothing else. You just wait till I get my knife into you, Dan. I'm going to make the old line lie down and cry when I take hold." "I'll resk it," said Dan, with a brotherly grin, as Harvey dismounted and asked whether he were coming in. "That's what I took the cable fer; but, say, is the doctor anywheres araound? I'll draown that crazy nigger some day, his one cussed joke an' all." There was a low, triumphant chuckle, as the ex-cook of the "We're Here" came out of the fog to take the horse's bridle. He allowed no one but himself to attend to any of Harvey's wants. "Thick as the Banks, ain't it, doctor?" said Dan, propitiatingly. But the coal-black Celt with the second-sight did not see fit to reply till he had tapped Dan on the shoulder, and for the twentieth time croaked the old, old prophecy in his ear: "Master--man. Man--master," said he. "You remember, Dan Troop, what I said? On the 'We're Here'?" "Well, I won't go so far as to deny that it do look like it as things stand at present," said Dan. "She was an able packet, and one way an' another I owe her a heap--her and dad." "Me too," quoth Harvey Cheyne. 
59084	----	Methuen's Colonial Library A MODERN LEGIONARY UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME A FRONTIERSMAN By Roger Pocock A MODERN LEGIONARY BY JOHN PATRICK LE POER METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON 1904 _Colonial Library_ A MODERN LEGIONARY CHAPTER I On a January morning in the early eighties I found myself in Paris with less than a dozen francs in my purse, or rather my pockets, for I have always had a habit of distributing my money between waistcoat and trousers, so that if one pocket be picked the contents of the others may have a chance of remaining still in my possession. How I arrived in Paris is easily explained. After two years and a half in a boarding-school I had become so tired of its monotonous routine and, indeed, of the idleness which prevailed there--for the masters never tried to teach, and, naturally, the boys never tried to learn--that I resolved, when the Christmas vacation came to an end, to leave my home in the south of Ireland and seek my fortune through the world. Accordingly, instead of going back to school, I set out for Dublin, whence I started for London by the first boat. In London I spent a day, and then came on to Paris, filled with vague hopes and vaguer misgivings as to my future. Thus it happened that I at the age of sixteen was walking the streets of Paris on the 6th of January 188-. I considered anxiously what lay before me. I could not go home, even if pride did not forbid. True, I could write for money, having enough to maintain myself until it came, but that would be too great a humiliation. To dig I was not able, and to beg I was ashamed, so I saw but one course open to me--to enlist. Having made up my mind, which I did the more easily as I had been brought up in a garrison town, and like most boys loved to follow the soldiers in their bright uniforms and to march along with head erect, keeping step to the music of the band, I at once set about carrying my resolve into effect. I was not long in beginning. As I walked along the streets I saw a soldier with a gold chevron on his arm, and, going across the road, I addressed him. I did not speak French very well, but had something more than the usual schoolboy knowledge of it, as I had read a good many French books and papers when I should have been at Greek or Mathematics in the study hall. Very soon, therefore, he learned my purpose, and a conversation ensued, somewhat as follows:-- "You are English; is it not so?" "No; I am Irish, from the south of Ireland." "Very well, my friend; but you must go to the Foreign Legion, and that will not be very pleasant, you may well believe. Always in Algeria, except when serving in Tonquin and other devil's colonies on the earth." "I do not mind that; in the English army one has to go to India and South Africa, so what matter?" "Ah! and you are doubtless without money, and one has to live." "Let us go in here," said I, pointing to a wine shop. "We can talk better over a glass." "Good comrade! good comrade!" he cried, slapping me on the shoulder; "I see that you will be a soldier after my own heart. Have no fear," he continued; "I will tell you all, and you may rely on me as a loyal friend." When we entered the shop my new-found friend asked me whether I should drink _eau-de-vie_ or _vin ordinaire_, and, on my refusing the brandy, commended my discretion, saying that young soldiers should never touch brandy as it interfered with their chances of promotion, and, moreover, they did not usually have money enough to pay for it. Thereupon he called for _eau-de-vie_ for himself and some wine, rather sour I thought it, for his young friend, and when we had clinked glasses and drunk, our conversation was resumed. I shall not try to reproduce the dialogue, which would, indeed, be wearisome, as we sat and talked for full two hours, with many repetitions. During this time I drank little, and the sergeant, though he had his glass filled more than once, took no more than he could safely bear. One thing I must say of him, that although he painted the soldier's life in glowing colours yet he always kept me in mind of the fact that he spoke of the French army in general and his own regiment in particular. What he said had no reference to the Foreign Legion. That corps was not to be compared to his. There were in it men who had fled from justice; from Russia, though, indeed, the offences of these were in most cases political; from Germany, and yet many were Alsatians and Lorrainers who wished to become French citizens; from Austria, Belgium, Spain; from every country in the world. And, whatever their crimes had been, they were of a surety being punished, for their stations were on the borders of the great desert, where were sand and sun and tedium so great that an Arab raid was a pleasant relief. "But there were French soldiers also there, were there not?" "Oh yes; the zephyrs, the bad ones who could not be reclaimed to duty, to discipline, or even to decency, and who were sent to form what one might call convict battalions in places to which no one wished to send good soldiers--men who respected themselves and the flag." "But the Foreign Legion could not be always in Algeria, on the borders of the desert?" "Oh no; there were many of them in Tonquin on active service, and these, of course, were just as well or as ill-off as the regular French troops, but still they were rascals, though, he would confess, very good fighting men. There was a war in Tonquin against great bands of marauders who carried a variety of flags, by the colours of which they were known: I must have heard of the principal ones--the infamous Black Flags, who gave no quarter to the wounded and who mutilated the dead. These were helped by the regular Chinese soldiers, and had among them many Europeans, dogs that they were, who gave them advice and instruction, because these Europeans were Prussians or English who hated the great French Republic and viewed its expansion with dislike and distrust." "But was there not a good chance of promotion in the Legion?" "Oh yes; if one did one's duty and willingly obeyed orders and did not get into trouble. Oh yes; there was always justice for the good as well as for the bad. If one was not a corporal in five years there was little use in staying; one could take his discharge and go away." That decided me. I was sixteen--in five years I should be twenty-one--better spend the time learning experience in the world than in the dull, dreary idleness to which I was accustomed, and which filled me with disgust. I said so to the sergeant. He looked me up and down, and said: "How old?" "Sixteen," I replied. "You cannot enlist; the recruit must be at least eighteen." I thought a moment. "I will be eighteen; they cannot see the registers of my parish." "Very well, very well, my son; you are resolved. I will say no more to prevent you--I will help you--you shall be a soldier of the Republic to-morrow." He kept his word. We spent the day together; he showed me his barrack, his room in it, where to dine and sleep, and leaving me at nine o'clock, with a parting injunction to meet him at eight in the morning at the barrack gate, went away saying: "Poor devil! poor devil!" On the following morning at ten minutes to eight I was at the gate. Indeed, I might easily have been there at six, but as the morning was cold and nothing could be gained by being out and about too soon I remained snugly between the sheets until seven. Punctually at eight the sergeant appeared, and we walked towards one another smiling. I asked him to join me at breakfast. He readily consented, and soon we were seated together in a small restaurant before a table at which we appeased the hunger induced by the sharp morning air with eggs, bread and butter, and coffee. Breakfast over, the sergeant asked, as he said, for the last time, if I were still resolved to join the Foreign Legion. I replied that I was, if I should be accepted. "Very good; we have half-an-hour, let us walk about until it is time to meet the doctor." While strolling through the streets he gave me much advice. I was to be respectful, alert, step smartly, and, above all, be observant. "Watch the others," he said, "and you will very soon learn soldiers' manners." I promised to do so, and reminded him that I had grown two years older in a single night. He smiled, and said encouragingly: "Good child! good child!--alas! poor devil!" I asked him what he meant by alluding to me as a poor devil, and again he abused the Foreign Legion with a vocabulary as insulting as it was extensive. I had never heard or read one-tenth of the words, but it was not hard to guess the meaning. I stopped him by laying my hand upon his arm, and said: "You forget that I may be one of the Foreign Legion before noon." "True, true; but I do not apply the expressions to you, only to those who are already there." And he pointed with his finger towards the south. "Very good; but surely not to all? What can you say against the political refugees from Russia?" "Ah! they are different; they----" I stopped him again, and said: "And what can you say against a political refugee from Ireland?" "Ah, ah! I understand; now I see clearly. Oh, my friend, why did you not tell me yesterday?" From that moment he believed me, a schoolboy of sixteen, to be a head centre of the Fenians, or at least a prominent member of some Irish league. This belief had consequences shortly afterwards, pleasant and unpleasant, but we live down our sorrows as, unfortunately, we live down our joys. Well, soon it was time to "meet the doctor," so we went towards the barrack, and passing the gate approached a portion of the square where about twelve men in civil dress were already assembled. I was told that these also were would-be recruits, not all, however, for the Foreign Legion, as some were Frenchmen who volunteered at as early an age as possible instead of waiting to be called up. Not far off a small party of _sous-officiers_ stood, criticising the recruits, and laughing sarcastically at an occasional witticism. These the sergeant joined, and I was at leisure to observe my companions. They were of all sorts and conditions. One, a tall man with white hands, at least I saw that the right one was white, but the left one was gloved, who wore a silk hat, frock coat, and excellently got-up linen, looked rather superciliously at us all. Another, in a workman's blouse and dirt-covered trousers and boots, had his hands in his pockets, and, curving his shoulders, looked intently at the ground. A third, about eighteen, in a schoolboy's cap and jacket, was humming the Marseillaise; he was a French lad who _would_ be a soldier. There was a dark-browed man, a Spaniard as I learnt afterwards, tugging at his small moustache; a few others whom I have forgotten; and, lastly, standing somewhat apart from the crowd, three or four medium-sized, heavily-built men, with the look of the farm about them, and, indeed, the smell of it too, who proved to be Alsatians. I was still engaged in observing the others when a door was thrown open, and we were all ordered into a large room on the ground floor of a building, over the entrance to which were painted some words which I now forget. Here we had to strip to shirt and trousers, but as there was a stove in the place, and the windows and doors were closed, that did not hurt too much. After a short delay the tall man was summoned, and left the room by a door opposite to that by which we had entered. Others were called afterwards, and I, as it happened, was the last. As I passed out the sergeant--I forgot to mention that he and the other _sous-officiers_ had come in with us, and all had spoken encouragingly to me, having been told that I was a rebel against "perfide Albion"--the sergeant, I say, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: "Have no fear, be quiet, respectful, attentive, good lad." I thanked him with a nod and a smile and passed in. I now found myself in a smaller room, where an old soldier with a long grey moustache--I thought at once of the old guard--gruffly bade me take off my shirt and trousers. I did so, and felt a slight shiver--it was January--as I stood naked on the floor. I had scarcely finished shivering when the schoolboy came from the doctor's room looking as happy and proud as a king on his coronation day. It was quite evident that he had been accepted, and already his early dreams of military renown seemed on the point of realisation. Poor devil! as the sergeant said of me. I met him afterwards twice; the first time he was a prisoner under guard for some offence, the second time he was calling out huskily for water in the delirium before death. As he went towards his clothing I entered the apartment he had just left It was a large white-walled room, with a couple of chairs and tables, a desk and stool, and a weighing machine in a corner, as its chief furniture. A couple of soldiers were present, but evidently the chief personage in the room was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose and sharp grey eyes, whose moustache bristled out on each side. He was dressed in uniform, and wore some decorations, but I cannot recall more than that now. I doubt, indeed, if I ever fully grasped how he was dressed--his eyes attracted my attention so much. A few questions were asked--my name, age, country, occupation, and others--which were answered by me at once and shortly. I did not forget the sergeant's advice. Then followed a most careful observation of my body. My height and weight were noted, as well as other things which I did not understand. I remember I had to breathe deeply, and then hold my breath as long as I could, to jump, to hop, and to go through every form of work of which the human body or any part of it is capable. My eyes were examined in various ways, and there was not a region of my person left unexplored by the stethoscope or by the bony fingers of my examiner. All the while he called out various words and sentences, just as a tailor calls out while he measures you for a suit of clothes, and a soldier at the desk took them down. The other soldier acted as his chief's assistant, covering my right eye with his hand while the left one was being tested, holding a stick for me to jump and hop over, putting on the weights while I was on the machine, and doing all these things at a nod or other sign from the doctor. At last the examination was over. The doctor took the sheet of blue paper on which the soldier at the desk had been writing, and, looking alternately at it and at me, seemed carefully considering. I stood erect, hands by my sides, looking steadily and respectfully at him. It was very quiet. After some time he said: "How old are you?" (in English, with just a trace of an accent). I waited a moment, but that moment was enough. "Eighteen, sir." Had I answered on the spot he would have learned the truth. He paused a little, still keeping his eyes on me, and then, slightly lifting his eyelids, asked: "Seventeen?" "No, sir," I replied; "eighteen to-day." "When and where were you born?" "Seventh of January, sir, in the year ----, and at the town of ----, in the south of Ireland." He still gazed at me in doubt, but I met his gaze steadily. Suddenly a door opened--not the one through which I had come--and a short, stout, bustling man, dressed in blue coat and red trousers, with a gold-laced cap on his head, came in and, glancing carelessly at me, shook hands warmly with the doctor. In the conversation which ensued it was apparent by their glances and gestures that I had more than my share of their attention. Finally they approached, and the short man asked me my age. I replied as before. Turning sharp round he said with a merry smile, which ended in a short, quick laugh: "Oh, my friend, he is eighteen; he says so, and who knows better? Would you destroy the enthusiasm of a volunteer by doubting his word? My fine fellow"--this to me--"you will be eighteen before you leave us." That settled it I was accepted, sent away to dress, and, as I had said to the sergeant, before noon I was a sworn member of the Foreign Legion, sworn in for five years. The swearing-in was not impressive. All I remember about it is that in a room with a very wide door an officer in a gold-laced cap sat at a table, repeated a form of words which I in turn repeated, holding up my right hand the while, and then I kissed a book tendered to me by a _sous-officier_. Some questions were asked, and I answered, telling the truth, as, indeed, I had told the truth all through, except about my age, and also except about the insinuation that I was a political refugee. That night I slept in the barrack. About eighteen or twenty other recruits for the Foreign Legion occupied a large room with me. We were of all countries in Europe, but the Alsatians outnumbered the representatives of any other, and next to them came the Belgians and Lorrainers. A couple of Poles, a Russian, a Hungarian, a Croat, the Spaniard whom I have already mentioned, and myself completed the list. We looked at one another rather suspiciously at first, but after some time we became more sociable, and tried to explain, each in his own execrable French, how we had come to enlist, and it struck me that, if all were to be believed, my comrades were the most unfortunate and persecuted set of honest men that the sun had ever shone upon. I changed my opinion in the morning when I found that the last franc I had, nay the last sou, had been taken from my pockets during the night, but what was the use of complaining? It was a lesson I had to learn, therefore the sooner I learned it the better, and it was well that I learned it at no greater expense than a couple of francs. When we got a blue tunic, red trousers, and kepi, with boots and other things, I sold my civilian clothes to a Jew for one-tenth of their original cost, and that money did not leave my possession without my consent. I did not spend it all upon myself, but neither did I spend it indiscriminately, a jolly Belgian and the Russian had most of the benefit. A little circumstance occurred which at first gave me great pleasure, though afterwards its effects were rather serious, at least in my opinion at the time. I had not been an hour in the room when the sergeant came and gave me some tobacco and a small bottle of wine. I insisted on his sharing the latter; as for the tobacco, that went in the night along with my money. I saw some very like it afterwards with one of the Poles. When going he shook hands warmly, bade me be of good courage, and was about turning away when someone, an Alsatian, I think, jostled against him. Immediately the flood-gates of his eloquence were opened, he cursed and swore, and that not alone at the cause of his anger but also at others who were near. No reply was made, and he went away, still cursing and fuming with anger. How this event affected me will be told in due course; suffice it to say that, young as I was, I saw that his evident partiality for me and his undoubted contempt for the others would likely bring unpleasant results before long. In two days our numbers had increased to about thirty, and we were despatched to Algeria under the orders of a sergeant and two corporals. During the journey we learned a little more about discipline, but all that and the journey itself must wait for a new chapter. CHAPTER II Let me first describe the sergeant who was in chief command of our party. He was a small, active, sharp-tongued man, wearing a couple of medals and the Cross of the Legion of Honour on his breast, neat in his dress--I believe he would, if it were possible, polish his boots forty times a day--having a constant eye to us, such an eye as a collie has for the flock. When he gave an order, it was clear and abrupt; when he censured, you felt no doubt about his meaning, for tongue and tone and eye and gesture all united to convey contempt and abuse; if he gave ten minutes for a meal, we had to fill our stomachs in that time or go half hungry; and as for accepting a drink from one of us--for some had a little money--he would as soon have thought, he let us know, of accepting a glass of hell-fire from Satan. He was one of those men found in every army in the world--men who cannot live out of barracks, who feel comfortable only in uniform, who look upon civilians as beings to be pitied for not having the military sense, just as the ordinary man pities the blind, the deaf, or the dumb. Such men's minds receive few, and these transient, impressions from outside their own corps. To hear the regiment rated soundly on inspection day is a greater calamity than the cutting off of a squadron by Berbers or the ambushing of half a battalion by Black Flags; in fine, they are soldiers of the regiment rather than of the army. We were divided into two squads, each under the immediate control of a corporal. My corporal was a jolly, good-humoured fellow, a bit malicious, a Parisian gamin in uniform. He told us terrible stories of the Foreign Legion, and said that we should get through our purgatory if we only lived in it long enough. But in the end he defeated his own object, for, as some tales were obviously untrue, we had no difficulty in persuading ourselves that all were lies. The other corporal, a tall, lank man, seemed to me moody or, perhaps I should say, pensive. However, he had nothing to do with me, so I scarcely observed him. With regard to the journey, I can only say that we marched from the barrack to a railway station, travelled by train to Marseilles, thence by transport to Oran, where we were handed over by the sergeant to a _sous-officier_ of our own corps. Some incidents and scenes of the journey I must relate, as they show how my military education began. And first I must tell about the unpleasantness which I spoke of in the first chapter. Of course, a woman was the exciting cause--the match to the gunpowder. Women can't help it; they are born with the desire of getting you to do something for them. The average woman merely gets her husband to support her; she would like to have every other woman in the parish there to see the weekly wages handed over, the wages which, if he were a bachelor, would represent so much fun and frolic and reckless gaiety. But there are women who would incite you to commit murder or to save a life with equal eagerness, just to feel that their influence over you was unbounded. However, this has little to do with the present case, which was merely a casual flirtation and its ending. At a certain station, which had more than its due share of loungers, our train was stopped for some reason. We were allowed to get out during the delay, and the report quickly spread that a squad or two of recruits for the Foreign Legion had halted at the place. We were soon surrounded by a curious group, many of which passed by no means complimentary remarks upon our personal appearance and the crimes they supposed us to have committed in our own countries before we came, or rather escaped, to France. In the crowd was a rather handsome woman of about thirty who pretended great fear of us, as if we were cannibals from the Congo. The sergeant, however, reassured her, told her that we were quite quiet under his control--pleasant for us to listen to, wasn't it?--and volunteered to give her all information about us. Well, he gave us information about ourselves too. He described the Pole as a dirty Prussian who had robbed his employer and then made his escape to Paris. The Spaniard became a South American who had more murders on his soul than a professional bravo of the Middle Ages. The Russian was a Nihilist who had first attempted to blow up the Tsar and afterwards betrayed his accomplices, so that in the Foreign Legion, and there only, could he hope to escape at once justice and revenge. An Alsatian was described as a Hungarian brute: "these Hungarian dogs are so mean, sneaking, filthy, and cowardly"; while the poor Hungarian, who had heard all this, almost at once found himself pointed out as an Austrian, a slave of an emperor who was afraid of Germany. Unfortunately, as it turned out afterwards, I escaped his notice, and what I congratulated myself upon at the time I had reason afterwards to regret. While the sergeant was thus trying to advance himself--the vain fool!--in the handsome woman's favour and was getting on to his own satisfaction, if not to ours, into the crowd struts a young corporal of chasseurs. As soon as she saw him the woman turned her back upon our sergeant, put her arm affectionately through the corporal's, and brought him, vacuously smiling, down to us to tell the sergeant's stories over again. She muddled them, but that was of course. We never minded anything she said; but weren't we delighted to see our _sous-officier_ so excellently snubbed! "And where, my dear Marie, did you learn all this?" queried the happy and smiling chasseur. "Oh, pioupiou told me." And she pointed with the tip of her parasol at the man who a moment before had mentally added her to the list of his conquests. And pioupiou was angry; his cheeks got all white with just a spot of red in the centre, his eyes glared, he twisted his moustache savagely; he turned on us and ordered us back to the carriages. But that was not all: the crowd laughed, Marie laughed, the corporal--another fool--laughed. Some of us laughed, and we paid for all the laughter in the end. Nothing was said while we were in the station, but as soon as the train was again on the move the sergeant began. The first to feel uncomfortable was the corporal of my squad. He was told that he did not enforce discipline, that he was too free with these rascals, these pigs, that he had no self-respect, that he was ill-bred, and much more to the same effect. We came in for worse abuse, the Hungarian and a Belgian being made special marks for the sergeant's anger because they had been the first to laugh when Marie called him "pioupiou." The abuse was kept up, with occasional intermissions, for over half-an-hour, and no one was sorry when our tormentor sought solace of a more soothing nature in his pipe. It is very hard for men to listen to angry words which they know they cannot resent, and, sooner than have no relief for their pent-up passion, they will vent it on one of themselves, as I found out before long. We had stopped for ten minutes' interval at a station, and the three _sous-officiers_ had gone to a small refreshment room after ordering us, on various pains and penalties, not to leave our seats. Scarcely were they on the platform when the Belgian, who had been most insulted, began to rail at me. I was astonished. My surprise increased when the others joined with him. I was asked why I should be spared while better men were being treated as dogs and worse than dogs. The visit of my friend, the kindly sergeant who brought me wine and tobacco, was raked up as an instance of favouritism, and the rather violent language which he had applied to others in the barrack room was also recalled. I felt indignant at the injustice but knew not how to reply. Indeed, there was but a small chance of doing so, as all were speaking loudly, and some even shaking their fists at me. At last the Belgian, who had started the affair, struck me lightly on the cheek. This was too much. I jumped at him, had him tightly by the throat with the left hand, and set to giving him the right hand straight from the shoulder as quickly and as strongly as I could. He was altogether taken aback, and, moreover, was almost stunned by my assault, for every blow drove the back of his head against the woodwork of the carriage. Before anyone could interfere I had given him his fill of fighting, and when I was torn off his mouth and nose were bleeding and the skin around both eyes was rapidly changing colour. Before the fight could be renewed the sub-officers returned, and we all sat silent and sullen in our places. The sergeant at once grasped the situation. "What, fighting like wolves with one another already! Very well, my fine fellows, it does not end here; to-day the fight and the arrest, to-morrow the inquiry and the punishment." Thereupon he ordered the men on each side of us to consider themselves our warders. "If they escape, if they fight again, there will be a more severe punishment for you, whose prisoners they are." "A beautiful way to begin soldiering," he continued, looking alternately at the Belgian and myself; "go on like this, and life will be most happy for you." At the next station he ordered the Belgian to be transferred to the compartment in which the other squad, under the silent corporal, travelled. When he left, to give orders, I suppose, about the prisoner, the jolly corporal turned to me, and said: "My worthy fellow, you have begun well; where did you learn to use your hands? No matter, the commandant will talk to you; he will settle all. But, my son, what was it about; did he insult you?" "It was all the fault of the sergeant," I cried---- "Hold, hold!" interrupted the corporal; "take care, you are foolish to accuse your officer, and, besides, he was not present." This gave me a hint. "No; he was not here, and the corporals were not here either." "Then it was my fault too?" "Not yours so much as the sergeant's--you merely deserted your post--but he in addition to that abused the men so much before going away that their passion was aroused, and when men are angry they cannot help fighting." "Yes, yes," said the corporal; "he did abuse people, there is no doubt that he was in bad humour, and would have abused his own brother at the time." Little more was said, but the corporal was very thoughtful, and evidently was chewing a cud he did not like. At the first opportunity, it was when we halted for a meal, the corporal took the sergeant aside, and a long conversation ensued. The upshot was that I was taken from my guards and brought by the corporal to where his comrade stood. The latter asked me to tell him the truth about the quarrel, and I spoke as he wished me to. I mentioned everything--the kindness of the first sergeant to me and his abuse of the others, his own harsh treatment of us from the beginning, his wrong and malicious descriptions to the woman--he winced when I mentioned her name--his fearful abuse of the men afterwards, and I took care to point out that I was the one who had been least hurt by his tongue, and I wound up by declaring that, if he and the corporals had not gone away, leaving us without any _sous-officier_ in charge, the affair would not have taken place. "I believe you have told me the truth," he said. And I knew well that he knew it, for all the time that I was speaking he kept his keen eyes fixed upon mine, and they seemed to read me through and through. The Belgian and I were almost immediately relieved from arrest, but my opponent received strict orders to stay in the centre of the squad while marching, so that as little chance as possible might be given to the curious to note his bruises. He was furthermore told that for his own sake he had better tell anyone in authority who might chance to make inquiries that he had been suddenly, and when off his guard, assaulted by a drunken man at a wayside railway station. He afterwards did tell this tale when interrogated by an officer, and, as we others corroborated his statement, he escaped all punishment, and so did I. All the same, the sneers and whisperings of my companions during the remainder of the journey were at least as painful to me as his injuries were to the Belgian. In fact, I was more than boycotted by all, and the fact that none of my comrades would associate with me in even the slightest degree was gall and wormwood to the mind of a sensitive youth. How I wished that the first sergeant had not been so kind and the second so sparing of abuse to me. I was glad that in the depot for recruits I was altogether separated from the rest, and I may add now that, when I met some of them afterwards in the East, they seemed to have forgotten all the little annoyances of our first acquaintance. I wish to say but little now about the rest of the way. The chief thing that remains in my memory is the scene aboard the transport that carried us from Marseilles to Oran. It was so striking that I fancy I shall never forget it. There were troops of all arms aboard. I need not describe the party I was with, as I have said enough about it already, and of most of the others I can only recall that the various uniforms, the different numbers on the caps, all impressed me with the idea that I belonged to one of the great armies of the world. Having been, as I have already mentioned, brought up in a garrison town I at once noticed distinctions which another might pass over as trivial. I saw, for instance, that all the soldiers of the line did not belong to the same regiment in spite of the strong likeness the various corps showed to one another, and I knew that the same held true of the chasseurs and zouaves. I admired the way in which disorder was reduced to order; the steady composure of those who had no work to do, which contrasted so much with the quick movement and tireless exertion of the men told off for fatigue; the sharp eyes and short, clear orders of the sergeants; and, above all, the calm, assured air of authority of the officer who superintended the embarkation. While I was noting all this my glance fell on a party of men, about fifty in number, wearing the usual blue tunic and red trousers, who had no mark or number in their caps. Now the Frenchmen of the line had each the number of his regiment on the front of the kepi, and we of the Foreign Legion had grenades on ours. Moreover, these men were set apart from all the rest and were guarded by a dozen soldiers with fixed bayonets. The men seemed sullen and careless of their personal appearance, and when a Frenchman forgets his neatness you may be sure that he has already forgotten his self-respect. Curiosity made me apply for information to the corporal over my squad, and he told me that these were men who for their offences in regiments stationed in France were now being transferred to disciplinary battalions in Algeria, where they would forfeit, practically, all a soldier's privileges and be treated more like convicts than recruits. I at once remembered what the sergeant whose acquaintance I had first made had said about the zephyrs, the men that could not be reclaimed. I saw them often afterwards, and, though in most of the battalions they are not very bad and are treated fairly enough, in others which contain the incorrigible ones the officers and sub-officers have to go armed with revolvers, and the giving out of cartridges, when it can't be helped, is looked upon as the sure forerunner of a murder. Figure to yourself what a hated warder's life would be worth if the convicts in Dartmoor had rifles and bayonets and if the governor had occasionally to serve out packets of cartridges, it being well understood that all--governor, warders, and convicts--are supposed to be transferred to, let us say, Fashoda, where there is now and then a chance of a Baggara raid. I don't know much about the voyage across the Mediterranean as I was almost, but not quite, sea-sick. It has always been so with me, the gentlest sea plays havoc with my stomach. We got into Oran at about six o'clock in the evening, and our party at once disembarked. We were met on the quay by a sergeant of the Foreign Legion, who showed us the way to a barrack, where we were formally handed over to his control. That night we stayed in the barrack, and I suffered a little annoyance from my comrades, from all of whom I was separated next day, when we were transferred to our depot at a place called Saida. I do not know whether this is to-day the depot for the Foreign Legion or not, as I heard men say that an intention existed on the part of the military authorities to place it farther south. Here I spent some time learning drill, discipline, and all the duties of a soldier, and this was the hardest period of my military life, for my knowledge of French had to be considerably increased before I could quite grasp the meaning of an order, and very often I was abused by a corporal for laziness when I had the best will in the world to do what I was told, if I could only understand it. CHAPTER III When we arrived at the depot we were at once divided into small parties, each of which was sent to a company for drill. I was attached to No. 1 Company, and though four others of my comrades came to it with me they did not remain there long. Two of them were Belgians, one an Alsatian, and the fourth a Pole. All spoke French well, and it was very soon seen that they had learned something about drill already in other armies, and, therefore, they were sent almost at once to the battalions on service at the edge of the great desert. Thus it was that I found myself the only member of the detachment in No. 1, and of this I was very glad, for my last experience with them had not been of the most pleasant kind. And now let me put on record the only complaint I have to make about my life at Saida. On account of my speaking English all agreed that I must be an Englishman, and the Englishman is well hated abroad. Consequently on the drill ground and in the barrack room I was continually addressed by the expressive sobriquet of "English pig." Now "cochon anglais" is not a nice nickname, and though I dared not resent it from the corporals and other sub-officers I made up my mind that from my equals in rank it was not to be endured. There was a big Alsatian in my squad who was most persistent in insulting me, though I had often tried to explain to him that I was neither a pig nor an Englishman. With him, therefore, I resolved to deal, confident that, if I could put a stop to his insolence, the rest would be quiet enough. I determined, as he was my superior in age, strength, weight, and length of arm, that it would be only right to take him unawares and, if possible, finish the business before he could quite understand what I was about. For three or four days after settling this matter in my mind I got no opportunity such as I wished for. Seeing me take the nickname quietly, for I no longer even remonstrated with him, the Alsatian went further than before and raised my anger to boiling point. At last the chance came. As I entered the room one afternoon I noticed lying near the door a rather large billet of wood. The corporal was out, so were most of the men, and those who remained, five or six in number, were lazily lounging in various attitudes about the room. I put aside rifle, belt, and bayonet, for I had just come in from a punishment parade--that is, an extra parade ordered to men for some slight irregularity--and looked straight at the big brute, as if to challenge him. "Ah, my fine fellow, how do English pigs like punishment parades in this weather?" he began. "As well," I answered, picking up, carelessly as it were, the billet, "as Alsatian dogs like this." And I brought the heavy block down upon his head with all my strength. The cap, though utterly destroyed, saved his head, but still he was so stupefied by the sudden assault and by the force of the blow that I had time to strike him again and again. The others jumped up quickly and seized me, crying out that the Alsatian was dead. And, indeed, he looked as if he were dead, for his head was covered with blood, and one almost imagined that his brains would protrude through the wounds. However, after some time he came to himself again, and truly no one was better pleased than I, for as I cooled down I began to be fearful of consequences. When the corporal heard about the affair he told the sergeant, the sergeant went to the captain, and the captain came down to investigate the matter for himself. I told him how I was continually annoyed, and when he asked me why I struck the other when off his guard, I pointed out that to do so gave me the only chance of revenge. He measured us both with his eyes and seemed to agree with me. Anyway, the Alsatian was sent to get his wounds dressed and I was ordered extra drills, extra fatigues, and to remain altogether in barracks for a fortnight. Now I wondered how I got off so lightly. Well, in the Foreign Legion a fight between men of the same squad is not considered half so serious as one between men belonging to different squads, just as no one minds so much about a fight between brothers as about one between members of separate families. If a soldier of No. 1 squad beats a soldier of No. 2 all the men of No. 2 will look for revenge, and all the men of No. 1 will know that, and, therefore, at any moment thirty or more men may be, to use an expressive phrase, "into" one another with Nature's weapons and anything lying handy that will do a man damage. Sometimes when the quarrel is more serious than usual--as, for instance, when it is about women--bayonets may be used, but, indeed, the soldier very seldom has recourse to his accustomed weapons in a fight with comrades. But if a dispute arises between a battalion of zephyrs and another of the Foreign Legion there is but one way of restoring order--call out the cavalry and the guns. As the Alsatian and I belonged to the same squad the captain contented himself with punishing me slightly and warning us both against a renewal of the quarrel. The story went around, and I don't believe I was called an English pig ever afterwards except by an Irishman or an Irish-American, who, of course, spoke only in jest. Our company consisted of from 160 to 200 men. Sometimes it was strong for a week after the arrival of a number of recruits, then again it would go down as a squad or two departed for the regiment. My squad varied, I think, from ten to seventeen, and, taking us all round, we weren't very bad, as soldiers go. What language did we speak? French on the drill ground and on duty and in reply to superior officers; amongst ourselves a Lingua Franca, made up chiefly of French, especially the Argot, but with a plentiful admixture of German, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and other languages, including in some squads even Russian, Turkish, and Arabic. What I say now refers not merely to the depot but to the Foreign Legion in general: every battalion, every company, I might almost say every squad, had its own peculiarity of idiom; Sapristi and Parbleu gave place often to Caramba, Diavolo, and Mein Gott. In fact, before I was six months in the Legion I could swear fluently in every European language except English; the only English curse they taught me was Goddam. The _sous-officiers_ were pretty strict with us in the depot, but the punishments were not too severe. The favourite one was to keep you altogether in the barrack and compel you to sleep during the night in your ordinary uniform on a plank bed in the guard room. That was the worst of it, in the day no one minded the confinement to barracks--for what was the use in wandering about a dirty town if one had no money in his pocket, and our pay did not last long?--but in the night the plank bed was not an ideal resting-place. I did not get into much trouble, the row with the Alsatian was my chief offence, and what kept me right was the dread of sleeping in the guard room at night. We drilled every day except Sunday, but there is no use in telling about that, as drill is the same all the world over. Our drill instructors were certainly eloquent--all had copious vocabularies--and the wealth of abuse and cursing that any of them could expend in an hour's work was, indeed, extraordinary. While I was unable to fully understand I felt angry; by the time I understood every word I was too philosophical to care. Moreover, I am sorry to have to say that I was rapidly acquiring a fairly extensive vocabulary of my own, and every time I heard a curse directed at myself I thought one for the benefit of the drill instructor's soul. It's a tradition in every army just as it is in every navy, fighting and mercantile, that nothing can be got out of men without bad language, and I do believe that there is a good deal of truth in the tradition. One would fancy that skippers and sergeants wish to familiarise their men with the names at least of the lower regions and their ruler, in the firm belief that the men will at some time make the acquaintance of both. That's as it may be; at anyrate we learned a good deal more than our drill from our instructors. We had a remarkably fine band. It was chiefly composed of Germans, I think, and it does seem strange that ten years after the Franco-Prussian war the majority of a French regimental band should be composed of the sons of the men who crushed Napoleon the Third at Sedan. The band played very often in the square, and every evening that it turned out I felt no desire to leave the barrack. I don't understand music but I like it. In the square the women and children of the depot used to walk about listening, talking and laughing; the officers' wives at one side and the wives of the _sous-officiers_ at another. As for us, we lounged about at a short distance and made remarks, not always in the best taste, about the women of both classes. A good deal of quiet, oh, very quiet, flirtation used to go on, and this gave rise amongst us to rather broad jests and hints. Of course, many people from the town came in also, and these we considered fair game as well. One very fat man, accompanied by a tall, extremely thin woman, evidently his wife--they seemed to have no children--came regularly at least three times a week to listen to the music. If he and his lady knew all the fun they provided for us and the jokes uttered at their expense, I fancy that the square would never see them again. What they did not know did not trouble them, and so they came as long as I remained in the depot and I daresay for long enough after I left it. A very important consideration with a soldier, as with any other man, is his food. I think we got nearly enough--that is, the fellows who were used to it got enough--but the poor devils who were not used to slops and bread were badly off, especially those who, like myself, had schoolboy appetites. I have seen--this was in the battalion--veterans leaving part of their rations untouched and young soldiers, men under twenty-five, hungry the whole day long. Early in my soldiering I learned the blessed consolation of tobacco. Often when I was more hungry after a meal than before it, the soup and bread rather exciting my stomach than satisfying it, I have smoked till no sensation of emptiness remained. I don't know what a soldier in a Continental army would do without tobacco. Nearly all our scanty pay went to buy it, and, wretched stuff as it was, I have never enjoyed the best Havana as I used to enjoy the delicious smoke when all work and drill for the day were over and the pipe of comfort and blessed forgetfulness made paradise of a barrack room. We were good enough to one another. If the Spaniard had no tobacco he could generally get some, unless it were too scarce indeed, and then he had to be satisfied with half-a-dozen puffs from every pipe in the room. I say the Spaniard advisedly, for he was always without money; he had such an unfortunate trick of getting into trouble and losing his pay. At the same time I too have had to do with the whiffs when I longed for a pipeful of my own, and when you wanted to feel the taste of the weed in your mouth it was very good to get even them. When tobacco was very scarce with all we had more than one device for getting a smoke; but there, these are only silly things, not that they seemed silly to us at the time. While at our drill we were the most obedient fellows in the world, so were we too when doing the ordinary work of the soldier. But when the day's labour was done we were not to be ordered about at the will of any sergeant or corporal. Well they knew it too. Why, when a squad in No. 2 Company was bullied--out of hours, be it well understood--by their corporal a strange thing occurred. The corporal was found one afternoon--at least the corporal's body was found--in one of the latrines, and it was quite evident to the doctors that he had been suffocated. Suspicion fell at once upon the squad he commanded, but, and this was the strange thing, every one of them could prove that it was impossible for him to have hand, act or part, in the business, for some were on guard, and others were at drill, and others--rather peculiar, wasn't it?--had been directly under the eyes of the sergeant-major of the company. There was a sentry near the latrine, who, of course, had not left his post, and this man could tell within five minutes the time the corporal entered. He saw no others enter at or about the same time, but that was easily explained: a large hole had been broken through the back of one of the compartments, and half-a-dozen men could easily get through this in as many seconds, and, once in without being observed, the rest was easy. Nobody was ever even court-martialled for the murder, and, though many might be able to guess the names of the murderers, he would be a fool who did his guessing within earshot of even a corporal. One thing is certain, we had a fairly quiet time afterwards while I was in the depot, not that we weren't sworn at and abused just as much on parade--oh yes, we were--but when the quiet time came the _sous-officiers_ had sense enough to leave us to ourselves. Well, it's all over now. The man who carried the business through died in Tonquin--he was a Russian--and he will turn up again in this narrative as ringleader of one of the most exciting incidents of my life. I did not form any friendships in the depot. True, there were fellows in the squad whom I liked better than others, but I never showed preference even for them. One thing chiefly prevented me from making friends: I was beginning to learn something about the world and its ways, or perhaps I should say about human nature, for with us conventionality was dropped when the belt came off for the last time in the evening and we spoke very freely to one another. If you liked something in a comrade's words or acts you told him so; if you disliked anything you were equally outspoken. Did a thought enter your mind worthy of being communicated, in your opinion, to the rest it made no difference whether it were immoral, or blasphemous, or against the law, or contrary to discipline, out it came, and generally with a garnishment of oaths and obscene expressions. We very seldom spoke of what is good, except to laugh at and revile it. When we saw a woman evidently very fond of her husband we said: "Ah, she is throwing dust in his eyes; she has more than one lover." If we noticed a husband very devoted to his wife, why, it was certain that the devotion was only an excuse for watchfulness. Everything good was looked on with suspicion; everything bad was natural, right, and obviously true. We were always looking forward to the future. When in the depot we yearned to be with the regiment; afterwards, when with the regiment in the south of Algeria, I found my comrades and myself thinking eagerly of the chances of going to the East. Life in Tonquin could not be so monotonous; there was always fighting going on, and in any case you got the chance of looting on the sly after a battle or even a petty skirmish. This looking forward is, however, common to most men, but we had a special reason for it, inasmuch as we were never comfortable or content, our lives being made up for the most part of work and drill and punishment, with an occasional fight, which wonderfully enlivened the time for those who had not to pay for it. When we had learned our drill pretty well the officers began to take more interest in us. Don't imagine that they were kind and nice to us, that they complimented us on our smartness and intelligence, or that they even dreamt of standing us a drink in the canteen. Oh no; they were somewhat worse than the sergeants, and if their language was not so coarse it was equally cutting and abusive. By this time, however, we were case-hardened, and, besides, we knew that at last we were leaving the depot for ever, and the excitement induced by the expected change was in itself a source of joy. We who were about to go went around smiling and in good humour with ourselves and all the world. The men who knew that their stay would last for some time longer consoled themselves with the thought that at last it too must come to an end. Simple philosophy, wasn't it? but wonderfully comforting. We speculated about the battalions, about the stations, about the Arabs, about the Moors, about the war in Tonquin, about everything that we could think of as possibly affecting our after-life. I, mere schoolboy that I was, was one of the most excited, and indulged in the most extravagant fancies and dreamt the most extraordinary dreams. At last the glorious day came. We were aroused at three o'clock in the morning, had finished breakfast, and were on the parade-ground at a little after four in full marching order. There we were addressed in a farewell speech by the commandant, who called us "my children," as if he cared especially for each and all of us. I had almost to smile, but a smile at such a time would surely entail punishment. The band played us out of the gate, and off we marched, about 200 strong, all in good health and spirits, for the little station where lay the battalion for which we were designed. CHAPTER IV We went altogether by march route to our destination. Every day was like the preceding one, and a short description of any day will do for all. Reveille at four o'clock, then while some pulled down and folded up the tents others cooked the morning coffee, at five or a little after we were _en route_, at eight usually, but sometimes later, a halt was called for the morning soup; that over, we put our best foot foremost until about eleven or half-past. Now came the pleasantest and sleepiest part of the twenty-four hours. We ate a little, we smoked a little, we slept, or rather dozed, a little, until the bugles warned us at half-past three that another stretch of dry, dusty, throat-provoking road had to be accounted for. On again at four until six or seven or eight, with occasional rests of ten minutes each, and then there was nothing but cleaning up after the evening soup. When all was right and the sentries had been posted for the night you might talk and smoke if you liked, but as a rule you smoked first and fell asleep afterwards. It was not strange that we, who had been cooped up in the depot so long, enjoyed this march. It seemed to us that we were soldiers at last, not mere recruits, and dust and thirst and other inconveniences were matters to be put up with and laughed at. On the road we often sang; at the end of the midday halt, while we helped one another with knapsack and belts, you might often hear songs of every country from the Urals to the Atlantic. Every man's spirits were high; the long-expected change had worked wonders, and the officers, nay, even the sergeants and the corporals, had little of abuse or swearing for us. True, our _sous-officiers_ were not drill instructors; of all things in the world teaching is the most wearing on the temper, and perhaps that is why there was so great a difference between the sergeants in the depot and the sergeants on the march. I think we did on an average about three miles an hour. It was good enough too, for there were the rifle and the knapsack to be carried, and the greatcoat and the blanket and the ammunition, and all the other impedimenta of the soldier. The straps of the knapsack galled me a bit, and I soon found out the difference between a march out from barracks for a few hours and a day-after-day tramp through the heat and the dust with the knowledge that you carried your bed and most of your board upon your person. The rest at the end of the hour, for we always halted for ten minutes after a fifty minutes' march, was a great help; and, again, I was a little too proud, or too vain if you like to call it so, to fall out of the ranks while my comrades were steadily marching on. After all, pride or vanity, call it what you will, never hurts a youngster, though it should make him slightly overwork himself in trying to keep up with those who are his seniors in age and his betters in endurance. All the same, when the day's march was over, it was delightful to pull off knapsack, boots and all, and to feel that there were before you eight or nine hours of complete freedom from toil. One night, however, things were not quite so well with me. It was my turn for guard, and when we halted for the night I with others was turned out of the ranks at once. The first sentries were soon posted, and the remainder of us had a couple of hours in or near the guard tent to enjoy our evening meal. When that was over we all had a smoke, and at nine--we had halted at seven--the reliefs were wanted. I felt very lazy as I got up, took my rifle, and set out with the corporal of the guard to my post. There I remained until eleven, was relieved until one, and went again on sentinel duty until three. At four the usual routine began, and I remember that, after the wakeful night, the day's march seemed very long. When we halted at midday I fell asleep, and when the march was over I forgot to smoke, and, curling myself up in my greatcoat and blanket, became utterly oblivious of all that occurred until the reveille next morning awakened me to another day. I don't remember much of the country through which we passed. Most of the time my ears were more engaged than my eyes, for many a good story was told and many a happy jest passed as we tramped along in the dust and sun. Some fellows told us stories of life in their own countries, and if they did not adhere exactly to the truth, why, that only made the stories better. Others could not see a man or a woman--especially a woman--on either flank but straightway they criticised and joked, and very clever we used to fancy the criticisms and jokes were. Some again were good singers, and these were constantly shouted at to sing, especially the men who sang comic songs. I daresay some of these songs, if not all, were scarcely fit for a drawing-room, but as no ladies were present it did not seem to make much difference. Then we had a bugle march occasionally--say half-a-dozen times a day--and I for one found the bugles wonderfully inspiriting. While the bugles were playing none of us seemed to feel the road beneath our feet; we stopped talking, we almost gave up smoking, the step became more regular, and the ranks closed up. I suppose a musician would call a bugle march monotonous; well, it may be so, but how many men out of 200 are musicians? But we had more music than that. Some of the fellows had brought along musical instruments of small size--tin whistles, flageolets, and such things. Very well they played too. Many were fairly good whistlers, and so there was a variety of means to drive away dull care; indeed, I think we were the jolliest and most careless set in the world. Even when the sun had been very hot and the road more than usually dusty we had always the thought that the end of the annoyance would come when we reached our battalion and that every day brought us nearer to the men who were to take the place of home and country, friends and relations, for five years. We fancied that they would be just like ourselves, and we liked one another too well not to be satisfied. It was while on this march that I first saw how soldiers are punished when there is no prison near or when it is deemed best to give a short, sharp punishment to an offender. Of course, I refer to cases where the offence does not merit a court-martial. We had halted for the evening near a small village, and some fellows had gone to it, more, I suppose, out of curiosity than because they had any business there. I was not with them, and I never fully learned what occurred but I know there was a woman in the case. Whether she deserted the corporal for the private soldier, or refused to leave the private when his superior made advances to her I cannot tell, but some words passed between the men, and the corporal made a report to the sergeant, who passed it on to the captain. Very few questions were asked; the man was taken to a spot near the guard tent, where he would be directly under the eyes of a sentry, and there he was put, as we termed it, _en crapaudine_. This is how it was done. First his hands were pinioned behind his back, then his ankles were shackled tightly to each other, afterwards the fastenings of his wrists were bound closely to the ankle bonds, so that he was compelled to remain in a kneeling posture with his head and body drawn back. After some time pains began to be felt in the arms, across the abdomen, and at the knees and ankles. These pains increased rapidly, and at last became intolerable. Yet he dared not cry out, or at least no one would cry out until he could not help it, for the sleeping men ought not to be disturbed, and at the first cry a gag was placed between the teeth. This poor devil did not get much punishment. I think he was _en crapaudine_ for only an hour or so, but, take my word for it, if you place a man in that position for four, five, or six hours, he will be in no hurry to get himself into trouble again. There are other punishments too--the silo, for instance--but I shall not describe these now, as I shall have occasion further on to tell all about them when I am dealing with life in the regiment. We did not always lie under canvas on the march. Sometimes we halted at a garrison town or at cantonments, and then some, if not all, of us were placed in huts for the night. We saw all kinds of soldiers there. We met zouaves, chasseurs, turcos, spahis, zephyrs, but with none had we much intercourse. This was due to several reasons. We came in hot and tired and with little desire for anything except food and rest, and besides we had to clean up clothes, boots, and arms for the parade and inspection in the early morning. Then the regular French troops, and even, I must admit, the native Algerian soldiers, looked with contempt upon us, and you may be sure that we of the Legion returned the contempt and the contemptuous words with interest. They never went very far in showing their feelings towards our fellows, for we had an ugly reputation; more than once a company or two of Legionaries had made a desperate attack on a battalion even, and it was well known through Algeria that when the Legionaries began a fight there would be, as was often said, "blood upon shirts" before the fight was over. Therefore the others stood rather in awe of our men, and they did not quite like the idea of having anything to do with us, even though we were only recruits on the way to the battalion, for every soldier knows that the recruit is even more anxious to follow the regimental tradition than the veteran. The latter feels that he is part and parcel of the corps and that his reputation is not likely to suffer; the former is only too eager to show that he accepts, wholly and unreservedly, the ideas handed down to him, and, besides, he has not been altogether brought under discipline. Thus, though we saw men in many uniforms we got to know very little about them--indeed, all our information came from the corporals--and I may add here that the corporals impressed upon us that we were never to fight individually with Frenchmen or natives, but that, if a general quarrel took place, we were to remember our duty to the Legion and make it "warm weather" for our opponents. Afterwards on more than one occasion we followed that advice. Once or twice a little unpleasantness arose amongst ourselves. It never went very far; the others, who were not desirous of seeing their comrades get into trouble, always put an end to the business before any real harm was done. I had nothing to do with any of these disputes save once, when, in the _rôle_ of peacemaker, I sat with another fellow for more than half-an-hour on an Italian who was thirsting for the blood of a Portuguese. The Portuguese was receiving similar attentions from two others at the opposite side of the tent. It was funny how the thing came about. The Italian had got, somewhere or somehow--I suppose he stole it--a bottle of brandy, and, instead of sharing all round, gave half to his comrade the Portuguese and drank the other half himself. When they returned to the tent they were quarrelling, and evidently drunk. After some time they began to fight, and we left them alone, as they had been so mean about the liquor, until we saw the Italian reaching for his bayonet. Then the rest of us joined in, and the precious pair of rascals, who had forgotten their comrades when they were happy, got something which made them rise in the morning with more aches in the body than they had in the head. They apologised the next day and we forgave them. This was another lesson to me. I saw that when a man got anything outside his ordinary share of good things he was supposed to go share and share alike with the rest of his squad. Many a time afterwards I have seen men who had at one time been of good position at home, and whose relatives could and would send them money, openly show the amount received in tent or hut or barrack room, and we others went out to spend that money when the evening came with just as much belief in our right to do so as if the money had been sent to the squad and not to the man. Well, the rich ones did not lose in the end, for they got many a favour from their comrades which the average soldier would be a fool to expect. The corporal of my squad on the march south was a rather good fellow. I am not quite sure whether he was a German or an Austrian by birth. He had seen a good deal of Algerian life, and was determined as soon as his term was up to get clear away for ever from Africa. This was not pleasant news. Here was a corporal, a man of over four years' service, whose whole and sole idea it was to leave the Legion and the country. It plainly proved that the life before us was not the most attractive in the world, and the thought often crossed my mind that perhaps I had been a fool to try soldiering in such a corps. With the happy-go-lucky recklessness of youth, however, I quickly got rid of these fancies, and I could console myself that five years would not be long passing, and at the very worst I should have learned more, situated as I was, than if I were to spend the term at school, and at such a school as the one I had been attending. I got on fairly well with the others of my squad. I have never been inclined to affront people, and I can honestly say that I have never shirked my work, and these qualities, added to a natural cheerfulness of disposition which caused me to look at the bright side of things, helped me very much all through my stay in the Foreign Legion. Indeed, there was only one man who was disliked by all. He was a Pole, a German Pole, I believe, and he had the most sarcastic tongue of all the men I've ever met. His sneering smile was almost as bad as his cutting tongue. While speaking politely he said little things that one could not very well resent, and that, therefore, hurt one the more. It's bad to be an idler, and worse to have a nasty way of openly abusing and insulting people, but the worst gift of God to a man is the gift of sarcasm. The sarcastic man never has a friend. There are, of course, always men who will fawn upon and flatter him, but that will be only through fear of his tongue--even they who most court him rejoice inwardly at his misfortunes. He can't be always lucky, he must take his bad fortune as it comes, and when it does come he cannot help knowing that all who know him are glad. It was well, I think, for our friend the Pole that the journey did not last a week longer. Somebody or other would be sure to lose his temper, and if one blow were struck, twenty would surely follow, for we all hated him. He said something about a gorilla one day, looking hard all the while at the Italian already mentioned, and it was a wonder that there was no fight. There would have been, I feel sure, but that the bugles sounded the assemble for the last march of the day, and the Italian, who was no beauty, had a few hours of marching to get cool. The Pole was quiet enough for the next couple of days, and by that time we were within six hours' march of our destination. Before describing the battalion to which I now belonged I must say a few words about the Foreign Legion in general, so that the peculiar characteristics of the corps may be understood. All that I shall mention in this chapter is that one sunny afternoon about four o'clock we marched into camp on the borders of the Sahara amid the cheers of our future comrades, and that within an hour our 200 men were divided amongst the four companies that constituted the 2nd Battalion of the First Regiment of the _Légion étrangère_. CHAPTER V For centuries the armies of France have had a certain proportion of foreign troops. Readers of Scott will remember the Scottish archers, and there is a regiment in the British army to-day which was at one time a Scottish corps in the service of the Most Christian Kings of France. Almost everyone has heard of the Irish Brigade, a force whose records fill many a bloody and glorious page of European history and whose prowess more than once turned the ebb-tide of defeat into the full flood of victory. It has been computed that almost 500,000 Irishmen died in the French service; and we may well imagine that half-a-million dashing soldiers did not yield up their lives for nothing. In the time of the great Napoleon there were many foreign brigades in the grand army. Everybody has read of the famous Polish lancers who time and again shattered the chivalry of Prussia, Austria, and Muscovy in those combats of giants, when kingdoms were the prizes and marshalships and duchies mere consolations for the less lucky ones. These Poles were magnificent fools. Poniatowski and his riders clung to Napoleon, led the way in his advances, covered the rear in his retreats, and all the while the cynical emperor had little, if any, thought of restoring the ancient glories of Poland, and thus repaying the country for the valour and devotion of her sons. Other foreign cavalry he had as well, but they became more or less mixed with the native Frenchmen, and thus do not stand out so boldly to our mental vision as the Poles. Chief amongst the great emperor's foreign infantry brigades was the Irish one. Indeed, to this one alone of them an eagle was entrusted, and it may do no harm to remark here that that eagle, much as it was coveted by certain enemies, was never lost, and was handed back to French custody when the Irish Brigade ceased to exist as an independent body after the final defeat at Waterloo. Most of the brigade, not caring for the monarchy after having so long and so faithfully served the empire, took advantage of the offer made to them of taking service under the British monarch, and were incorporated in various regiments of the British army. Indeed, in the late twenties and early thirties of the nineteenth century it was by no means uncommon to meet in Irish villages a war-worn veteran who had been in most of the great European battles--Jena, Austerlitz, Borodino, Waterloo--and had finished his soldiering under the burning suns of Hindostan. In the Crimea, again, a foreign legion, somewhat like the legion formed by the British Government for the same campaign, was amongst the troops sent out by Napoleon the Third. I know very little about this corps, but I am quite sure that it got its full share, and more, of danger, hard work, and privations. Anyway the Crimean campaign, except for a few battles, was more a contest against nature than against the enemy. In the Franco-Prussian war we next find mention of the Legionaries. At the battle of Orleans, when that city was captured by the Prussians, the Foreign Legion and the Pontifical Zouaves covered the French retreat. When we learn that out of 1500 of the former only 36 remained at the end of the day there will be little need to ask where were the Legionaries during the rest of the war. It must be remembered also, that the 1500 men who fought and fell outside Orleans were the remains of the Legionaries brought from Algeria, and that their comrades left behind were amongst the most distinguished of those who quelled the rebellion of the Kabyles in the year '71. It is only just to mention that the Pontifical Zouaves covered themselves with glory at this fight; they went into action along with the Legion on the 11th of October 1870, 370 strong, of whom only 17 survived the day. The Foreign Legion, as I knew it, consisted, as I believe it still consists, of two regiments, each containing four battalions. As a battalion numbers 1000 men the total strength of the service soldiers may be put at 8000. In addition there are depot men, including band, drill instructors, and recruits; but I have said enough about the depot already, so I shall now confine myself altogether to the service soldiers. Every battalion is divided into four companies, and thus a company contains, approximately, 250 officers, sub-officers, and soldiers. The officers are three--captain, lieutenant, and sub-lieutenant. Next comes the sergeant-major of the company, a sub-officer who keeps the accounts. There are two sergeants, one for each of the two sections into which the company is divided, and under them a number of corporals in command of squads, every squad being, be it understood, a distinct unit in the economy of the section to which it belongs. The men are divided into two classes, the first and the second, and from the first class are chosen the corporals as vacancies arise. The uniform consists of kepi with a brass grenade in front, blue tunic with black belt, red trousers, or white, according to the season. With the red trousers go black gaiters, with the white ones white spats, somewhat like those worn by Highland soldiers in the British army. The knapsack, greatcoat, and other impedimenta are rather heavy, especially when 150 rounds of ball cartridge are included. I don't know the exact weight, but I remember that I used to feel an ugly drag on my shoulders at the end of a day's march. The pouch for ammunition at the side also pressed heavily against the body, and we often wished that those who had the arrangement of a man's equipment should wear it on the march, day in day out, if only for a month. There might be some common-sense displayed by them after that. But in all ages and nations a man's accoutrements--I use the word in the most general sense--have been decided on by tailors and good-for-nothing generals--oh, there are plenty of them in every army in the world--and, worst of all, by women, who twist and turn the said generals around their little fingers. Look at a private soldier of any army when standing at attention in full marching order; you are pleased with the sight; his head is erect, his straightened shoulders seem easily to support the heavy pack behind; the twin pouches look so beautifully symmetrical. Ask that soldier how he feels at the end of a thirty-mile march. If he isn't a liar, he will tell you that the rifle is rather heavy, but he doesn't mind that; that the pack galls a bit, but that's to be expected; and that the pouches weighted with ammunition have given him a dull, heavy pain in each side just above, he imagines, where the kidneys are, and if that pain could be avoided he would think little of all the rest. Many a time I have taken the packets of cartridges from the pouches before we had gone a quarter of a mile and stowed them away between the buttons of my tunic--there they had ribs and breast bone to rest against. Why don't the people whose business and interest it is to get the best out of the private soldier give the private soldier a chance? But they won't. Of all the humbugs on the face of God's earth the military officer of, say, twenty years' service is the worst. The soldier of the second class wore no decoration on his sleeve, the soldier of the first class had a red chevron, the corporal wore two red chevrons, the sergeant a single gold one, and the sergeant-major two gold ones. It was a good thing to be a soldier of the first class, not because you wore a chevron or got extra pay, but because, when a charge was made against you by sergeant or corporal, the officers would listen carefully to your defence, and you generally got what the second-class man rarely got--a fair chance as well as a patient hearing. Squad etiquette was rather peculiar. You were assigned to a squad, and on entering were made free, as I may say, of the mess, and how you got on afterwards with your enforced comrades depended largely on yourself. You might be very well liked, or thoroughly disliked, but violent likes and dislikes were rather uncommon. As a rule, you had just a little trouble in asserting your right to a fair share, and that always, of what was going. If you had a dispute with another your comrades looked on and listened; if you came to blows they prevented the affair from going too far; and unless the corporal was a brute he allowed his squad to arrange their own affairs out of working hours in their own way. But you dared not form friendships with men outside the squad; if you did you were set upon and punished in every way by your comrades, and your friend was served in the same way by his. Let me give an instance. A rather nice, quiet fellow, an Alsatian, was in my squad at a place called Zenina when we received a new draft of recruits from the depot. Amongst these was another Alsatian, who came from the same place as my comrade, and, as was natural, the two became fast friends. Under the circumstances nothing was said at first, and had either asked for a transfer to his friend's squad all would have been well. After some time, however, the comrades of both began to object. Why, we asked one another, should Schmidt openly abandon us and our genial company for a man who should by right be good comrade with others? Well, Schmidt was abused, and bore the abuse calmly; he got only half a share at meals, and still did not go further than a meek protest; he came back after seeing his chum, and found all his kit flung outside the door of the hut, his rifle fouled, his bayonet covered with salt water, his straps dirty, and his buckles dull; still he bore with all. Next evening he went to visit his friend, and, while he was absent, we formed a soldiers' court-martial and tried him. One man represented the accuser, another took the part of Schmidt, but the result was quite evident from the first. He was found guilty of neglecting his duties as a comrade, and as he had openly abandoned his squad and thereby shown his contempt for it, at the same time exposing us to the derision of all the battalion, it was high time that the squad should adequately punish him and thus vindicate its character. The chief difficulty was about the punishment. It was first proposed that we should put him _en crapaudine_ for a night, seizing and binding him while all in the cantonments were asleep, and releasing him in the morning before the reveille. However, it was pointed out that the corporal would not be likely to permit that, and, if he did permit it, Schmidt might report the matter and get the corporal into trouble. Now the corporal was a good fellow. He swore at us and abused us and would allow not even a sullen muttering in reply, but he would not, if he could help it, of course, get a man into trouble with the sergeant or the captain or the commandant. Occasionally he would find a bottle of wine, half-a-bottle of brandy, or a score or two of cigarettes in his corner. He said nothing, and as soon as the bottle was empty he did not have anything more to do with it: it was removed without a word by some one of us and quietly, I may say unostentatiously, deposited where its presence need not be accounted for by any of our squad. After a good deal of talking we finally settled on a plan. What it was will appear in a short time. That night we could not do as we had resolved, for the corporal came in at an early hour in the evening as drunk and as abusive as a man could be. He rolled against me, and cursed me for a dirty, drunken pig, who could not carry his liquor like a soldier. He stood tottering in his corner of the room, and gave out more bad language than he had ever done before. And we were not quiet. He got quite as much as he gave; we described for his benefit our conceptions of his father and his mother--his father was a dog and his mother the female of the same species--we attributed to himself all the bad qualities that we could think of; we even called him coward, and dared him to report us at once to the sergeant or the captain. He knew, and we knew, that if he did so his arrest would at once follow and that the chevrons on his arm would not be worth one of the brass buttons on his tunic. We overpowered him with abuse at length, and he fell asleep muttering curses and threats, which were altogether forgotten in the morning. Next evening the chance came. The corporal had taken a hint that it would be just as well for him for his own sake to have some appointment that would keep him away until the last moment before roll call. I may admit that when he woke in the morning he looked, and I suppose felt, very ill, and even refused his morning coffee when it was first offered to him. I took the coffee then from the man who had offered it, and, while all the rest, as it had been arranged, turned their backs, poured into it nearly a quarter of a pint of brandy. He saw what I was doing and took the mixture from me. Smelling it carefully first, he swallowed a little; liking the taste, he swallowed some more; and in less than two minutes he handed back the empty vessel to me, with a wink and a nod of the head that told me how delightful had been the little surprise prepared for him. As he was going out another man held out his hand with a couple of cigarettes. "Thanks, my comrade, how you are kind!" said the _sous-officier_. When he came in for soup, I again poured some brandy from the bottle into a tin cup in such a way that the corporal saw but the rest did not, being discreetly engaged. He did not wait to have it carried to him, he came swiftly round, took the cup, and drained it at a gulp. Then somebody left six or eight cigarettes near the corporal's bedplace, and all walked out except the corporal and myself. I went to the door, looked out, came back to my own bunk, took out a bottle of wine nearly three-quarters full and the tin cup, walked over to the corporal, filled the cup to the brim, and dutifully offered it to my superior officer. He drank, and returned the empty cup to me. Filling it for myself, I finished the contents, and then asked him for a cigarette--just one. The corporal gave it me, and I began the conversation. "Bad for us others if you lost the chevrons, corporal." "Why? Why? what did I say last night?" "Oh, nothing to speak about; but, corporal----" Then I stopped and looked straight at him. "Well, my comrade, what do you wish to say?" Now he was afraid; he began to fear something hidden by the kindness. "But, my corporal, could you not make an appointment now, so that after the evening soup you would be engaged until roll call--away from this place and in good company?" "Oh yes, yes; that is easy." "And your comrade might like to smoke and drink a little; if so, my corporal, after the evening soup, when we others leave the room, look behind your knapsack." "Good comrade; but will anything happen?" "Yes; a man will go to hospital for a week." "To hospital?" "Yes." "Only to hospital?" "My honour; only to hospital." "And for a week?" "Well, perhaps for ten days." "But only to hospital?" "Have I not pledged my honour?" "Very good; I will see my good friend Jean this evening. But you, you will remember, only the hospital." After the evening soup, as all were going out, he called me. "It is settled, my comrade; only the hospital?" "But yes," I answered. "Not this?" said the corporal, fingering a bayonet. I shook my head. "Not this?" and he touched the butt of a rifle. I answered as before. "And only hospital; word of honour?" "Word of honour," I replied. "Be it so then; I am well content." Then he looked behind his knapsack and found half-a-bottle of brandy, a bottle of wine, and six cigars. He turned, put out his hand to me, and said: "You are my good comrade. Have no fear; if there should be trouble, it is you, it is you that I will save." I laughed and shook his hand; he gave me a cigar, and the next moment was sorry for his generosity. Schmidt went off after the evening soup to see his chum. "Very well, very well," we said to one another. Lots were quickly drawn--we had not a son amongst us to toss with--and Nicholas the Russian, Guillaume the Belgian, Jean Jacques from Lorraine, and I were chosen as executioners of justice. The others lounged outside in different places, all anxious to let us know in good time of the arrival of the condemned. About an hour after soup we were warned that he was coming towards the hut. At once the blanket which was ready was laid on the ground directly inside the door, and each man stood at his corner waiting for the victim. The others outside gaily saluted him, and the fool did not suspect the unusual courtesy; he was humming an air to himself as he stepped through the doorway on to the blanket. In a second we had raised it at the corners; he stumbled and fell, in a limp heap, in the bottom. We jerked the blanket upward, and crash came his head against the roof of the hut. We let go at the word of command, given by the Russian; flop went his body against the floor. Again and again this was repeated, till our arms were tired, and the others who had crowded in and had been excited by the fun swore that he had not been punished sufficiently and that they would take our places. I was glad enough to surrender my corner to an Italian, for, indeed, my arms were weary, and my feelings--I was only a boy, you must remember--were shocked at the sight of the unresisting and almost insensible bit of humanity in the blanket. After a short time the Russian said the game should stop, and we, the other appointed dispensers of punishment, backed him up. Some grumbled, but Nicholas, to give him his due, was not a man to be turned from his purpose, and his reputation was such that nobody was very anxious to fall out with him. So the blanket was dropped for the last time, pulled from under the Alsatian, replaced on his bed, and we all went out, leaving the wretched fellow groaning on the ground. After a short talk we came back, gave him a drink, put him to bed, and prepared to meet the corporal on his return. The corporal came in a little before roll call. "What's wrong?" he asked as he heard the moaning of the Alsatian. Nobody answered. The corporal went across to the injured man's cot and again inquired. The poor devil told him as well as he could, and the _sous-officier_ at once ordered us all not to leave the hut until his return. He went out, and came back in a few minutes with the sergeant of the section. There is no need in telling all about the inquiry that followed; suffice it to say that the corporal was the only man sleeping in the room that night--the Alsatian was in hospital and we others under guard. Of course, our conduct was approved of throughout the battalion. Regimental tradition is dearer than justice, and we were regarded as good soldiers and good comrades who had merely vindicated our honour. But the army tradition is: when a charge is made and proved, punish. Officers _may_ sympathise, but they _must_ punish. Therefore we of the squad, corporal and Alsatian excepted, were sentenced to do extra drill every day for a month and sleep in our clothes under guard every night. It was a hard punishment. The weather was hot, we had little change of underclothing, and when we lay down on the planks for the night with the shirts and drawers on that we had worn during the day our sleep was restless, fitful, and uneasy. It is a wonder we did not mutiny; however, that would be going too far, so we counted the days and nights that intervened until we should be free soldiers again. The Alsatian was transferred from the hospital to another battalion, and I came across him again, and was glad to find that he bore no malice; indeed, he admitted that we were justified in acting as we had done and that it was his own fault, as he had not asked for a transfer. The incident I have related will give some idea of my life in the corps. I shall have soon to relate another story, which will show that jealousy might arise between companies as well as in a squad. CHAPTER VI About this time there were signs of a disturbance amongst the semi-savage tribes that hold the oases on the borders of the great desert. These are not, and I daresay never will be, brought completely under subjection. They are to the French in Algeria what the hill tribes of the Himalayas are to the British in Hindostan. They are by nature, proud, fierce, suspicious; by religion, contemptuous of Christian dogs; by habit, predatory. They are fairly well armed, indeed, they make their own weapons and ammunition. When they go on the warpath there is always more trouble than one would expect, considering their numbers; they are so elusive, so trained to forced marches, so dashing in attack and swift in retreat, that the Government has to allow at least three men for every Arab. If a general could corner them and get well home with the bayonet after the usual preliminaries of shell firing and musketry, or if the rascals would only come on and have done with it, a quarter of the number would suffice. But these pleasant things don't occur--I mean pleasant for the man with the modern rifle--at least, if they do, it is only when all the oases of the district have been seized, and then the Arabs may prefer to hazard all on a big fight, but as a rule they bow to destiny and surrender. Well, one morning we noticed the commandant and other officers jubilant and smiling, and very soon the news got down to us through the _sous-officiers_ that our battalion was for active service. How delighted we were! All punishments in the battalion were at once remitted; we had no more to suffer for the affair of the Alsatian; and the other squad, which had treated Alsatian number two in a similar manner, was also included in the pardon. We were not long getting ready for the march. The day after the good news came the battalion tramped out of cantonments nearly 1100 strong, every man in good condition, and with 150 cartridges in his pouches. A significant order was given on the parade ground, when we formed up for the last time in column of companies. We were told to break open each man a packet of cartridges and to load. We did so, and the commandant addressed us, and gave us fair warning that he could not permit _accidents_--he laid great stress on the word and repeated it more than once--he told us that if an _accident_ did occur it would be bad for the man whose rifle should be found to be discharged; he quoted the Bible to us, saying something about "a life for a life and a tooth"--yes, I think it was a tooth--"for a tooth." The old soldiers understood, and we others learned the meaning before we came to the first halting-place. The fact is, in every regiment, and nowhere more than in the Foreign Legion, there are unpopular officers and sub-officers, and there are feuds amongst the men, and what is easier than to loose off a rifle accidentally and, accidentally as it were, hit the man you dislike? In action the thing is done far more commonly than people suppose--and that is the safest time to do it; but after a fight, when all the men's rifles are foul, and when a cartridge can be flung away as soon as used, a bullet is sometimes sent through a tent on the off-chance of hitting the right man within. So the commandant was justified when he warned and threatened us about accidents. We marched about twenty-five kilometres every day, and did it cheerfully. We did not mind the country through which we passed, for all our thoughts were turned to the work before us. The veterans were in good humour. What advice they gave! "When the Arab charges you, mon enfant, or when you charge the Arab, which is better, thrust at his face the first time and at his body the second." "But why?" "Ah, my boy, give him the bayonet in the body and still he will strike; give it to him in the head, and then you can finish with a second stroke. And, again, the glint of the bayonet will disturb his aim, and, even should you miss with the first thrust, you can always get your weapon back and send it home before he recovers--of course, that is if you are quick enough. Moreover, the Arab expects you to lunge at his body, and you must always, if you are a good soldier, disappoint your enemy. Then there is no protection for his face; but a button or a piece of brass, even a secretly-worn cuirass, may turn your point and leave you at his mercy." We eagerly drank in all this and similar hints from the men of experience. The old soldiers were delighted. We were all as happy as schoolboys out for a holiday; we endured the heat and dust without muttering a complaint; nay, even old quarrels were forgotten, and the man who would not look at his detested comrade a month before now helped him with his knapsack or offered some tobacco, with a friendly smile. When the halt was called in the evening, the sentries were posted, the fires lit, the little tents put up, the messes cooked for the squads; but very soon the air of bustle and activity gave place to an appearance of quiet ease. When the last meal of the day was over, and the rifles, bayonets, straps, clothes, and everything else had been cleaned, we lay about the camp in small parties, here two or three, there half-a-dozen, yonder a full squad. Again we listened to the _vieux soldats_; we made them repeat their stories of war and pillage; we eagerly questioned them about the chances of loot. Some of our fellows had fought in the Russo-Turkish war of '78; Nicholas, whom I have mentioned, was believed to have commanded a company of Russian guards at the siege of Plevna, and, though he never said in so many words that he had even carried a rifle and knapsack in that war, he told us stories of it that could be told only by an onlooker, and it was easy to see that he was a man of birth and education, and, judging by the money with which his purse was often filled--not for long though, as he was a prince to spend--of wealth as well. It was during this march that I learned for the first time the privileges of a soldier as the soldier conceives them--I mean his chances when the fighting is over and the enemy's camp, village, or town is in his hands. Perhaps I had best say nothing or, if anything at all, but little of them. One thing I may mention; it is foolish for people to suppose that fighting men of to-day are at all different from their compeers of yore--the only change is that the rapine and the pillage are not boasted of so openly--but there is just as little of the spirit of Christianity in a so-called civilised army as there used to be in a legion of Julius Cæsar, perhaps even less. Many people will regret this, and yet you always find the goody-goodies and even the women loudest in crying out for war to avenge the wrongs, or fancied wrongs, of their country or to acquire new territory and new trade. I say this: if the women of the world only once realised to the full what war means to the women of the losers they would throw all their weight into the scale of peace. And remember, armaments are such to-day that no nation is absolutely safe from invasion; social questions, the relations between capital and labour, the currency, slave labour amongst whites, even in the United States--most happily situated of all countries--the eternal feud between whites and blacks in the South--any of these may at any moment cause a war worse than a war of invasion, because more bitter, more relentless, more capable of leaving a heritage of hate. Who is the more to be blamed: the rigid moralist at home who admits that most wars are the devil's work but proclaims that the war which he favours and shouts for is really blessed by God; or the soldier who, after dreary weeks or months of weary marching, with broken boots or no boots at all during the day, and chilling nights with only a tattered greatcoat or a ragged blanket to save him from the dew, with the memory upon him of hunger and thirst, of dust and fatigue, of constant knowledge that any moment may see him a corpse or a maimed weakling on the ground, forgets the Ten Commandments and even his natural humanity when the final charge has been successful and the chance has at last come for, in part at least, repaying himself, as soldiers have since war began repaid themselves, for toil and trouble and danger in the conquered town? Blame the man who does wrong if you will, but blame more the foolish people who, fancying that rapine and pillage can never stalk abroad in their own happy land, let loose the dogs of war upon their neighbours. The Carthaginian maids and matrons acclaimed their returning heroes; the day came when the Roman legionaries taught those very maids and matrons the real meaning of war. How proud the Roman women were of their gallant warriors when the gorgeous triumph unfolded itself on the long road to the Capitol! With what different feelings did they look on war as the news came that Attila had forced his way into the rich plains of Lombardy; or, even before that, with what agonised apprehension did they not look forth from the walls at the red glare in the sky that told of the presence of Hannibal? We abuse Turks and Arabs, Filipinos and Chinese, the Baggara from the desert and the tribal mountaineers from the borders of Afghanistan because, forsooth, they do not make war as Christianity dictates. And what about the allied armies in China of late? They were Christians--by repute at least; but what were they in reality? Just a little worse than the Boxers, that is all. Do I blame them? No; I know the temptations; I know how quickly the soldiers of Christian, so-called Christian, armies are taught to forget the Ten Commandments. I am not surprised, nor do I feel called upon to censure. I shall leave the casting of stones to the people who are always strong to resist their passions, especially those passions which soldiers feel and yield to most readily--lust of others' property, which your virtuous stockbroker will never allow to enter into his bosom; lust of strong drink, which never affects the shouters for war in the streets; lust of--well, another lust which need not be spoken of here, as I have already hinted more than enough of it and its consequences. However, I've done with moralising. We young soldiers heard, and heard with an awakening of delight, of pleasurable anticipation, the things that might happen when the fighting for the day was done. And war does not seem all war. You've got to cook and eat, to forage and drink, to mount guard or sleep, just as if you were back in cantonments, and the daily routine soon grows upon a man--at any rate it soon grew upon me. At last we joined the general. We were the first of his reinforcements, and very soon, as others arrived, the defensive gave place to the offensive. I can't tell about the progress of the little campaign; all I know is our share of it, and for me that was quite enough. For a few weeks we were cornering the enemy, seizing a well here, a caravan of provisions there, and having slight brushes, in which a dozen or two men killed and wounded represented our losses. The Arabs, having been beaten back by the men originally attacked, did not seem to care to give the general a good stand-up fight now that his forces had been increased, and after some time we began to fancy that they were merely holding out for good terms and would at last surrender in the usual way. Not that we grew careless about our guards, pickets, and vedettes, discipline prevented that, and luckily, for when all the oases had been seized and garrisoned except one, the Arabs, in desperation I believe, determined to throw all upon the hazard of a battle. This was my first real experience of fighting, for I don't count it fighting to advance in skirmishing order and fire at constantly moving figures half-a-mile away. I judged their opinion of us by ours of them, and, indeed, we never even ducked the head, for we could not fear bullets at such a range. Our cavalry had been pushed forward to locate the enemy and hold him if possible. My company and two companies of native infantry and three or four guns were sent in support, and the main body, coming along slowly and laboriously owing to difficulties of transport, moved in our rear, the flanks well protected by outlying horse. One evening when we were about fifteen kilometres in front of the general--too far, of course, but some officers do so want to distinguish themselves when they get a separate command--the chasseurs d'Afrique and the spahis rode back upon us. They reported the enemy in a strong position at the last oasis left to them, about twelve kilometres away, and our commanding officer sent back the news at once, halting meanwhile for instructions. He acted somewhat wisely too in getting us to throw up a sort of fortification on a piece of rising ground. A circular trench was dug; the stuff taken out formed a weak rampart; a biscuit or two and a glass of brandy were served out to every man; and then we lay down on the hard ground without a tent or even a blanket for shelter or covering. The horsemen fell back on the main body; their work was done, and they would be worse than useless in a night attack. Most of the night passed quietly, and I, who had done two hours sentry-go before midnight without seeing or hearing anything which could disquiet me, began to hope that the savage devils would wait to be attacked. About an hour before sunrise the corporal in charge of the outlying picket called me for another turn of duty. I arose from where I lay, took my rifle from the ground, and prepared to set out for my post, about eighty paces in front. I was to relieve Nicholas the Russian. As I took his place he whispered: "Look out, young one; the dangerous hour!" When the corporal and his party went away I gazed intently into the darkness towards the south. I knew by experience gained in many a night watch that very soon the sun would, as it always seemed to me, born and bred in a northern land, jump up on the horizon and send his welcome arrows of light across shrub and rock and sand. Once the light came the sudden rush in upon the camp would be impossible; the modern rifle would stave off all attack; spear and bayonet would clash together only when our leaders saw that the time had come when we should be on the rush and the enemy on the run. As I gazed I fancied that there was a movement in my front. I could not at the time, nor can I now, though I am a man of wider experience to-day, swear that I actually saw anything, but that an impalpable, strange, indefinite change was coming over the blackness of the desert, I neither doubted nor misunderstood. Raising my rifle to my shoulder, quietly and cautiously as one does whose own body may be in a second the target for countless bullets, I aimed steadily at the blackest part of the blackness and fired. As I turned to run to the picket an awful shriek rang out, telling me that my bullet had found a billet, and then, while I ran shouting: "Aux armes, aux armes!" a hideous, savage cry ran in a great circle all about the camp. When I closed on the picket the corporal was giving his orders: "One volley, and run for the camp." The volley was fired, and we all ran madly back to the entrenchments, crying: "Aux armes, les ennemis!" not, indeed, to warn our comrades of their danger, but to let them know that we were the men of the outlying picket fleeing to camp and not the mad vanguard of the attack. We got inside the little rampart, helped over by willing arms, and at once the crash of musketry began. Our men had their bayonets fixed; for a double purpose this--for defence if the Arabs came home in the charge, to lower the muzzle if only shooting were necessary. Luckily our firing became so successful that the Arabs stopped to reply, and, you may take my word for it, when a charging man halts to fire he is already weakening for retreat. Well, we kept the enemy at a safe distance till the blessed sun sprang up and turned the chances to our side. Yet still they hung around, and a dropping fire was maintained on both sides. They did not now surround the little camp; they had all collected in almost a semicircle on the southern side. While the desultory firing went on our commandant eagerly turned his gaze from time to time towards the north, and he was at last rewarded. He sent orders to give a ration of brandy to every man--the rascal! He had seen the glint of lance heads on the horizon, and he wanted to take a little of the pursuer's glory from the cavalrymen. Glory, glory! what follies are committed in thy name! The brandy was given out, the news went around that the horse were coming up at the gallop, the men looked with blood-lust in their eyes at the lying-down semicircle to the south, the commandant flung off jacket, belt, scabbard, keeping only sabre and pistol, and with a wild cheer and cries of "Kill, kill!" we rushed from the camp straight at the enemy. They were not cowards. They gave us a wild, scattered fire, and then, flinging away their rifles and flintlocks, came daringly, with loud cries of "Allah!" to meet us. And in their charge they covered a greater distance than we did in ours, for they came along every man at racing speed, and their line grew more and more irregular, whereas we, disciplined and trained to move all as one man, easily fell into the regulation _pas gymnastique_, and so went forward a solid, steady, cheering line, officers leading, and clarions at our backs sounding the charge. As we neared one another a great shout went up from us. Nicholas the Russian, who was my front-rank man, dashed forward and stabbed a yelling demon rushing at him with uplifted spear. I ran into his place, and saw almost at once a dusky madman, with a short, scanty beard, coming straight at me with murder in his eyes. I remembered the advice given by the _vieux soldats_, and as he raised his sword I plunged my bayonet with all my force into his face. He half reeled, he almost fell, and as he recovered again I lunged and struck him fair and full on the breast bone. Again he reeled, yet still he tried to strike; I thrust a third time, and now at his bare neck; the spouting blood followed out the bayonet as I drew it forth and back to strike again. Before I had time to do so the Arab fell, a convulsive tremor passed over his body, the limbs contracted, the eyes opened wide to the sky, the jaw fell, and for the first time I saw my enemy lie stark and cold in death before me. I stood watching, with a curious feeling at my heart, the body that lay so strangely still upon the sand. I felt no desire that life should return to the corpse, nor did I feel at all inclined to drive my weapon home again; it seemed to me that my assailant and the dead were not one and the same, and the animosity which I had felt for the living foe was lost, nay, utterly extinguished, in wonder at the awful change my handiwork had produced. Remember, I was only a boy, and I had taken that which no man can restore. Many times since have I looked without a shudder, almost without a thought, on the face of my dead foeman, but on that morning in the desert my mind was shocked by the new experience. Suddenly I heard a trumpet and a cry. I looked towards the right; the spahis were riding at top speed with levelled lances on the foe. Our men were scattered, fighting in squads and parties over the plain, driving the Arabs back. The press of battle had gone beyond me. In a moment the horsemen swept into the Arab ranks; the lances rose and fell with terrible significance as the mass rolled on. Our work was over; the cavalry so rushed and harried the fleeing enemy that the rebellion was practically at an end, for that time of course, before noon. When the main body came up the chiefs were in our camp, prepared to accept any terms offered by the general. These were hard enough. All arms to be surrendered, a heavy fine to be paid, their villages to be kept in our possession till all the petty fortifications should be dismantled. Yes; my company kept a village and an oasis, and I fancy that the next generation of Arabs was whiter than their forbears. But that is war; and the people--the goody-goodies and the stockbrokers and the foolish women--who believe that honour dwells in the heart of a soldier on active service will lament our wickedness and get ready for the next occasion when they can send off their own soldiers to war, glorious war! CHAPTER VII Not long after the end of the little war my company and another were ordered on garrison duty to a place which we called, for what reason I know not, Three Fountains. I never saw three springs in the place; of course, there was an oasis but whether this, before being walled in, had really been divided into three separate wells I cannot say. Probably the name was a fanciful one given by a soldier and taken up by his comrades. Alongside us lay about five or six hundred Turcos. They did not like us and we did not care overmuch for them, so you might imagine that here were pretty grounds and opportunity for a quarrel. Not so, indeed; they kept away from us, for they knew well what would happen should one of them dare to enter our lines. We gave them a wide berth, for the African is always--like the Asiatic and the American and the European--ripe for treachery to men of another race and colour. No; the races did not fight, but we of the higher breed,--how angels and devils must laugh when people speak of higher breeds!--had a very pretty fight amongst ourselves. It came about in an unusual way, but for the invariable cause. There was a Portuguese in No. 4 Company who loved a girl--a Cooloolie girl who had followed him in all his marches and campaignings. A Cooloolie, I may explain, is the offspring of a Turkish father and an Arab or Christian mother, and as a rule when a Cooloolie woman gives herself to a man she does it in a thorough manner and without any reservation save one--the woman's right to change her mind. And this lassie did change her mind, and of her own accord made love to a Greek who belonged to my company, as handsome and well-formed a man as I have ever had the good fortune to see, and a downright good soldier. Certainly I should not care to see him too near my knapsack--brushes and such things have a strange knack of disappearing--but I know very well that he was a right man in a fight and a trump to spend his money when he had it. He did not have it often, and when he had you generally heard next morning that an officer's tent had been visited--yes, visited is a good word--by someone not invited. Well, the Cooloolie girl flung over the Portuguese, with bad words and worse insinuations, and openly followed the Greek around, like a dog after its master. And Apollo, of course, who probably did not care a button about the woman, must go here and there, head up, with smiling face, cheery talk, and queer jests. He visited every corner of the camp: first the part where we, his own company lay; then, still followed by the woman, the Turcos, who showed their white teeth and grinned and muttered: by Jove, he was a handsome man, and she, though rather dusky and stout, looked a perfect beauty in such a place, remote from civilisation; last of all he came towards us through the company of his predecessor in the Cooloolie girl's favour. Flesh and blood, least of all the hot blood of a Peninsular, could not stand it; with a hoarse cry and an awful oath the Portuguese rushed at the Greek, but Apollo was quite prepared. Slipping aside he struck the poor devil full under the ear at the base of the skull and sent him headlong to the earth, senseless. Apollo, seeing that his opponent did not rise, calmly walked to his own quarters, the girl now hanging upon his arm and uttering all the endearing words she could think of, looking up the while into his face as one entranced. None of the men of No. 4 Company interfered. It was a common thing enough for two men to quarrel about a woman, and, though they must have felt sore that their comrade had been worsted, still that was no reason why outsiders should interfere. The matter would have been settled by the interested parties for themselves had it not been for the devilish desire of creating mischief that always possessed Nicholas the Russian. Indeed, Nicholas loved mischief like a woman. Now Nicholas was a man who often had money and spent it like a gentleman, a soldier, and a rascal. He never got all that was sent to him, any more than the Crown gets all the revenues collected in its name: to greasy palms coins will always stick. If 1000 francs were his due--sent by friends, of course--he reckoned himself lucky to be able to spend half. This time he must have received a more than ordinary sum, for instead of following the custom of the Legion and showing us, his comrades, a little bit of paper, which the commandant would cash next day, so that we, his good comrades, the men who liked and loved him, might know exactly how much drink and other things to be had for money each might fairly reckon on, he said: "Our comrade, Apollo I mean, has taken the girl; let us be good comrades to him; let us take the two cabarets to-morrow, and keep all the drink and all the tobacco and all the cigars for ourselves, and give the happy pair a right good wedding." He pulled his moustache as he spoke, and then, turning his eyes round the squad, he showed devilment and fun enough in them to entice the ordinary good man to break not only the laws of God but to do a still more risky thing--to break the laws of his society. The word was passed around quickly that the Russian would be a good friend to all the company, and not merely to his own section or his own squad. Everybody was happy; we forgot squad distinctions and shook hands with one another and handed freely round our tobacco, for was not to-morrow the glorious day when _eau-de-vie_ and wine and cigars and tobacco were to be had by every one of us, even without the asking? Ah! the good Russian, the worthy comrade! Ah! the handsome Greek! Ah! the wise woman, who knows the company to select her lover from! Ah! you, good soldier, of another squad it is true; shall we not drink and smoke together to-morrow and curse the pigs of No. 4? How they will groan and curse and envy us to-morrow! Good-night, brave comrade; good-bye till I see you again to-morrow! The morrow came, with its drills and fatigues and duties. Some of ours were for guard, others for camp picket; how they envied us who were free for all the fun of the evening! The last meal was over, the last duty for the day done, when Nicholas and Le Grand and I went out to negotiate with the two cabaret keepers of the place. Let me say something here about Le Grand. He was the biggest man in the battalion, some fellows said in the Legion, but there were others who denied this; anyway he was a fine, strapping Dubliner, whose real name I do not care to give. He was in my company, but not in my squad, not even in my section, so he and I passed each other when we met with a friendly "English pig!" "Irish pig!" "Go to the devil!" "Yes, yes; have you any tobacco?" "Yes; here, do not forget me to-morrow." Another word and we separated. But let me pay here my tribute to the comrade of whom I shall more than once have occasion to speak. He was brave--I learned that on the battlefield, I have it not by hearsay; he was generous--I learned that many a time when we were together in Tonquin; he was kind and honest--that is, honest for a soldier--to all he met with, and his only fault was hastiness of temper, which made him knock you down one moment and, with the corresponding virtue, pick you up the next. But he never struck a boy, he never struck a veteran whose limbs and features showed the effects of war, he would die of thirst sooner than take a drop of water from the hot-tongued youngster in the fight who had the desire to go forward and the weariness of the rifle and pack, and the moist heat of socks and the dull, heavy, deadly pain of pouches at the sides. I do not know where you are to-day, Le Grand; wherever you are take a little, a very little, tribute from one of your comrades. Great as was your frame, our liking and love for you were greater. Well, we walked slowly, as befitted men bent on so important a mission, down to the collection of mud huts where the sutlers were. Nicholas, as the giver of the feast, had the centre, Le Grand was on his right, and I, the youngest and least of the three, supported the Russian on the left. We did not speak, but Nicholas now and then laughed, while a constant smile, cynical, sarcastic, and malicious, was on his lips. The Russian was evidently calculating on the fun he would have, for he, if no one else did, forecasted accurately the result. He was paying, and paying for a purpose; excitement was to him the breath of life; he had no fear of consequences; if he were punished he would take his punishment with that calm ease of manner which was the despair of all his superiors from the commandant down. The first cabaret we visited was kept by a retired soldier--a man who had spent most of his life in Algeria, who had in fact, almost forgotten France. An ugly, old Kabyle woman, whom, I daresay, he had picked up a young girl in some forgotten desert raid, lived with him, cooked his meals, and helped to swindle us poor fellows out of the wretched pittance we were paid. When we entered the host came forward, smiling, gloating I should say, on Nicholas. The fellow evidently knew about the money. The Russian came straight to the point. "How much, _mon vieux_, for all in this hole?" "What! all?" "Well, you may leave out madame and the domestic furniture. How much, I ask you, for the hut, the drink, the tobacco, the glasses, the tables and forms, and all the rest of your property?" "Well, well, I do not understand." "Let us go to the Jew then," said Nicholas to Le Grand. "Very well." "What do you say, my friend?" This to me. "A Jew can't swindle more than this old ruffian." We turned to leave. "No, no, no; I will sell all," cried the sutler. "Very well," said Nicholas; "show me all you have, and quickly. I will make an offer; if you take it I will pay the money at once." The sutler showed us what he had: so much brandy, the strongest in France, he said--so much wine; how beautiful, would we not take a glass?--so much tobacco, and so on; he praising and Nicholas critically valuing as the goods were shown. When everything had been shown Nicholas offered 500 francs for all. "Oh no, not at all; that would ruin me." "Very well; let us go to the Jew." As we were passing out he ran out after Nicholas, and said: "Six hundred." "Five," said Nicholas. The sutler shook his head. "Give me five hundred and fifty and take all, in the name of the devil." "For the last time, five hundred." "Oh, you have a hard heart, very hard for so young and brave a soldier." The temptation was too great; he would not let us go to the Jew, so he accepted. The money was paid, and Nicholas gave the old soldier and his wife ten minutes to get out their personal belongings, leaving me on guard to see that nothing else went out by mistake. A similar scene, Le Grand afterwards told me, took place in the Jew's. At anyrate, in about a quarter of an hour Nicholas came back alone, having left our comrade to watch the other sutler's departure, and told me that he was going away to summon the rest. "Fill a couple of glasses for ourselves first," he said; "I want to give the Jew time to get his things away." The old soldier cocked his ears. "You have bought the Jew's stuff too, my boy?" "Yes," said Nicholas; "my company will drink, this evening. Get madame and your property to a safe distance, as there may be trouble." The old man took the hint and hurried away; he was too experienced a soldier not to easily guess what would happen when a poor and thirsty company looked on at the carousal of a rich and happy one. Well, down came the company, laughing, clapping one another on the back, jumping about, for all the world looking partly like schoolboys out for an unexpected and unhoped-for holiday, partly like a commando, as the Dutch say, from the lower regions. There was not room for all in the huts, but the barrels were quickly rolled out and broached with due care, for who would spill good liquor? There was no scrambling or pushing; in spite of the excitement every man waited good-humouredly for his turn, for was there not enough for all? Eight or ten of us selected by Nicholas were filling the glasses; a man came to me and asked for brandy, I gave him a glassful, he drank, passed on to a second and got a ration of wine, and then went off to the place where the tobacco was distributed, giving way to another. This went on continuously until all had received an allowance of brandy and another of wine and a third of tobacco, and then Nicholas, this time also accompanied by Le Grand and me, went for the _nouveaux mariés_, as he called them. We brought them down in triumph, Apollo smiling and bowing, the Cooloolie girl beaming with happiness, Nicholas as solemn as a judge, Le Grand and I breaking our sides with laughter. Such cheering and such compliments! Such a babel of tongues! The soldiers were all shouting out, every man, or almost every man, in his own tongue, and those words I caught and understood did not certainly err on the score of modesty. Nicholas amidst renewed cheering handed an immense vessel of wine to the lady; she drank some and passed it to Apollo, who drained it to the bottom. When the cries had somewhat subsided Nicholas made a short speech. He alluded in graceful terms to the happy pair, and hoped that their children's children would in the years to come follow the flag in the old Legion, in the old regiment, in the old battalion, above all, in the old company. He praised the company; he said we could fight any other company on the face of the earth; as, he concluded by saying, our well-loved comrade has taken, and will keep, the woman he wants without asking any man's permission, so we have taken, and will keep for ourselves, the liquor in the camp. He spoke in a loud tone, so that certain men of the other company might hear. These were looking enviously on at the orgy, and were quite near enough to make out the general tenor of his remarks. And Nicholas meant them to hear his words. He was no fool, and he knew what his speech would provoke; he was no coward, when the fight came, he stood up to his work like a man; he was no liar, for at the investigation he told exactly what he had done, and kept back only his purpose in doing it. I may mention here that there were no _sous-officiers_ and no soldiers of the first class at the carousal. We were all men of the second class, who neither hoped nor wished for promotion, therefore we were quite careless as to what might happen. Very soon the fellows of No. 4 Company began to come out of their quarters by twos and threes. As we saw them approaching we raised our voices, we shouted, sang, danced, cried out toasts, and did everything in our power to make them at once angry and jealous. The Cooloolie was in the centre, seated in Apollo's lap, the Greek himself having improvised a sort of arm-chair out of the staves and ends of an empty barrel. Even then things might not have been too bad, but nothing can keep a woman quiet, especially when her tongue is loosened with wine. She called to the men of No. 4 to go and fetch the Portuguese, and we all laughed. She openly and without shame showered kisses and other endearments on her lover, and the laughter was redoubled. She called out to the poor, thirsty and tantalised devils outside the charmed circle that her old sweetheart was--well, let me leave her words to the imagination of those who have ever listened to an angry, reckless woman's tongue--and she ended by saying that the Portuguese was only a fair sample of his comrades. The men of No. 4 were now all around us, and those of us who, like myself, had partaken only sparingly of the wine began to scent a fight. There was no premeditation, I believe, on the part of the others; indeed, the only man who desired to make trouble from the beginning was Nicholas the Russian, and truly he got his wish gratified to the full. A few bad words passed between some of theirs and some of ours, a blow was struck and replied to; in a moment a wild rush towards the combatants was made by all. A general melee ensued, and in a second almost, as it seemed, a little spot of ground was covered with the struggling, twisting, writhing bodies of four hundred angry, swearing men. As I was running down to where the press of fighting was, I came full tilt against a man of No. 4. He and I staggered and almost fell from the shock. Luckily I had a half-empty bottle in my hand, and though when he recovered himself he almost made me totter with a swinging blow on the chest, yet I sent him fairly down with an ugly stroke of the bottle across the head. The next man I crossed tumbled me fairly over. What followed immediately afterwards I do not know. The next thing I remember is that I was standing on a table, striking out on all sides with the leg of a chair. A sudden rush on the part of the men of No. 4 drove back our company, the table was overturned, and I found myself sprawling on the ground, trying as best I could to regain my feet. Our fellows rallied and pushed back the others, and a tacit armistice took place. Not for long, though. The others got together in a mass, we formed up in a circle round the barrels and the tobacco, and the fight re-commenced. And the Cooloolie woman was the best combatant of all, for though she herself did not do more than claw a man or two, who broke away at once, not wishing to hurt a woman beloved by men of both companies, yet with her cries and execrations she lashed them and us into a fury of fighting which made all men perfect devils. I have seen worse fighting, but then we had weapons. This fight was really the most savage save one, which I shall speak of afterwards, for there was no care of hurting comrades, there was no hanging back in the rush, there was no yielding of even a foot in the defence, and all the while the white guards looked on in horror, and the Turcos crept back to their part of the encampment with deadly terror in their hearts. Half-a-dozen times we stopped for a moment or two to take breath. Then one of ours would rush at a man of No. 4, or one of No. 4 would come with an oath against a man of ours, and in a second the fray would be re-commenced. The officers and the _sous-officiers_, the guard and the picket, tried to separate us. It was all in vain; they might just as well have tried to pull apart two packs of wolves. Moreover, half of the soldiers brought down to quell the trouble belonged to ours, and half to No. 4, and the commanding officer was very much afraid that these might join in the fight, and they carried arms and ammunition. But, you will say, why not use the Turcos? Ah, that would never do. The commanding officer might succeed in putting an end to the disturbance with their assistance, it is true, but the consequences which were sure to follow were too serious, for the Turcos would never afterwards be safe from an attack. All the legionaries, not merely the men of the companies in the camp, but all the legionaries throughout Algeria, would resent the interference of the native troops, and heaven only knows what scenes of bloodshed might arise in unexpected quarters, and from trivial causes. Had there been even half-a-company of Frenchmen in camp all would have been well, but the nearest French soldiers, a squadron or two of chasseurs, lay a few kilometres away. To them, however, a mounted messenger was sent, and when we were almost weary of fighting, and began to think it time to look after the wounded--the place looked like a battlefield where regular weapons had been employed--we heard the trumpets of the cavalry and saw not a hundred yards away the long line of horsemen thundering down with raised swords at the charge. Before the chasseurs we broke and fled, but they were on us too soon for safety, and many a man went down before the charge. As I was running to a hut a sergeant of chasseurs overtook me. Instinctively I jumped aside and lifted my right arm to protect my head. It was no use; down came the flat of the heavy sabre on my shoulder, and almost at the same time the charger's forequarter struck me sideways on the breast. I fell, and wisely remained quiet and motionless on the ground until the charge had passed. I then got up and reached the hut, which I found almost packed with men of both companies, whose appetite for fighting had altogether disappeared. In a short time we were all prisoners. My company was marched to the north side of the camp and No. 4 to the south, and we lay out all the night; and nights are very cold in these warm countries--the more so by contrast with the heat of the day. Now about the casualties. I cannot tell the exact number killed outright in the quarrel or charge, or of wounded who afterwards died, but it was certainly not less than a score. More than 100 were seriously injured, and there was not a man of all the fighters without several ugly marks on his body. The Greek, who had fought well until, as I heard, a blow of a stone brought him insensible to the ground, had his brains knocked out by a horse's hoof; the Portuguese, we learned, died in hospital of his hurts. As for the Cooloolie girl--well, what would you expect? She wept for a week, and then took to herself a new lover out of the many who sought her favour, for your famous or notorious woman does not long lack suitors. How we made up the quarrel and escaped severe punishment--heaven knows we punished ourselves enough as it was--must be told in a new chapter. CHAPTER VIII Nobody was surprised when, on the morning after the affray, a corporal of chasseurs and half-a-dozen men came to escort Nicholas, Le Grand, and me to the commandant's quarters in the camp. Nicholas had his head swathed in rags, and limped more than slightly with the left foot; Le Grand showed a beautiful pair of black eyes and confessed to a racking headache. Every part of my body felt its own particular pain, my right eye was closed up, and I had an ugly cut on the forehead, the scar of which still remains. When we arrived at the place of inquiry, we found every officer in the camp, our own officers and those of the chasseurs and Turcos, assembled around the commandant. For a few moments there was silence, while they eyed us and we looked steadily at the commandant. At last this officer spoke, slowly and in a quiet tone: "The affair of yesterday was serious, indeed serious." He fixed his gaze on Nicholas. "You, I hear, bought all the drink and tobacco from the sutlers. Did that lead to the quarrel?" Nicholas saluted respectfully and asked permission to make a statement. When it was accorded he began to tell all the story, just, indeed, as it happened, or almost as it happened. In narrating the dispute between the rivals he placed all the blame upon the Greek, for he knew at the time that the Greek was dead and therefore could not be punished. He said nothing, however, about certain encouragement that Apollo had received before and during his vainglorious parade through the camp with his new love on his arm; nor did he mention certain sarcastic expressions concerning the Portuguese which he himself had uttered in the hearing of the Cooloolie girl; also, he seemed to forget that these very expressions were used most frequently and with most infuriating effect by her when she was sitting, almost lying indeed, in the Greek's arms just before the fight. No; he told the truth, but not all the truth, and he told everything in so open and candid a way that Le Grand and I were almost deceived. He let fall the nickname Apollo, as it were by accident, and then, turning respectfully to the captain of chasseurs, who could not be supposed to know the man, he explained: "We called him so, monsieur le capitaine, because he was so handsome." "Quite true, quite true," acquiesced the commandant; "he was a veritable Apollo." Afterwards we heard that the cavalry officers went to see the Greek as he lay stripped in the hut of the dead, and, although the face was disfigured out of all human semblance by the horse's hoof, yet the beautiful curves and splendid proportions of his body, marked even as it was by countless bruises, proved that the nickname was well deserved. One good effect was produced by Nicholas' statement. Everything was so honest and straightforward, so natural and true-seeming, that anything he might afterwards say was likely to be believed. Moreover, though the officers had not seen the parade of the lovers through the camp, yet they had evidently heard of it; and, again, the _sous-officiers_ could be brought to prove the truth of that part of the story. When the Russian was asked about the buying of the sutlers' property for the use of only one company, he again begged leave to make a rather long statement, partly, he admitted, about himself, but chiefly about the customs of the corps. He said that without such a statement the business could not be clearly and thoroughly understood by the officers, especially by those officers who did not belong to the Legion. Again leave was granted to him to tell his story in his own way, and the commandant was graciously pleased to allow Le Grand and me to stand at ease; he even said to Nicholas: "You need not stand altogether to attention, make gestures if you wish, speak freely, just as if you were telling a story to your friends." Nicholas bowed with a courtier's grace; he wore no kepi, being a prisoner at the tribunal; the chasseurs looked at one another in astonishment, wondering at the aristocratic air that could not be concealed even under a private soldier's tunic or by a bruised and battered face. Ah! little they knew of the wrecked lives, the lost souls, that came to us from every country in Europe, that made the Foreign Legion, if I may say so, a real cemetery of the living. Nicholas explained that, when a man had money, he was bound by all the rules of the corps to spend it with the men of his squad; that, when the money was more than usually plentiful, he was supposed to entertain his section; that, in the rare cases when thousands of francs--how the chasseurs opened their eyes at this!--were in a man's possession, all the rules of regimental etiquette obliged him to spend the money royally and loyally with his comrades of the company. Beyond the company one could not go. Were one as rich as a Rothschild one could not do more than give a few francs to a man of another company if he were a fellow-countryman--all, or nearly all, had to be spent with one's comrades of the company. Our officers recognised the truth of this, they understood our unwritten laws, and again Nicholas added to his reputation for veracity. But he said nothing at all about giving a percentage to the sergeant-major, nor about the taxes levied by the sergeant of the section and the corporal of the squad. The sergeant-major, who was present, looked relieved when this part of the Russian's statement came to an end--for were not two hundred francs of the Russian's money in his pocket at the time? Nicholas knew what to tell and what to keep back; there would be no use in alluding to the money which he was practically compelled to give to his superior officers; it would only cause anger at the time and produce trouble and a heavier punishment for us afterwards. Nicholas went on to state that he had received a large amount of money from a friend in Europe, and that he had at once resolved to pay for a good spree for his comrades. For a joke he called the affair a wedding _déjeuner_ in honour of the Greek and the Cooloolie girl. He thought--at least he said he thought--that the other company would not mind; they knew the rules of the Legion as well as he; a little fun about the new connection ought to hurt nobody except the Portuguese. But, poor, misguided fellow that he was, he had never calculated the damage that might be done by a woman's tongue; he, simple, ignorant baby, thought that we should have a couple of hours of jollity and drinking and that then all would go quietly back to quarters. He had always held the men of No. 4 in great respect; he would, indeed, be the last in the world to insult them, or in the slightest degree to make little of the company. He admitted with sorrow--the hypocrite--that his action had been injudicious--it would have been all right only for the woman; he had paid for drink and tobacco, but not for insults to any man or men of No. 4; it was the woman who insulted people; he did not want to fight with anybody, least of all with the men of No. 4, but, when his company became engaged in an affray, he would have been indeed a bad comrade, nay, a coward, had he remained out of the fight. We wished for only the drink and the tobacco; we soldiers had no desire but to enjoy ourselves in peace and quietness in the evening after the hard work of a hot and dusty day; we had no malice, not even now did we harbour evil thoughts, towards our fellow-soldiers of No. 4; but what will you? who can stop a woman's tongue?--we could not even expostulate with her without insulting our good comrade Apollo; if she drove the others to attack us by her ugly words, were we, men not afraid of death, to tamely surrender? That, they all knew, was impossible. Without actually saying it he flung the whole blame for the fight on the woman's shoulders. I thought at first that this was not quite fair, but I soon saw that Nicholas was really doing his best to save us all. Everybody knew the wild way she spoke and acted before the first blow was struck, but Nicholas knew quite well that nobody would hold her accountable for her language, while everybody would admit that the men of No. 4 had reasonable grounds for attacking us, and, of course, we when attacked were quite justified in defending ourselves. This was what the Russian was aiming at all along: to put the blame on the Cooloolie girl, who in the first place could not be court-martialled for a soldiers' quarrel, and in the second would most undoubtedly be sympathised with for the loss of her lover. At the same time, a case of extenuating circumstances was made out for No. 4 Company, and we, the attacked party, who did not apparently seek to provoke an attack, would be adjudged guiltless of offence because we merely resisted. It was a splendid plan--it saved us--but we had, in addition to becoming reconciled with our comrades and getting some punishment, to volunteer for the war. That, however, will be told of in its own time and place. When the Russian had finished his statement a few questions were asked of him, not in the nature of a cross-examination, but for the evident purpose of clearing up matters that were not quite understood by the hearers. He answered these with readiness and to the point, preserving always the bearing and language of an aristocrat, with the tone and temper of a simple soldier in presence of his superiors. When they had done with him the commandant questioned first Le Grand and then me, but we merely corroborated our comrade's story. Not that there was at the time any doubt in our minds that Nicholas had desired a fight and had paid for the gratification of his desire, but who can give evidence of what has passed in another's mind, and who would betray a generous comrade? At last the commandant sent us away, and we returned under escort to the place where our company lay under guard, hungry, thirsty, without change of clothing, and every man aching all over, and cursing as the effects of the fight began to make themselves felt. The other men crowded around us to learn what had happened. Nicholas, in the centre of a ring of eager, interested listeners, told exactly, without change, addition or omission, in a loud voice so that all might hear, the tale of the inquiry. All were satisfied so far, many, indeed, gave up their preconceived beliefs, and thought that the Russian's account of the affray and what led up to it was "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." We, Le Grand and I, confirmed the account, we made no secret of our belief that all would yet be well, we swore it was the woman who led our good friends of No. 4 to assault us, and surely no one could blame us for defending ourselves. After some time Nicholas called Le Grand and me apart, and we held a consultation for nearly a quarter of an hour. The others marked us, they noted the earnest words and persuasive gestures of the Russian, they watched the eager, attentive looks of Le Grand and me. When we had settled the matter to our own satisfaction apparently Nicholas led the way to the centre of the little camp--prison I should call it, for the sentries looked inwards and not outwards. In a moment, as it seemed, every man that was able to drag himself forward was in a group around our little party. Nicholas waited until a hush fell upon the meeting, and then addressed them somewhat in the words that follow. I have no doubt about the essence of what he said, but I cannot hope to reproduce the eloquent language, the expressive features, the seductive tones, above all, the general air of the born orator that Nicholas assumed. From time to time he appealed to Le Grand or to me for confirmation of his words. There was, indeed, no necessity, the men were at his will before he had spoken for two minutes. In brief, this was what he said: "My comrades, we have had an ugly quarrel with our fellow-soldiers of No. 4, and we cannot, I think, blame them for attacking us, nor can they with justice blame us for defending ourselves. But there is no doubt about the real origin of the affair. The woman used to belong to one of theirs; she chose, as she had a right to do--that everyone admits--to give up her lover in their company and to give herself to a man of ours. Well, we must acknowledge that she and the Greek were not discreet, and I will confess that, for my own part, I did not act with discretion either, but what could I do when I had money in my pocket but spend it with my companions of the encampment and the battlefield? If there had been no jealousy about a woman, we should have had a peaceful, enjoyable evening; if there had been no money in the company, the jealousy would have been settled by a fair fight between the rivals in the usual way that we all understand and appreciate, without four or five hundred men being drawn into the quarrel. We are under guard and are sure of punishment; in all respects they are faring, and will fare, no better than we. Let us try, now that the Greek is dead and the Portuguese, as I hear, is dying, to become reconciled to our comrades of No. 4. Trust me, if we can settle the matter amongst ourselves, so that all may understand that we shall not renew the quarrel, the officers will be only too glad to have an excuse for passing over the affair as lightly as possible. What I recommend then is this: let a deputation of four be appointed from amongst us; let us ask permission to visit the prison camp of No. 4; let us ask them to appoint four of their number to confer with us; believe me, we shall soon, for the sake of the men of both companies, come to a satisfactory arrangement, and we all shall be friends again, and, indeed, be better friends than ever before, because we have learned to respect one another." The Russian's proposal was agreed to on the spot. Someone said that Nicholas ought to be chief of our embassy, but this he would not agree to. He would be a member, if they wished, but only with the same rights and the same responsibilities as the others. Le Grand, a Hungarian, and I were chosen as his partners in the delicate business, and some way or other we all seemed to be satisfied that our troubles would soon come to an end. The first thing to be done was to get permission to go across, under escort be it well understood, to the prisoners of No. 4. This was obtained by the aid of our sergeant-major. He must have spoken very strongly to the commandant, for the latter came down to us in a great hurry, asked Nicholas point-blank whether we were serious in the attempt to settle the affair amicably, and if he thought we had any chance of succeeding. Things were bad enough, heaven knows, as they were, but it was rather risky to keep nearly 400 fighting men without their weapons and ammunition in the very centre of the scene of the recent operations. Had the Kabyles attacked the camp on the night after the quarrel, they would have slaughtered us, the unarmed ones, like sheep, and in all probability would have easily carried with a rush the little fortification that had been set up around the huts. Therefore the commandant was only too glad to get a chance to put us under arms again, if he could only believe that we would not use them against one another. The quarrel was an ugly thing, but that could be explained, and we should in any case receive punishment, but a disaster to his command would spell ruin for his chances of promotion. He was pleased, therefore, when Nicholas laid his hand upon his heart and promised upon his honour--yes, he said upon his honour--that we would do our best to settle matters, that we would in no way again raise the anger of the men of No. 4, and, finally, that he was himself prepared to apologise for his part in the affair. This expression, I am sure, the commandant took to refer to the buying up of all the drink and the tobacco; we, who knew better, remembered the irritating speech that the Russian had made after the _nouveaux mariés_ had pledged each other. Well, after a little hesitation he let us go across. We were escorted this time by the men of our own company--soldiers of the first class, who had taken no part in the fight, and soldiers of the second class who had been either on guard or on camp picket. The escort was under the command of our sergeant-major, and I am sure that he was sent so that the commandant might get a trustworthy account of the negotiations. We could not object to any arrangement; we were very well satisfied to get the chance of making it up again with our fellow-soldiers, for, as I have already said, the nights are cold in Algeria, and we feared that news of the quarrel might have already spread amongst the Kabyles, and we knew that the exposed position in which we were placed left us completely at their mercy, should they make up their minds to attack. Moreover, the soldier, even in a peaceful country, hates to be deprived of his weapons and his belts; how much more then did we, in a hostile land, dislike the deprivation of them! When we arrived at the cordon of sentries around No. 4 Company we were halted, and Nicholas, standing slightly in advance of us, his fellow-ambassadors, told them why we came and asked them to be so kind as to appoint four men of theirs to confer with us, so that the dispute might be settled and the companies be at peace with each other again. He was listened to with attention, and when he had finished his message he said that we four should wait, with the sergeant-major's kind permission, for half-an-hour to give them time to deliberate and, if they should agree to the proposal, to select their delegates. Before the half-hour was over the men of No. 4 Company had made up their minds to accept the proposal, and at once appointed four of theirs to arrange matters with us. Two of the four were Alsatians, one a Lorrainer, and the fourth, and, indeed, the most important--their Nicholas, as I may say--a bronzed, sharp-eyed and sharp-witted Italian. As soon as these ambassadors were nominated, our sergeant-major took the eight of us away a short distance from the escort and told us that we might speak freely, as he and the sergeant-major of No. 4 would be the only listeners, and they would in every way respect our confidence. The second sergeant-major said the same thing: "Speak freely," he continued, "and, for the love of God, settle the affair for ever. It is not pleasant to see so many brave soldiers without arms in such a region; who knows when the Kabyles will attack?" The hint was not lost upon us, and I believe that the seven others felt, as I did, that the sooner we were again good friends and under arms the better. Nicholas made the first speech, and said in almost the same words what he had already told the commandant. He did this, I believe, purposely. Our sergeant-major was very attentive, and Nicholas guessed, as all did, that he would make a report to the officers, and it would be just as well that the statement made then at this meeting should be on all-fours with the statement made previously at the tribunal. But he went further. He explained that he had made up his mind to give a good evening to his company when money came to him from Europe, and surely no one would blame him for that. Then he went on to say that he was truly sorry for the affray and for any language or acts of his that might have brought it about. Had he but remotely guessed what would be the result, he would have burned the money sooner than let it be the cause of strife between companies which had been so lately fighting side by side against the enemy and which had never before fallen out with each other. For his own part, he hoped and prayed that the former good relations might once more exist between us, and he believed that they would, and that we should respect one another more than ever on account of the gallantry which No. 4 Company and his own had displayed in that unfortunate struggle. Many other things he said to the same effect, and when he had finished it was easy to see that all, with the exception of the Italian, were satisfied. Not that the Italian desired to prolong the disagreement, but he saw--what his fellow-delegates either did not see, or, for the sake of peace, pretended not to see--that Nicholas had deliberately resolved, when the money arrived, to get up a quarrel between the companies through pure devilment and love of excitement. The Italian wanted to show clearly to all that he at least understood and was determined to publish his opinion, and it must be admitted that he was quite within his rights in doing so, though it would have been more discreet on his part to keep his thoughts, for the moment any way, to himself. He developed his plan of attack in a Socratic manner. "Why," he questioned the Russian (I may mention that all through he ignored the rest of us), "why did you not spend the money with all?" "Because I never go outside my company," replied Nicholas. "Very good; but why did you buy up all the drink in the two cabarets? Why did you not leave some in one of them for us?" "Because I thought that all would be scarcely enough for my own comrades, and one thinks only of his own." "True," continued the Italian; "but then why did you not give us notice that you were taking all for yourself and your companions?" "Because I thought that such a notice would be an insult and would certainly provoke a quarrel, a thing which I was most anxious to avoid." A low muttering of approval followed this, but Cecco only smiled like one unconvinced. I was looking at Nicholas at the time; truly he had the air and bearing of one who would suffer martyrdom rather than tell a lie. He puzzled me. For a moment I almost believed him innocent, he seemed so calm and steadfast, his manner was so open and ingenuous. Here, a stranger might remark, is an upright, God-fearing man, whose heart knows no guile, whose mind is lofty and self-respecting, whose bosom swells with love and friendship for his fellow-man. Cecco's comrades seemed almost to believe, but the Italian was too cunning, too experienced in the world--above all, too full of knowledge of his own rascality--to be convinced. "Well, well, well," he said; "we were insulted, and you best of all know it. Shall we not have even an apology? There cannot," he went on, "be an excuse. No matter about the woman and her fickleness; no matter about the wine and the tobacco; what can be said of the ugly words spoken of us, the comrades of the Portuguese?" "Ah," replied Nicholas in a tone of contrition and with an assumption of sorrow that would have deceived Vidocq himself, "that is what wounds me. I, alas! have been indiscreet. I confess that I was overjoyed when I saw around me my comrades happy and free from care, and that in a moment of excitement I said things which were altogether wrong and uncalled for. Let me beg your forgiveness for my offence, and, as an evidence of my regret and a proof of your forgiveness, let us spend, both companies together, the remainder of the money sent to me by a kind friend in my own country." The admission that the Russian still had money, and enough too to provide fun and pleasure for both companies, was quite sufficient to settle the whole affair. Even Cecco was satisfied, as he remarked: "What was the use of abusing one another for a thing that could not be undone, when it was so much better to shake hands and clink glasses and be good friends as of old?" "What indeed?" assented the Lorrainer. "What indeed?" said we all. We shook hands earnestly and gladly with one another, and each quartette departed to its own company. All were pleased to hear the report. The men of No. 4, indeed, cheered Nicholas as loudly as we did. The commandant was satisfied; he knew well that the men were only too glad to become reconciled, but he took care when the rest of the Russian's money was spent that it was spent in the encampment and that half-a-squadron of chasseurs were standing by their saddled horses until the last man had gone quietly home to quarters. They were not wanted, indeed, but the cunning fox was taking no chances, as a serious renewal of the fight would, if not at once put down, be bad for his military reputation. So we became friends again. But we suffered a little, and judged it best to volunteer for the war in Tonquin, for the soldier going on active service, especially as a volunteer, generally gets his punishments remitted, and is received back again into the favour of his superiors. CHAPTER IX Of course, the affair did not altogether end with the reconciliation of the companies. Punishment had to be awarded to both, and as ours was the more guilty one we received more than the men of No. 4. As so many were included it was obviously impossible to punish us in any of the ordinary ways, but we got extra drills, extra duties, unnecessary most of them, and in addition each of the companies had to furnish all the guards and pickets for the little camp on alternate days. This relieved the Turcos and those of our men who had not been in the fight, but it was very hard for us others to do double drill and double fatigue, let us say on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays to be on sentry or on picket during the day and to sleep in our clothes, with only a greatcoat to cover us, during the night. And even then there was no chance of sleeping much, for when night fell one of the sections was on guard and outlying picket for two hours, and then the other relieved the first for the next two. Thus, if my section went on duty at eight o'clock in the evening after, be it well understood, doing our fair share of guard and camp-picket work from eight in the morning, we were relieved at ten for a little rest, went on again at midnight, and were relieved at two; took up the duty once more at four, and remained on until six, and then we had two hours to get our morning coffee and clean up our things to come off guard at eight. You might think that it was hardest on the officers, sergeants, and corporals; but no, only one officer and one-third of the _sous-officiers_ mounted guard on any morning, so that all of these got five nights in bed out of every six, whereas we, the troublesome ones, got only one night in every two. We bore it well enough, however, though I must admit that we used bad language occasionally, but, as there were so many of us included in the punishment, no one minded it so much as if he were the only delinquent. It helps a man wonderfully to bear hardship and disgrace when he sees many others undergoing the same misfortunes as himself, and this is the rule even though he does not wish evil to his comrades in distress. One man on a sinking raft will in all probability go mad before it takes its final plunge beneath the waves; a dozen men similarly situated will have less fear of the great deep and the great unknown, because each is, as it were, consoled by the knowledge that others too must pass through the grim portals of death at the same time and place and by the same means as he. Thus it was that, though we grumbled and cursed one minute, the next we laughed and rallied one another; and we had, moreover, one great consolation--we knew that the story would rapidly run through the Legion, and that our good comrades, 8000 in number, would laugh with fierce delight when they heard of the encounter and its causes, and would admire and envy the men who had the spirit and the devilment to provide such a relief from _ennui_ in the little camp on the border of the desert. We eagerly figured to ourselves how they would gloat over the story of the Cooloolie girl and her lovers--the handsome Greek and the passionate Portuguese; we knew how they would envy Nicholas and his money; we felt quite certain that the story would go down to succeeding legionaries with embelishments, as was natural, and finally become one of the best-loved traditions of the corps. It is still too early to call it a tradition; but, take my word for it, the fight between the two companies at Three Fountains is talked of to-day in many a barrack-room, in many a lonely village round an oasis in the Sahara, over many a camp and watch fire, in many a canteen and cabaret, where the _vieux soldats_ pull their grey moustaches and tell the eager-eyed recruits over the _eau-de-vie_ and the _vin ordinaire_ the wonderful story of what happened when a Cooloolie girl changed her lover and a Russian prince, in exile and disgrace, received thousands of francs from a friend, "most likely a woman, _mes enfants_," in Europe and spent it as a soldier should. Ay, even the officers are proud of the story to-day, and, when they go to France on leave, our little escapade is told in the family circle and to all the friends and relations who are continually asking for tales of _ces affreux légionnaires_. I had almost forgotten another part of our punishment. While all the others turned out for parade without knapsacks, those of us who had been in the affray had to appear in heavy marching order, as English soldiers say--that is, with all our _buffleterie_, knapsack, and pouches on our persons. In fact, looking at us one would imagine that we were just about to start on a campaign. Another thing was that Nicholas, Le Grand, and I, as to all appearance the ringleaders in the affair, were not allowed to stir out of the camp or even to go much through it; a sergeant or a corporal would quickly order us back to our own quarters, if we were seen at any distance from them. Moreover, we three lost all our pay; but that made little difference, it was not much anyway, and our comrades gave us as much tobacco as we wanted and as much wine as we really cared about or they could spare. While we were thus getting a foretaste of purgatory, into the camp one sultry afternoon rode the colonel of the regiment. That evening he spent in talking to the officers and examining some sergeants and corporals, who were believed to have most knowledge of the quarrel and of those engaged in it, especially the corporals who commanded the squads in which the Russian, Le Grand, and I were. Le Grand, I have already said, did not belong to our squad, not even to our section. Next morning at six a company of Turcos relieved No. 4 Company, which had been on guard and outlying picket all the night, and at seven, immediately after the morning coffee, the two companies of legionaries were formed up in line first and inspected, and then in column of sections, No. 1 section of mine being the front, and No. 2 of No. 4 Company the rear, of the half-battalion. While in this formation we were addressed by the colonel of the regiment. I cannot give a detailed account here of what he said; all I remember is that he abused, threatened and cursed us for nearly half-an-hour. We did not mind that, however, as we were case-hardened enough already; but what we did mind was the Parthian shaft he let fly as he turned to leave the ground: "Remember, remember well, that all the punishment has not been endured; when the commandant is satisfied I shall wish to be satisfied too." To say truth, then, he frightened us. When we were dismissed from parade, we indulged in many gloomy speculations as to the extra punishment awaiting us. We knew, or rather guessed, two things at once--first, that the extra fatigues and guards would soon be discontinued, for our officers were not likely to make us disgusted with our duties, because we should then become careless, and who could foretell what danger might arise from the inattention of a sentry or the unwilling response to orders on the part of an advance-guard? Secondly, we quite understood that very soon we should turn our backs on Three Fountains, where everything kept us from forgetting the dispute and the fight, especially the little mound at the eastern side of the camp, that marked the last resting-place of the Greek and the Portuguese and our other comrades who had fallen--an ugly reminder of an ugly fray. As soon, therefore, as other white troops could be sent to our camp we should pack and march--the question was, whither? Now, there are many bad stations in the south of Algeria. There are places where one may often not wash his face and hands for a week, so scarce is water there. To do the French Government justice, these places are usually held by native troops who do not mind thirst and dirt so much as Europeans, but it was well known that white men had on more than one occasion been sent to such stations and kept there until they almost despaired of ever becoming civilised again. Moreover, in these spots there is a great lack of other things besides water; there is no wine save that which comes to the officers; there is only the tobacco sold to one by the Government. Worst of all, a woman must be very much in love or very ugly before she will consent to follow a man thither. These are the suicide stations, if I may call them so--the stations where a shot rings out in the night and all rush to arms, fearing an attack of Touareks or Kabyles, but when dawn comes there is only a dead sentry making black the yellow sand at a post. When one man shoots himself an epidemic seems to set in; men hear every day in hut or tent or guard room the ill-omened report; soon they go about looking fearfully at one another, for no one knows but that he is looking into the eyes of a comrade who has made up his mind to die. The corporal counts his squad, "fourteen, fifteen--ah! there were sixteen yesterday," so he says; he thinks: How long until I have only fourteen, and who will be the next man to quit _la gamelle_? We thought of all these things during the day, and we noted, more with anxiety than relief, that for us there were no drills or fatigues. My company was, indeed, warned to be ready to relieve the Turcos on guard at eight o'clock in the evening, but we were allowed to lounge about our quarters and talk with one another all the day. The different squads kept to themselves; a grave crisis either dispels all squad distinctions or accentuates them, and it was the latter that took place on this occasion. We ate our meals in gloomy silence, but in the intervals between them we speculated incessantly on what the colonel meant by saying that when the commandant had punished us he would take care to punish us too. Though we thought of everything that might occur, yet we were not satisfied; the indefiniteness of the threat was its chief terror. If one knows with certainty the worst, why, one can prepare to meet it, but when some fate, terrible but not tangible, certain but not understood, hangs over a man or a number of men courage is apt to ooze out at the finger ends. Talk of the sword of Damocles, that was nothing;--it simply meant death at some uncertain time--why, we all have such swords over our heads, and yet we eat and drink and sleep, we pray and curse, we laugh and weep, we hurt or help our neighbour, we gain or spend, as if life were the one thing safe and sure, safe and sure for ever. No one thinks much of his future beyond the grave; it is the future on this side of the Styx that we most earnestly dwell on. Why, even the man condemned to death thinks far less of what may happen to his soul, if he believes that he has a soul, when it leaves the body, than of the years of gladness and fellowship with men that the law is about to take from him. The uncertainty and the suspense united made us discontented and gloomy; we spoke to one another, it is true, but not in the old and pleasant way. There was not much cursing or swearing--we had gone beyond such solace or relief--but there was plenty of morose ill-humour, and as for _bonne camaraderie_, there was less of it in a company than there had been the day before in a single squad. After the evening soup Nicholas nodded to me to come over to him. I was not sorry to go across the little space between us; he was the first who had even been commonly polite to me that day. When we were together he spoke in a low tone and in English--I may remark here that Nicholas was very well educated and spoke at least half-a-dozen languages with purity and ease--asking me what I intended to do. "Nothing," I replied. "I see nothing that I can do." "Nothing?" he queried. "Nothing. And you?" "Oh! I," said he, "do not intend to stay in Algeria any longer; my physician orders me to a warmer climate somewhere in the East." "Yes," he went on; "I fancy that Tonquin will suit my present ailment; anyway, better see life along with the others who are now campaigning there than stagnate in a desert hole." "You do not mean----" I began, but he interrupted me. "Yes, I do mean it; and I know that they will be only too glad to get such volunteers as we are." "They" (by "they" he meant the military authorities) "know very well that we shall be trying to escape from the fire to the frying-pan, and that we shall have only two things to depend upon to get us out of the latter--valour and good conduct. So we shall be the very best of soldiers, because, while others have merely to keep their good reputation, we shall have to earn ours over again. Trust me, they will be glad to accept us as volunteers for the war, and, listen, I know these French, when we volunteer they will almost altogether forgive us. They are very hard and strict, especially with us, and they are too nice about their honour, and they stand overmuch on ceremony and punctilio, but they are really generous, often more generous than just. When they find us trying to retrieve our good name they will give us every opportunity to do so. We shall have many vacancies in the ranks, it is true, and many a good comrade will not answer at the evening roll call, but it will be well with the survivors. In any case, I am tired of soldiering here. Why should I not see the world, not as I saw it before," he smiled sadly, as I thought, when he said this, "but as millions of men have seen it--a nameless unit in a crowd? After all, many of Cæsar's legionaries had happier lives than Cæsar." When he ceased speaking there was silence between us for some moments. Then he asked: "And you, young one, what will you do?" "I will volunteer," I answered; "there surely cannot be worse fighting in Tonquin than there was here at Three Fountains a short while ago." He smiled, and said: "Was it not good practice for war? Was it not better than all the drill in the world?" "Yes," I replied; "if someone got a thousand francs every week, we should be the finest fighting men on the earth. I mean those of us who did not go out there," and I nodded towards the mound on the eastern side of the camp. He shook his head. "Say nothing about that; it is all over now. I do not mind your saying what you think to me alone, but do not, I ask you, speak too freely to our comrades. They will soon forget everything, if they are not constantly reminded of things." After some further conversation we separated. I said nothing to the others about our resolve, as I wished that the Russian should be the first to explain matters to our comrades. I had more than one reason for doing this. In the first place, Nicholas, as he was known in the corps--what his real name and rank were we never learned--was my senior in age and experience; in the second, he was a man of infinitely greater influence than I or any other in the company, partly on account of his money and generosity, but still more because of his manner, bearing, and unconscious air of authority; moreover, he was the clearest and most convincing speaker I have ever heard. Again, he had brought us into trouble and had done a good deal to get us out of it; to him, therefore, all looked for further deliverance. I felt sure that, when he told the rest of his intention, all of ours, and probably all of No. 4 Company, would volunteer along with him. It would be much better for us if companies volunteered instead of merely men or squads or sections. The greater the number going of their own accord to the war, the more lenient would our officers be; and, furthermore, no man would be likely to be sent amongst strangers--we should probably all soldier together. Should Nicholas and I go out by ourselves, we should be transferred with bad reputations to a company already in Tonquin, and for that neither he nor I had any liking. If all volunteered, we might still remain an unchanged unit, even though in a new battalion, and one must never forget that when a man has been for some time living and working and fighting, yes, and looting, and perhaps doing worse, along with certain companions, he has a feeling of _camaraderie_, of yearning for their society, which makes it very hard for him to leave them, though it must be acknowledged that a soldier easily makes new friends and new attachments wherever he goes. Nicholas did not ponder long before he announced his intention of volunteering for Tonquin. I don't think it took the others much by surprise, perhaps because recent events had prepared them for anything, perhaps because the Russian's acts, no matter how strange they might appear in another man, were only ordinary, natural, and to be expected in him. Any way they merely nodded or smiled, and at first no one asked for an explanation. This, however, the Russian gave of his own accord. "You know, _mes camarades_," he began, "that the colonel is very angry with us and that he has it in his power to make things very uncomfortable for those who have displeased him. Now I do not care to stay under his command if I can get away from it, and there is but one course, as far as I know, by which I can avoid his anger and perhaps regain the reputation of being a good soldier and one not likely to disgrace the flag. There is, as we all are aware, a war against savages going on at this moment in Tonquin. I mean to volunteer to go thither; it will be easier to campaign against Black Flags, who will kill me if they can and whom I will kill if I am able, than to suffer in a camp of hell in the desert, where one cannot resist nor even complain. Better, far better, will it be to march and fight, even to starve and die, like a soldier in an enemy's country than to live a life worse than a convict's in some one of those awful cantonments where even the native soldiers are discontented and restless. You all have heard, as I have, of the woes of poor soldiers in such places. The officers and sub-officers are hard enough here--I mean no offence to our own corporal, he has always been good comrade to his squad--but there they are veritable demons, there they carry revolvers by day and by night, and, if a sergeant should lose his temper and shoot a simple soldier, there is no redress, there is no punishment, unless the dead man's comrades themselves take a just vengeance on the murderer. And then there will be executions and deprivation of pay, and the last state of the company will be worse than the first. Again, in those places, where not even our poor amusements and relaxations are possible, where one can enjoy neither wine nor the society of women, men go mad and men commit suicide, and men deliberately break the laws in sheer despair, and, worst of all, men die lingering deaths from settled melancholy, thinking always, as they cannot help thinking, of home and former friends and the pleasant, happy days of youth. But I, for my part, will not, if I can avoid those places, go thither to starve, to mope, to rot alive, and to die--hopeless, friendless--for there men are not friends but only associates--with a curse upon my lips and heavy anger with God and man in my heart. No; rather will I volunteer for Tonquin. There I shall be, if no better, at least no worse than thousands of others who are fighting bravely, and are ready, if need be, to bravely die." When Nicholas stopped speaking an Alsatian said: "I too will volunteer." That was all; Alsatians are not inclined to talk much, but they are good, hardworking, steadfast men in action. If you are fighting and an Alsatian is your comrade, your rear-rank man let us say, don't be a bit afraid to go forward, the Alsatian will be always there, backing you up. They are not men who are anxious to lead a bayonet charge, but they won't refuse to follow, and where they go they generally stay, for just as they don't begin an advance they won't, on the other hand, begin a retreat. Put a Parisian, a Gascon, or a Breton at the head of a company of Alsatians and you have practically resurrected a company of the Old Guard. There was some confused talking after this. Nicholas, the Alsatian, and I kept out of the conversation, smoking our pipes in quiet contemplation of the rest; the corporal of the squad was seated on his camp-cot, a cigarette between his lips, looking with a cynical smile at the Russian. At last it was decided--all the squad would volunteer. As soon as the corporal found that we were unanimous he seized his kepi and ran out of the hut without uttering a word save: _Bons soldats, bons camarades_. We learned afterwards that he rushed straight off to the captain and told him of our decision. This was welcome news, as all the officers were chafing and fuming because they had not been selected for the front. I may here mention that our corporal was the first to gladden the captain's heart and bring him some hope of gaining glory and promotion, and, when the captain got the chance of giving promotion, our corporal exchanged the two red chevrons on his sleeve for the single gold one of a sergeant. Well, when the others heard of this, there was much earnest conversation and still more earnest gesticulation in the little camp. All were excited; the desire to get away from the punishment stations, the eager wish for change, the natural impulse of soldiers to put into practice the teaching of the drill-ground and the manoeuvres, all combined to render the men anxious to follow the example of our squad. Before we went on duty that night my company had volunteered to a man, and, when we dismounted guard in the morning, we were not a whit surprised to find ourselves relieved by native troops, for that told us that we had guessed aright and that No. 4 Company, our friends and erstwhile foes, had thrown in their lot with us and would be our _compagnons d'armes et de voyage_. We were very glad of that. Together we were a half battalion, a weak one, it is true--the mound on the east and the hospital held so many of our comrades--but still strong enough to demand and command respect. While we were enjoying our morning soup the officers of the company came round. How different everything was then compared with the day before! The captain, a bronzed, heavy-moustached man, whose military career had not been very successful--he was a good soldier and a good officer, but he had made the great mistake of falling in love, as a _sous-lieutenant_, with his colonel's wife, and the colonel, now a general, had not forgotten--was in great good humour. He remembered our crime, only to laugh at it, and said that the men who could give so good an account of themselves against the heroes of No. 4 were just the soldiers he wished to lead into action. He told us to be very careful. If we misconducted ourselves again the company might be distributed amongst the four battalions of the other regiment of the Legion, and that would be bad for us and bad for him as well. "Let us only be allowed to remain together," he said. "We shall all go out to Tonquin, and then there will be plenty of excitement, and promotion must come." He was thinking, I suppose, of his own disappointments. It must be very hard on a man to be passed in the race by others who were boys at school when he was wearing a sword; why, the commandant of the battalion was younger than he. The other officers were also pleased; the lieutenant a handsome fellow of twenty-five or so, was anxious to get his company; the sub-lieutenant, a stern, hard-featured man of forty, who had risen from the ranks, was quite satisfied to go to a place where he might have a chance of picking up unconsidered trifles. Ah! _ces vieux militaires_ are the quietest and most thorough-going pillagers in the world. Nothing comes amiss to them--they could teach even Cossacks how to loot--and how they manage to keep this loot and get it safely home to wife or mistress--for they have always a woman on their private pay-sheet--I cannot for the life of me imagine. They do it, however, and they are not only in the Foreign Legion or in the French army--you will find them in every army, nay, in every regiment in the world. Well, the sergeants and corporals were well pleased too. They kept us for all that under strict discipline until the day we found ourselves aboard the transport at Marseilles. But I am anticipating. At about five o'clock in the evening both companies were paraded and inspected just as on the day before, but there was a great change in the colonel's manner. He was not over friendly with us, but he did not abuse or threaten. He called us sharply to attention, and then said: "Every man in the front rank who wishes to volunteer for Tonquin will march one pace to the front; every man in the rear rank who wishes to volunteer for Tonquin will march one pace to the rear. Volunteers, march!" At once the ranks separated. All in front stepped one pace forward; all in the rear took one pace backward. He walked down between the ranks, saw that all had volunteered, took up his former position in front of us, and ordered us back to our original formation. "All have volunteered. I am well satisfied. Dismiss the parade, monsieur le commandant." For some time after we were busy getting ready to leave Three Fountains, and no one was sorry when we presented arms to a detachment of zephyrs that came to take our place. As soon as they had returned the compliment we fell into marching array in columns of fours, wheeled to the left, passed by the flank of the zephyrs, saluted the Turcos of the main guard at the gate, and stepped out on our first march northward. Truly, we were glad to leave behind the cantonment of Three Fountains and its associations. Always fond of change, we dropped our sadness, the sadness which one cannot choose but feel when leaving behind for ever even one's temporary home. Before we had finished the first league spirits were as high, laughter as gay, jests as plentiful as on my very first march, when with the other two hundred recruits I went from the depot to the battalion. Normally the two companies should be about five hundred strong, but death and the doctor detained so many that I do not believe we were quite four hundred all told. However, at the depot, which we reached in good time, doing a fair day's march every day, we received additions to our numbers--self-styled recruits, really men who had learned more than a little of soldiering in other armies, and whom ill-luck or bad character or desire of French citizenship had driven or induced into the Foreign Legion. At the depot we received our outfit for the East. The kepi was exchanged for the white helmet, lighter underclothing was served out to us, all clothing and footwear was renewed, and I may say without boasting that when, fully five hundred strong, we paraded for the last time before entraining for Oran, in order to hear the farewell address of the depot commandant, we presented as smart and soldier-like an appearance as any commanding officer could wish to see. The depot commandant made a short speech, shook hands with our commanding officer, wished him and us _bon voyage et prompt retour_, and then, with the band at the head of the column, we marched out of the gate, saluting the guard as we passed, amidst the ringing cheers of the veterans and recruits left behind. When we were safely in the train all discipline was at an end: we shouted, cheered, laughed and sang, and so began our journey to the land where more than half my comrades lie--as quiet as the Greek and the Portuguese under the little mound on the eastern side of the mud huts of _Trois Fontaines_. CHAPTER X On a beautiful summer morning we marched down to the quay to join the transport that was to carry us and five or six hundred others to our destination in the East. All was bustle, excitement, and confusion for some time, but matters quickly arranged themselves, and, when the last of the stores had been safely stowed away, we marched in single file up the gangway and stood to attention by squads on the deck. Each squad was led off by its corporal to the place assigned to it, and in a short time our quarters looked for all the world like a barrack on shore, save that one saw no bed-cots there. Our rifles and equipments were put in their proper places, the roll was called below for the last time, we were reported "all present and all correct," and then we were allowed to troop up on deck, to get our last glimpse of the land that many of us would never see again. As the ship cast off, we raised a cheer which was responded to by the people on the quay, a band ashore struck up the Marseillaise, the Frenchmen first, and then we others of the Legion took up the refrain, and thus amid cheering, singing, and waving of helmets and handkerchiefs we started on our voyage to Tonquin. There were not many friends of those aboard weeping on the quay; we legionaries had none, and the Frenchmen were zephyrs--that is, men of bad character who had been assigned to convict battalions, and their friends, no doubt, were not over sad about their departure. There were some ladies and children who were affected, but they belonged to the officers--the sub-officers and the men had no friends, no relations, no home, one might say, save the barrack, the cantonment hut, the tent, or, as at the time, the troopship. Well, so much the better: having nothing to lose but life, and that as a rule a wretched one, we should be the more reckless when recklessness was needed, and the French generals took care that we, the zephyrs and the legionaries, were put in the fighting line as much as possible and that the good men, the respectable soldiers, should only come into the fray when the burden of the fight was over and when we others were so spent with toil that reliefs were absolutely necessary. Let no one misunderstand me. I do not wish to convey that the French soldier or officer shirks danger; on the contrary, I believe Frenchmen to be amongst the most daring soldiers in the world and the most cheerful under hardships, but the generals did not see any good in putting worthy citizens, future fathers of respectable families, into the most dangerous positions when they had ready to their hands men who bore so bad a reputation as the zephyrs and the legionaries gathered from every country under the sun. They were quite right in this, but all the same we might sometimes, just once in a while, have been allowed to dawdle along with the reserve instead of being continually on the jump where the bullets were. Of course, though we grumbled, we were proud too that the most difficult and most dangerous work fell to our share. For the first couple of days out I was very sea-sick, but the horrible _mal-de-mer_ in the end passed off, and I was able to take an interest in things around me as before. I don't mean to say much of the life aboard. Such a tale would be only a recital of troubles and grievances, but troops on a transport cannot expect a very pleasant time. One thing we were glad of--there were no women and children aboard. The veterans told us why we should rejoice at this, and any man who has travelled on a troopship with women and their babies will easily guess the reason. The worst part of the voyage was while we were going through the Red Sea. There one loathed his morning coffee and growled at his evening soup. The dull, deadly, oppressive heat in that region almost killed us. We lay around, unable almost to curse, and the soldier who finds himself too weak to do that, must be in a very bad way indeed. Only once in the Red Sea did we show signs of life. It was when a French troopship passed us on her way home with sick and wounded from the war. The convalescents crowded on her deck and raised a feeble shout. We cheered heartily in reply, and we kept up the cheering until it was impossible for them any longer to hear. We pitied them, poor devils. How they must have in turn pitied us, going as we were to the wretched land where they had left behind health and many good comrades, and where we too should pay our quota of dead and receive our quota of wounds and illness. Anyway the sight of them roused us for a time, but we quickly fell back into the languor induced by the excessive heat. Here let me make a remark which may be of interest to many. We legionaries had men, as I have already said more than once, from every country in Europe, and from some outside of it, and one might imagine that men of different nations would be differently affected by the heat, aggravated, as it was, by cramped quarters and wretched food. Well, I cannot single out any country whose natives endured the discomfort better or worse than the others, but there were undoubtedly two classes of men aboard, one of which was far more lively, far less given to grumbling, and altogether possessed of more buoyancy and resilience of temperament than the other. These were the men of fair complexion. All the fair-haired, blue-eyed soldiers seemed to be able to withstand bad conditions of living more easily and better than their dark-complexioned comrades. I offer no explanation of the fact, but I noted during the voyage for the first time, and afterwards I had many opportunities of confirming my original impression, that fair men are superior to dark ones in endurance and in everything connected with war except the actual fighting; with regard to that, complexion does not count. I have noticed in fever hospitals that the black moustaches far outnumbered the reddish ones; in a field hospital there was never such a disparity. I cannot say that other observers agree with me. I merely put on record a thing that I noticed and that produced a deep impression on me, but I never mentioned it to my comrades, nor shall I now write down the various speculations with regard to men and nations that I was led by it to indulge in. All I say is: I thank my stars that my moustache is rather red--that seems to me a token of endurance, if not of strength. In due time we arrived off Singapore, and put in there. I must now mention a few incidents of our stay in that harbour; they were, indeed, the chief events of the voyage. The reason why we put into Singapore was that coal had run short, and the captain of the troopship did not like to go on to Saigon with the small supply left. Those of us who did not know that Singapore belonged to Great Britain soon learned the fact, and more than one eagerly desired to get clear of the ship to land, and thus regain his freedom. Now, I am no apologist for desertion. I think it a mean and cowardly crime, but, if there be any excuse for it, surely many of ours must be held excused. Remember that we were foreigners in the French service, that many of ours had had good reason to flee from justice in their own countries, that we all had a bad reputation with our officers and our French comrades, and, above all, that recent events--the fight at Three Fountains and the morbidly suggestive mound at the east side of the camp there; the ugly fear of a horrible desert station and the intolerable heat of the Red Sea--had made many men think anxiously, constantly, longingly of getting away, at a stroke as it were, from ugly memories and gloomy forebodings begotten of them. Men don't desert from their colours without grave reason. Even the most flighty man will think twice and thrice before taking the risk of the court-martial that awaits detection or recapture. Moreover, in our case sentries with loaded rifles were on duty at all points; one would imagine that not even a rat could leave the ship unnoticed. Well, the vessel was brought near the wharf and two gangways were run out, one for the coolies carrying in the full baskets, the other for the coolies going out with the empty ones. These coolies carried their baskets on their heads, as you often see women carrying loads in other countries. As each one passed the bunker he tipped the contents of his basket in, and then went under a little archway, and crossed out by the second gangway for a new load. Now there was one man of my company--a Bulgarian--who was under confinement for some slight offence against discipline, and, as the heat was almost unbearable, he had been brought up by the guard--acting with the commandant's permission, be it well understood--and allowed to sit under this archway during the heat of the day. I was the nearest sentry to him, being placed at the outgoing gangway, and one of my orders was to watch this man. Like many other orders I remembered this one only in order to be able to repeat it to the officer of the day, and never imagined that there was any necessity of caring more about it. I was mistaken. As the coolies passed under the archway, a good deal of coal dust accumulated there. This dropped from the baskets, which they often carried mouth downward in their hands, when empty. The prisoner had a vessel of water, and this he carefully mixed with coal dust until he had enough to stain all his body black. I must mention that part of his little apartment was screened off from view by a half-partition, and while in this recess he could be seen only by the coolies as they passed through. Here he undressed and carefully blackened his person, and then, watching a favourable opportunity when my attention was completely taken up by a dispute on the quay, he throttled a coolie passing through, forcibly seized his basket, gave him--as payment, I suppose--a knock-down blow on the point of the jaw, and started for the gangway. This he gained unperceived by me. Half-a-dozen steps carried him ashore, and once on British soil he was safe from all arrest. He flung the basket on the ground, and at once ran at his utmost speed towards the town. A cry from those on shore called my notice to the running man, and I knew at once, by his size and carriage, that the Bulgarian had escaped. The moaning of the coolie, who was rapidly coming to after the sudden and savage assault on him, was another intimation that I had of the escape. I was put under arrest at once, and kept in close confinement until we reached Saigon, but the officer in command did not punish me further. The ingenuity displayed by the deserter was so evident, that no one blamed me very much for being taken off my guard and allowing a wrong man to go ashore, and, moreover, as we neared Tonquin, all thought more and more of the fighting and less and less of punishing a man who was not flagrantly in the wrong. Of course, there was no chance of recapturing the Bulgarian; he had reached foreign soil, and there is no act of extradition affecting men guilty of merely military offences. It was well for him, however, that my eyes were turned towards the dispute on the quay; all the blackening would scarcely have deceived me, and I should have shot him dead on the gangway before he could have time to reach the land. For all that I was glad that he got safely away, for, though a man will do his duty no matter how disagreeable it may be, yet he is not at all sorry when he misses the chance of doing such duty as mine would have been, had I noticed the runaway in time. Further on I shall have occasion to mention the case of another deserter, a man who deserted from a certain European army to French soil, and it was strange--oh, very strange--that neither the French nor the other sentries could hit him at less than a hundred yards' range, while he was making a desperate rush across the strip of undefined territory that marked the frontier. Some other incidents occurred at Singapore, but, as I was under arrest, I can only speak of them as I heard about them from my comrades. After the Bulgarian's escape a far stricter watch was kept--double sentries were posted--but to a determined man nothing is impossible. More than one was found absent at morning roll call, and at last it became evident that, in some cases at least, connivance on the part of a pair of sentries had permitted the escape. If a man once got down into the water, he was practically free. Certainly a shark--and sharks do abound in these waters, and especially in the harbours, where they pick up all sorts of garbage--might cross his path, but there was not much danger, as the distance to the land was so small. No one of ours, as far as we could know, was caught in such a way. One, however, was caught by something almost as bad, but I must give a new paragraph to describing the hero of the tale before I begin the story about him. The man I refer to I have already mentioned in connection with the negotiations between the companies after the fight at Three Fountains. He was the Italian that held the same leading place in the deputation from No. 4 Company as Nicholas the Russian did in ours. Without education--I don't believe that he could write his name--he possessed a fund of shrewdness and a faculty of quick observation that made him more than the equal of scholars--and many men of good education were in our ranks. Not at all desirous of a quarrel, he was pre-eminently one to avoid fighting with, for in a row he forgot all about his own safety and seemed not to care what hurt he received so long as he hurt his enemy, and any weapon that lay at hand would be used by him without hesitation at the time or remorse or shame afterwards. A smart, clean, active soldier; yet he was always getting into trouble and disgrace, now with his corporal, at another time with the sergeant of the section, but never with the officers. Fellows said that he belonged either to the Mafia or the Camorra, but opinions were divided as to whether he came to the Legion to avoid arrest by the Italian Government for crimes committed in the course of business or punishment from his association for treachery or some other offence against their laws. Anyway he was with us, and though not liked, still respected; though we did not fear him, yet we took good care to let him alone. He was not a man--to his credit be it said--who interfered with others. Why, then, should others interfere with him? About five feet five in height, of carriage alert rather than steady, with quick, black eyes, dark complexion, small, black moustache, regular features and even, white teeth, he was certainly one to attract anyone's attention, especially a woman's. He was very cynical with regard to the sex, not valuing woman's fondness much, but, all the same, so long as he was a girl's lover he allowed no poaching on his preserves. He sang well--French songs as well as Italian--and played on more than one musical instrument, his favourite one being a small flageolet, and with this he lightened more than one weary hour for us on shipboard. He never told anyone, I believe, of his intention to desert. I fancy he was too cautious for that. When he did go, no sentry connived at the business, for, even had our men been doing duty, not one of us cared so much for the Italian as to risk a court-martial for his sake. I must here remark that the legionaries had been relieved of sentry duty, as so many of them had gone away without even bidding good-bye to anyone. The French soldiers, the zephyrs, were now doing all this duty; and they did it so well, I must admit, that no man got clear away while they were on the watch--at least until the Italian left the ship--but his absence was not a long one. All our coal had been taken in, and the vessel had moved away from the wharf out into the harbour, so that it lay about 200 yards from shore. The sentries must have thought that no man would be so mad as to attempt to swim such a distance, since the water was full of sharks, and in all probability their vigilance had decreased. The morning after the ship had moved out the Italian did not answer at roll call, and it was at once assumed, and truly, that he had escaped, and, as no cry from the water had been heard by the men on duty, that he had got safely to land. Before the hour of departure the French consul came off in his own boat, to see the officers of the ship and of the troops. This, of course, was natural, but everyone was surprised to see him, as soon as he gained the deck, rush forward with malicious joy in his eyes to greet the commandant. "Ah, mon commandant, I have a present for you." "Thanks, thanks, my friend; how you are good!" "A most charming present. I bring you a friend whom you most earnestly desire to see." Leaning over the side he shouted out some orders to his sailors, and they, going under an awning at the stern, carried out the Italian bound hand and foot. How the commandant cursed him; how the Frenchmen smiled and jeered; how we, his comrades, felt sad that our worthy comrade should have been caught almost on the threshold of liberty! _Camaraderie_ overcame all other feelings, and we pitied the poor wretch, for we guessed that a court-martial would have little mercy on a soldier, especially a soldier of the Legion, captured in the act of deserting from his company while on the way to the seat of war. As for the Italian, he was calm and collected, but, if he were free and had a knife and were within striking distance of the commandant, that officer would surely have had an end put to his cursing on the spot. In a moment the Italian was brought aboard and at once sent down to the prisoners' quarters, where he found several comrades, myself among the number, eagerly speculating on the noise and confusion above. As soon as the guard had gone away someone asked the Italian what the noise on deck was about. He answered sharply: "About a better man than you--about me." None of us cared to put any further questions; Cecco was in very bad humour indeed. However, in about ten minutes he told us all, saying he had slipped over the side of the vessel when four sentries had come close enough to chat--this, you must remember, meant only the approach to one another of two posts, as all sentries had been doubled--that he had been in the water for about three minutes when he came close to a boat, which he boarded; that, like a fool, he made himself and his intention known before he found out the character of his hosts; that he was at once seized, and was told, when bound, that the boat belonged to the French consul and therefore he was still on French territory. "The rest you know," said he, "or can guess." We were sorry, and told him so. He thanked us graciously enough, and hoped we might have better luck in our enterprises than he had had in his, and, in reply to a question as to what he thought would happen, he said at first that he did not know and he did not care, but he would dearly like to have the commandant at his mercy just long enough to kill him. "Listen carefully," he went on. "I shall be shot in all probability, but they will give me a chance of saying a prayer and making my confession before I die. The commandant will also be shot, but he will get no notice, and, unless he be very lucky indeed, no priest will be present to send him absolved from sin into the presence of God." For the rest of the voyage the Italian and we got on well together. He got the best of the dinner, not that he thanked us or that we wanted thanks; he knew why we did it, and we should have been very bad soldiers indeed if we did not do a little to keep up the spirits of a man doomed, as we knew him to be, to a sudden and early death. Let me anticipate once more. After our arrival at Saigon, Cecco was court-martialled, openly insulted the officers composing the court, was sentenced to death, and shot the following morning. And the commandant was shot in the back in a little skirmish in Tonquin--a brilliant little affair that would have brought him promotion had he lived. It may have been an accident, but there was at least a dozen Italians in the company immediately behind him, and in the heat of action bullets do occasionally go astray. How do I know that he was shot in the back? Well, I don't _know_, but I suspect for two reasons: first, there was a sort of investigation, which naturally led to nothing; and, secondly, the Italian's words came back to my mind directly I heard of the commandant's death. After all, is it not bad enough for an officer to punish a man or to get him punishment? Why should he swear at the poor devil and abuse him as if he had no spirit, no sense of shame, no soul? Any man will take his punishment fairly and honestly, if he believes that he has deserved it; no man will stand abuse without paying in full for it when he gets his chance, for abuse is not fair to the man who is waiting for his court-martial. But all, or nearly all, officers are either fools or brutes. Another thing that happened at Singapore Le Grand told me afterwards. In the early days of desertion a fellow--I think he was a Belgian--came to Le Grand and proposed that they should go away together. "I am," said the Belgian, "a baker by trade; you speak English well and can teach me. Let us go together. You will interpret for me and I will work for both. We shall get enough of money in six months to carry us to the United States, and there we shall separate as soon as I know enough of the language to make myself understood." "No," replied Le Grand; "I volunteered for the war, and I mean to see what fighting means in Tonquin. Moreover, if I went away now, no one I care about would ever have any respect for me again. It is bad enough with me as it is; I will do nothing to make it worse. The most people can allege against me now is folly; no one shall ever be able to charge me with cowardice as well." Many times the baker renewed his entreaties to Le Grand to go away. Le Grand would not: he knew that hardships--perhaps sickness or wounds or death--lay before him, but better anything than self-reproach and loss of self-respect. Le Grand was right in his own way, because he was, and is (for he is still alive and in a good position), a gentleman; the Belgian baker was wise too in his generation and according to his own lights. He slipped off before the Frenchmen were ordered to supply all the guards. No one knows whether he fell a prey to the sharks or not, and, I may add, no one--not even Le Grand--cares. The only other important thing that was told to me was that our fellows and the zephyrs became rather dangerous to one another. From the beginning we were not too amiable, but when the commandant put us--at least the other legionaries, for I was at the time in the prisoners' quarters on account of the Bulgarian's escape--to do most of the duties about the ship and put Frenchmen only on sentry, so that no more men of the Legion might desert, things rapidly came to a head. The commandant was lucky in two respects--the voyage to Saigon was short, and a French war vessel accompanied the transport. Had there been a twenty days' voyage without an escort the decks would have been washed red with blood, for, be it remembered, though the average French soldier can conduct himself with propriety in almost any place, the zephyr is a military convict pure and simple. No matter how bad we were, the zephyrs were worse. Well, let me put it in another way: the zephyrs aboard were the bad characters of the French army; we others, the legionaries, were the bad characters of all the other armies of Europe. They, the zephyrs, had no chance of regaining their characters in their own country, where their misdeeds were known; our fellows had started, each with a clean sheet, on joining an alien army. Thus our reputation as a body was bad, but no man had any very ugly charge against his name; the zephyrs were bad by man, by squad, by company, and by battalion. However, they are really amongst the finest fighting men in the world; some people, indeed, say that the zephyrs are second only to the legionaries. There was no fight. The big war-vessel lay not so far away, and all knew what its shells could do. Strange that we met these very zephyrs afterwards, and our companies and theirs, certainly aided by others, did a hard afternoon's bayonet-work together. We were friends after that, so much so that I believe that one battalion, and that a battalion of zephyrs, is the only one of the French army to speak with liking--all, of course, speak with respect, unless at a distance--of the Foreign Legion. But everything to its own place. At last we reached Pingeh--a fine harbour. I was set free, as well as all other prisoners save the Italian, and we disembarked, happy again at the change, to take our share in the war against the Black Flags, thinking more of the relief from the cramped quarters than of any dangers that lay before us. CHAPTER XI When we arrived at Pingeh, the port of Saigon, the zephyrs disembarked first, and we followed. Straightway most of us were marched off to a camping-field where tents and other impedimenta were awaiting us, and in a short time we had formed a fairly creditable camp. Those of ours who were kept behind on the quay were employed in sorting out our baggage as the coolies carried the troopship's load ashore. Considering that all except the officers carried their belongings on their backs, this was not hard work, and most of them were satisfied, but the dozen or so left on guard over the ammunition cases brought out by the transport were not at all lucky, as they got no meal, not even a cup of coffee, for fully twelve hours. That's always the way. Your ordinary officer can't understand why everybody is not satisfied when he is. If the captain has a good lunch and a better dinner, the simple soldier may tighten his belt and put a bit of tobacco between his teeth--that is good enough for him. Well, there are officers who care for their men, but they are so few that, if you know a hundred captains, you may easily reckon the good ones on the fingers of a hand. Some are inclined to be good, but though physically brave they are morally cowards; they cannot stand the sneering of those who look upon the men as mere instruments for gaining decorations and promotion, and it is so very easy to acquire the habit of doing as most of your equals do. It is wrong--oh! I who have felt it know how wrong it is!--for a man who has rank and a better lot than others to forget the responsibility attached to his position, to let the men under him understand hour by hour and day by day and week by week how little he cares for their comfort, to swear at the sick, to sneer at the wounded, to order the dead to be thrown any way into a trench, and to abuse the burial party because they did not cover the carcasses quickly enough. War is war, as an Alsatian in my company used to say; but why should a man, or rather men, come into camp for the night after a long march, and perhaps a sharp fight, to be sworn at and abused by the officers who, for their own sakes even, should try to make things cheerful for all? But again I am digressing. We spent about a week at Saigon, under canvas all the time. Of course, we got our share of inspection; first the chief officer--I forget now who he was, not that he was at all worth remembering--then the medical officer, then a quartermaster--the best of all, for he supplied deficiencies in clothing. I must say this: when a French soldier goes on campaign he is well fitted out--they took from us every article that showed any signs of wear, and a new one was at once issued. At first we thought that we should have to pay out of our scanty means for the new supplies. We were only too glad to find that, instead of taking our money under false pretences, as they do in other armies, our pay was increased, and we were told, and truly told, that the increase would last while we were on active service. Take my word for it, no matter how bad the officers may be, the French Government is the best in the world to its troops on active service. If men suffer, it is not the fault of those in Paris; put the blame rather on the underlings--I mean the commandants and the captains. But, remember, what I have just said I have said only of the Republic--of the monarchy and the empire I know nothing. Another reason for this delay was that the French, if they can by any chance do it, keep men quiet on land for some days after a voyage. This is very sensible. No man gets what I may call his land legs until some time after he has come ashore from a transport, where space is small and men are many, where food is wretched, and water mawkishly warm and suspiciously sweet. The rest did us good; the new clothing and the extra pay put us in good humour. When at last we put on our knapsacks for the march into the interior, we were altogether different from the 500 semi-mutinous scarecrows who had landed from the troopship only six or seven days before. Every man had 150 rounds of ball cartridge in his pouch; all rifles were loaded; we were evidently to be kept on the _qui vive_ from the earliest possible moment; talking in the ranks was often stopped without any visible cause; the sentries were visited half-a-dozen times a night; discipline was in all respects as strict as it could be; and we were made to understand, as if we had learned nothing in Algeria, that we were in front of a cautious, skilful, and sometimes daring, enemy, and that every man was responsible for his own and his comrades' lives. Now I have no intention of writing a history of the war in Tonquin. I shall merely give details of the most important events of my life there, and of these the first in order was the battle of Noui-Bop. We had not been long in the East, and were by no means acclimatised, when the battalion to which our two companies had been sent was ordered to join a mixed force of French soldiers and natives under the command of a distinguished French general, whose name is of no importance to my narrative. This general was operating against a large force of Black Flags, and, as a result of his operations, there was every prospect of a hot engagement, and this was exactly to our taste. Ever since we had joined the battalion we had been looked upon with suspicion by the officers, for the news of the fight between the companies at Three Fountains had travelled to Tonquin, and many believed that it was a foolish thing to allow both companies to soldier together, as there might be at any moment a renewal of the fray. Even our comrades of the two other companies in the battalion at first thought that we might again fall out, but very soon they saw what the officers could not, or would not, see--that No. 4 and ours were as friendly as possible to each other and that there was not the slightest chance of ill-feeling showing itself between us. Thus we were anxious to be in a big battle; we trusted in ourselves, and every man was determined, by showing reckless bravery in the field, to wipe away the disgrace which we knew attached to us, partly for our little fight and partly for the desertions at Singapore. After a good deal of manoeuvring, of which we bore our share, at last it was evident that the eventful day had come. Some chasseurs d'Afrique who were with us had located the Black Flags and their allies, many of whom were regular soldiers of the Chinese army, in a strong position at a place called Noui-Bop. Our native scouts confirmed this, and also reported that there were several white officers amongst them--these we guessed to be English or Prussians, or a mixture of both. We knew that the enemy had good rifles and plenty of ammunition, that they held favourable ground, that there was no chance of outflanking them owing to their superiority in numbers and the nature of the country, and that the frontal attack should be pushed well home if it were to succeed. Well, so much the better, we said to ourselves. On the morning of the battle we were aroused a little after sunrise. This was because, in the East, it is best for European soldiers to get the work of the day done before the sun becomes too hot. After breakfast my battalion was ordered to leave knapsacks, greatcoats, blankets--everything, indeed, save our arms and the clothing we stood up in--in the quarters which we had occupied during the night, and about fifty men were told off to see that there was no looting of their comrades' belongings while the fight was going on. Then we went forward, and took up our position in the centre of the fighting line. On our right there were Annamite tirailleurs, backed up by some French soldiers, I think zouaves; on our left a half-battalion of a French regiment of the line--if I do not mistake, the 143rd. We waited and smoked awhile, some laughed and joked, others puffed at their pipes in silence, the officers were talking and looking always to the rear. At last a dull booming was heard--the guns were beginning behind us--we could see the shells passing over our heads and bursting more than a thousand yards away in our front. Pipes were put up, but still we sat quietly on the ground, listening to the roar of the guns and watching the shells as they searched the line where our enemies lay. A staff officer galloped up to our commandant, and we all got up without waiting for the word of command. After a short colloquy the staff officer galloped back to the general, the orders came clear and abrupt from commandant and captains, and before we could well understand what we were doing No. 4 Company and mine were extended in skirmishing order, with the other two companies of the battalion behind us in support. We had not advanced very far in this formation when a man, five or six files on my right, flung up his arms and came to the ground with a groan. Just then we began to fire, our firing being kept strictly under control by the officers and sub-officers, who saw no use in allowing us, as soldiers naturally do, to blaze away all our ammunition at too long a range against a well-protected enemy. We went along almost too well; not alone had the officers to control our fire, they had also to work hard to keep us in hand as we went forward in the attack. All was well. A man fell here and another there, but the losses were not enough to speak about until we came to the dangerous zone. Now let me explain what is meant by the dangerous zone. I did not understand it at the time, but I afterwards learned all about it, and many a time I thanked my stars when the order came to fix bayonets, for then I knew that I was safely through the ugly place and that most, if not all, of the chances were in my favour. The Chinese--at least those of them whom we were fighting--never put the rifle to the shoulder as Europeans do when about to fire. Instead, they tuck the rifle-butt into the armpit and try to drop the bullet, as it were, on the attacking party. They cannot well do this until the attack comes within five hundred yards of the defence, nor can they do it when the enemy is within two hundred yards of their line, but they succeed fairly well--that is, well for such clumsy shooters--while the fighting line of the advance is between five hundred and two hundred yards of their position. This was pointed out to us by our officers, and we could easily see for ourselves that what they said was true. Looking back--of course, when the battle was over--we saw only scattered bodies lying for the first three or four hundred yards of our advance, then a comparatively large number in the dangerous zone, after that few, for, as we closed with the bayonet and were practically at point-blank range, the Black Flags wavered and fired at the sky rather than at us. Well, we had got along fairly until we came to within about five hundred yards of the enemy's trenches. Then the men went down fast, and the officers, sergeants, corporals, and veterans shouted out to us neophytes to run. And we did run; we covered about three hundred yards of heavy ground--we were attacking through rice fields, you must know--as quickly as men ever did before or since. I was pretty blown when I heard the order given to lie down, and down we lay, with bullets flying overhead, until we regained our breath. Above us the shells from our guns were shrieking, in front they were exploding; it gave us all--at least it gave me--a feeling of heartfelt gratitude that the big guns were on our side. After some time we were ordered forward again. We ran a bit, fired a round, ran again a little way and fired another cartridge, not at the foe, for as yet we could see no men in our front, but at the long line of smoke that overhung the trenches where the Black Flags and their allies, the Chinese regulars, were waiting for our charge. In this fashion we managed to get to within about eighty yards of the enemy's trenches, and were then ordered to halt, lie down, and fire as often as possible at the heads and figures that we were now beginning to distinguish where the little puffs of smoke arose. A light breeze was sweeping down the battlefield, and this lifted the blue-white clouds, so that men on both sides could easily make out their enemies. An officer sprang up about twenty yards away from me, waved his sword, and shouted out something which I could not hear, so incessant was the rattle of musketry. I saw the others fixing their bayonets, and I reached round to my left side to pluck out mine. As I did so, I saw the supporting companies of ours running up to join us. Very soon they were at our side, and the four companies, nearly a thousand strong, poured in a hot fire for a minute or two. Then we heard the clear notes of the charge. In a second, commandant, officers, sub-officers, and simple soldiers were all racing for the trenches like madmen, shouting: "Kill, kill!" How I got there I do not know. I was in, anyway, if not amongst the first, certainly not amongst the last, and when there a horrible scene lay before my eyes. On all sides were dead and dying men, some of the dead quiet and calm in appearance, as if only sleeping, with just a little spot of red on the forehead or staining the breast; others torn to pieces by the deadly shells. Some of the wounded were quite passive and resigned; others were crying out, I suppose for mercy. But it was not of them we thought, our business lay with a large body of men, led by a big chief in yellow tunic and wide yellow trousers, who met us with bayonet, sword, and spear and tried to retrieve the fortunes of the day. Our officers--bad as they were, they were brave--rushed straight at this band. We followed like wolf-hounds rushing at wolves. Their hoarse cries and imprecations soon died away as with bloody bayonets we thrust and dug our way through them from front to rear. Once more the Asiatic went down before the European, and in five minutes from the time our foremost entered the trenches we had left not a single Black Flag or Chinese regular standing on his feet. Some of the wounded fired at us as they lay upon the ground; that work, however, was very soon stopped. Meanwhile the half-battalion of French troops of the line had gallantly carried their part of the entrenchments, but on the right the native troops, the Annamite tirailleurs, were in trouble. Some Frenchmen were with them, but these were too few of themselves to make head against the enemy, who thronged like bees to flowers where they saw a good chance of throwing back the attack. My captain, a good soldier and a bad man, hastily collected about a hundred of his men, and getting us into some sort of order gave us the word--and the example too, indeed--to charge. We fell upon the exposed flank of the barbarians. In a couple of minutes we drove it in upon the main left of the enemy, and very soon the Annamites, taking their courage in both hands, returned to the attack. Some of ours again went round and charged the enemy in the rear, and then the game was up--the battle was over. I wish I need say no more about the fighting, but many would not surrender, and these, of course, were promptly shot or bayoneted where they stood. Some wounded also suffered, but I must say that when a white man, zouave or legionary, put a wounded enemy out of pain it was only after the savage had tried to shoot or stab a passing soldier. Well, if a wounded man will try to kill there is only one thing to do--put it as soon as possible out of his power to do serious damage. I don't blame the savages much for firing or cutting at our fellows; as they never gave quarter to whites, they naturally believed, I suppose, that whites would give no quarter to them. Some of the Annamite tirailleurs did, I am afraid, a little unjustifiable killing. Well, it's the way with these people; they think as little of killing a wounded man as a hungry legionary would of killing a providentially sent chicken. We must make allowances; but I am very doubtful about the wisdom of European nations in supplying arms and teaching modern drill to the yellows, the blacks, and the browns. You may make any of these very good imitations of white soldiers, but the leopard cannot change his spots, and the effects of centuries of cruelty cannot be eradicated in a day. The Annamites had one excuse--they were merely doing to the Black Flags what the Black Flags would have done to them and to us had the issue of the fight been different. This is a poor excuse, I admit, but then any excuse is better than none at all. The white officers attached to our native levies did their best to keep their men in hand, but orders are not always minded, even by the very best soldiers, in the heat of action or the flush of victory. No one must assume that what I have written is a full account of the battle of Noui-Bop. I merely tell what happened under my own eyes. I know nothing whatever of the events that occurred in other parts of the battlefield, nor must it be considered that the troops I have mentioned were the only attacking ones. There were others advancing far away to the right and to the left--we were only the centre of the advance--and when I speak of right and left, I mean right and left of the central attack, not extreme right and left of the firing line. When we had cleared the Black Flags and their comrades out of the entrenchments, we had a short rest under arms. Very soon, however, we received orders to advance, but cautiously, so as not to get too far in front of the rest. In our rear we could see the artillerymen bringing up their guns to new positions. Occasionally a gun would be unlimbered and a shell or two thrown into a part of the enemy trying to re-form. These shells did not do much damage to the enemy, but they did a great deal of good to us; it was so pleasant to watch the projectiles hissing through the air and to know that our friends the Black Flags were also watching them, but with very different feelings. One of our fellows, a happy-go-lucky Andalusian, called the shells _lettres d'avis_--warning notices that we were coming and that it would be best for the barbarians to be "not at home." Only twice in this advance had we to make a regular attack, and in each case the men who opposed us did not wait to allow us to get to close quarters; they fled with a hail of bullets about their ears before we got within two hundred yards. The French advance on the extreme right seemed to have more difficulty. I fancy an attempt was made to take them in flank. Anyway, we heard a continuous roll of musketry, with the heavy booming of guns, for about ten or fifteen minutes, and then only a dropping fire, when the attack had evidently been repulsed. On the left no trouble was experienced; our comrades there swept forward, driving the men opposed to them like sheep. About eleven o'clock we were halted. The native levies were sent on in pursuit, as they were better able than European soldiers to follow up a retreating enemy in the heat of the noonday sun. We lay down and rested, happy in the thought that our first fight in Tonquin was over and won. We were not allowed to remain long at our ease after the fight. First two companies, and afterwards the other two, were sent back to get the knapsacks and other impedimenta left behind by the general's order before the advance. About half-past four in the afternoon we got some bread and soup, and a little after five, when the great heat of the day was over, we set forward on our march in the track of the retreating enemy and the pursuing tirailleurs. We kept on until nearly nine o'clock at night, occasionally halting for a rest. In spite of the Annamite levies being in front of us on this march we took all possible precautions against a surprise; we had a section of a company in front, and, in advance of that again, one of its squads. Other squads were out far to the right and to the left. These precautions may seem unnecessary, as our own friends were in front, but, indeed, they were very useful for several reasons. In the first place we saw that, no matter how triumphant our arms might be, there was to be no relaxation of precaution or of discipline; in the second, it was possible that our irregulars might have allowed a large body of the enemy to slip in behind them, and these might ambush us; again, all the men of the main body felt a sense of security, and consequently their nerves were not kept constantly strained--a material advantage in warfare. It is a good maxim to put all the watchfulness on a few and to allow the main body to rest or march in security; so an officer will have better soldiers in action. The best men in the world can't help feeling worried and depressed by constant expectation of an attack. A battle is nothing--very often it is, indeed, a relief--but always waiting and always speculating on an attack, and always wondering from what side it will come, will wear out the strongest nerves. Then come dogged sullenness, loss of interest in one's work, carelessness in duty, and slovenliness in the little things that all soldiers take pride in, and in the end disaster. That night we lay about fifteen or sixteen kilometres from the place where we had rested the previous night. It was lucky that it was not my turn for guard; I felt so sleepy after the morning fight and the evening march. I had scarcely rolled myself up snugly in my greatcoat and blanket when I fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, and I could almost swear that I had not had two minutes' rest when the reveille went in the morning. I felt very hungry, and that made me get up quickly from the spot of hard ground on which I had been sleeping, to help the others to light the fire for the squad's morning coffee. Nicholas the Russian asked me how I felt. "Hungry, my comrade, hungry," I replied. And everyone, even the captain, who was passing at the time, laughed as if I had said a good thing. Soldiers are very like schoolboys; the simplest thing said or done by one they know far surpasses anything said, no matter how brilliant, anything done, no matter how renowned, by those they do not know. On active service they are even more easily amused. We often laughed heartily at sayings that, considered calmly by me now, show not the slightest trace of humour. When the tale of dead and wounded was made up it was seen that our battalion had suffered more than any other corps in the fight, and that of the four companies constituting it mine had the greatest number of losses. This was not bad for me. For some reason or other the captain made me a soldier of the first class, and I was very glad indeed that Nicholas the Russian and Le Grand were also promoted to wear the single red stripe on their right sleeves. We laughed heartily as we thought of our advance in rank and of what we should have got instead of promotion if all were known about the quarrel at Three Fountains. Well, what people don't know won't trouble them. For some time after this our battalion was always on hard duty. We on some days marched only ten or twelve kilometres; on others, in pursuit of a band of marauders, we covered as much as twenty-five or thirty. Remember, we had to do all this in a country where roads are bad and travelling over fields almost impossible, with heavy packs on our backs, and never less than a hundred rounds of ball cartridge in our pouches. Then no matter how pleasant the greatcoat and the blanket might be at night, they were no light load during the day, and especially between the hours of eleven in the forenoon and four in the afternoon, when we had to go forward if there was the slightest chance of catching up with some or other band of scoundrels. Moreover, when soldiers are on flying duty, they seldom get enough to eat, and what they do get is not the very best or nicest food in the world. One day we came in at the hour of evening soup to a little camp where some zouaves and marine fusiliers were. They were very good to us indeed; the soup they had just prepared for themselves they gave to us, and they took, good fellows that they were, the dry bread and unboiled rice that we had in our haversacks. They were decent men, these French soldiers; they saw that we had been on tramp for some time, and they hesitated not a moment to give us the savoury soup when they saw the hungry longing in our eyes and the convulsive twitch of nostrils, as the grateful odour was perceived. They did more; they gave us some wine and native spirit, and I do not know whether we were more pleased with the gifts or with the free, generous dispositions of the givers. Well, we did as much afterwards for Frenchmen. This victory at Noui-Bop gave the French control over a large strip of country. Moreover, many new recruits joined the Annamite tirailleurs, for the Asiatic, like all others, wants to be on the winning side. There were promotions, of course, but the only ones I was at all interested in were those that gave the single red chevrons to Nicholas, Le Grand, and myself. We had got to like one another very much, and I believe that the promotion of one gave more pleasure to his comrades than to himself. I may say here that Nicholas and Le Grand afterwards refused further promotion; I, a boy and fool, took it when offered, but I must tell how that came about in another chapter. CHAPTER XII I will not weary the reader with an account of our marches to and fro, hunting straggling bands of marauders. This work soon became monotonous, and the recital of our doings would, I am sure, prove monotonous as well. Only one thing impressed itself strongly on my mind at the time, and this was that a man who fell out of the ranks had no chance of getting mercy from the Black Flags. Occasionally, we came across the horribly mutilated body of a French soldier or an Annamite tirailleur, and the sight was sickening. One circumstance, which I must now relate, made our blood boil over and, if we learned to give no quarter, the enemy had no one to blame but themselves. We arrived at a small village one morning about nine o'clock, having been on the march continuously since five. Here we rested during the heat of the day, and one of the men of my squad and I went to a little shop to buy tobacco. We saw some fruit there--I don't know what kind it was--and my comrade purchased some and gave a share to me. We ate it, and thought no more about the business, but the fruit cost my poor friend his life. When we were on the march that afternoon, I felt very sick. My comrade--I forgot to mention that he came from Lorraine and was serving with us in order that, when his time was up, he might become a French citizen--was even worse, and both of us had to fall out of the ranks. However, we again caught up with the company, but a second time we were compelled to stay behind, and this time the captain ordered our rifles and ammunition to be taken from us and carried by our comrades. "The Black Flags," he said, "may get you if they like, but they sha'n't have your arms or ammunition." I don't blame the officer, he was quite right. The same thing was done with every man who showed signs of weakness or weariness, for we had no ambulance in these hurried pursuits, and the abandoned soldier kept only his bayonet for defence against the human wolves that hung on our flanks and rear. Not much good that, for the cowards used to overpower the poor devils with stones, and, as soon as they were beaten to the ground, the brutes would seize them and execute their horrible tortures on their bodies before death came--a merciful release. Again, however, we struggled back to the company. Nicholas, who was carrying my rifle and ammunition in addition to his own, said: "Cheer up, my good friend; keep on a little longer; we shall soon be in camp." Le Grand, who was in the squad immediately behind mine, got permission to carry my knapsack, another man took my greatcoat, and still another my blanket, but, in spite of the relief thus afforded me, it was with the utmost difficulty that I kept on. The Lorrainer was similarly aided, but he was too unwell, and had for the third and last time to fall out. He never rejoined the company, and we could at the time only speculate upon his fate, but very soon we were to learn the truth. Helped on by my comrades, I managed to stagger into the little collection of huts where we were to pass the night. Nicholas and Le Grand foraged for me, and got somewhere and somehow a supply of native spirit. Le Grand made me a stiff glass of boiling hot punch, and this I was compelled to drink, though my stomach rebelled at all things. I fell asleep soon after, and woke in the morning, qualmish, indeed, and weak, but completely rid of all the bad effects brought on by indulgence in the fruit. Nicholas insisted on my taking some of the spirit in my morning coffee, and also filled my water bottle with coffee containing about a glass of the fiery stuff, so that I might have medicine on the march. All the others of the squad were sympathetic, and Le Grand, though not of my squad, came over to our hut to inquire about me. Nobody minded this--it was no breach of squad etiquette, as we were both Irishmen--but, of course, it would not do for us to be too much together--we remembered the punishment given to the Alsatians. Some information received by our officers made us return by the route passed over on the previous day. When we came near the place where the unfortunate Lorrainer had fallen out, a great cloud of birds rose up from the ground and flew, crying hoarsely, away. Very soon we learned the meaning of this. The captain of my company, who was riding in front, suddenly shouted out: "Halt!" and dismounting, gave the reins to his orderly and crossed into a rice field that bordered the way. What he saw there seemed to fill him with disgust and horror. He called out to the other officers to come and see; then the sergeants and the corporals were summoned; finally we private soldiers went by fours to view the sight. What a horrible thing met our gaze! On the ground lay the dead body of the Lorrainer, hacked and mutilated in a fashion that I cannot describe. We were almost sickened by the sight. Often before we had seen mutilated bodies, but never one so savagely disfigured as this, and, moreover, this was the body of one who had been our good comrade only the day before. "Ah," said the captain to me, "was it not well that you struggled on?" "My captain," said Nicholas, speaking before I could get out a word, "I will never again give mercy to a Black Flag. As they do to us, let us do to them." The captain answered nothing to this, but sent us back to our ranks. Before we left the spot we buried the poor Lorrainer. All that day we spoke of nothing but the horrible sight we had seen in the morning. We were angry; we made resolutions to take a sharp and speedy vengeance for the death of our comrade and the indignity shown to his corpse; we encouraged one another in the desire for revenge; we spoke of what might happen to any one of us who fell faint or wounded on the way; we were gloomy and sullen, not with despair, but with the gloom and sullenness of incensed men. Had we met any enemies that day, not even the commander-in-chief of the army in Tonquin could have prevented us from treating them as they had treated our poor comrade, and, when we did get the chance, we took a bloody vengeance on the barbarians--such a vengeance as even in the Legion was spoken of with bated breath. Now at this time the battalion had been divided into three parts--two companies held a depot of stores and ammunition, the remaining two were out as small flying columns through the country. It was our turn to go into garrison and rest a while, and two days after burying our unfortunate comrade we marched into the depot. The day after our friends of No. 4 Company came in, and the two companies, Nos. 1 and 2, that we relieved started off on a ten days' trip through the country, seeking the enemy but, as a rule, not finding them. While we were resting in garrison we told the story of the Lorrainer's sad fate to the men of No. 4, and we also made them acquainted with our determination to have satisfaction at all costs for the brutality of those who had tortured to death a poor, sick soldier, to all intents and purposes unarmed, and then disfigured his body in so revolting a manner. I give no details of the mutilation here, but we described it fully to our comrades, and they too were filled with horror and anger. The two companies had got a strange sort of liking for each other, arising out of the fight at Three Fountains, and we could not have met men more willing to back us up in our resolve than they were, and fate sent us other allies almost as good too. A few days before our turn came to go out on the tiresome tramp after quickly disappearing enemies, two companies of Frenchmen came into our little camp. To our surprise, and, indeed, at first to our disgust, they were the two companies of zephyrs that had come out with us in the transport. We had not lain alongside of them since we parted at Saigon, and then our feelings towards one another were not at all friendly. However, if soldiers quickly fall out, often they become friends again as easily, and so it happened with us. The zephyrs were not a day in camp before they knew all about the Lorrainer and our desire to avenge him, and, since they considered the people of Lorraine as their own flesh and blood, they felt almost as angry as we did. Very soon we all were, if not friends, at least allies for the purpose of obtaining vengeance on the Black Flags, and it was tacitly understood amongst the soldiers of the four companies that, when next we went into action, no quarter was to be given and that the commands, even the entreaties, of our officers to show mercy were to be disregarded. As soldiers we all recognised that it would be impossible to punish so many men, and we saw also that, if we took a terrible vengeance, the officers would do their best to hide the fact, and, though it might become known throughout the army, yet there was no chance of the general giving it official recognition by giving us official punishment. Now the two companies of zephyrs numbered at the time about 300 men and No. 4 and mine about 350; the rest were in the hospital or the grave. When No. 1 and No. 2 Companies of my battalion came into camp, the zephyrs and we others marched out. At the end of the first day's march we picked up a couple of companies of Annamite tirailleurs, weak ones they were, and angry, as they had had a couple of fights recently with the Black Flags and got by no means the best of the fighting. Another weak company of native levies joined us the next day, so that altogether our commandant had at his disposal about 650 Europeans and about 300 Asiatic tirailleurs. There were no guns with us, but we did not mind their absence, this time we meant to depend solely on the bayonet. I have often wondered whether or not our officers knew of our resolution. Certainly the corporals and sergeants did, but these _sous-officiers_ were too experienced to say anything to us about it; they might as well have tried to turn back Niagara as to change our minds. That they knew, and they knew also that we were dangerous men to cross when united and feeling strongly about anything. Bullets don't always fly towards the enemy. Many a man with a private grudge against sergeant or corporal might be only too glad to salve his conscience, or what stood for his conscience, by saying to himself that he was merely executing justice on behalf of his section or his squad. If the officers knew, they kept silent, but one thing was certain, however it came about: we were the quietest and most subdued force, to all appearance, in the world. The officers and sub-officers were strangely easy with us; we in the ranks dropped all the boisterous gaiety that usually distinguishes soldiers; we were well behaved, respectful, attentive to our duties--in short, for the time being we were model troops. One evening our scouts brought in word that a fairly large body of the enemy, from two to three thousand strong, lay within two hours' march of our encampment. These were evidently the men who had driven back the Annamite tirailleurs, and our yellow friends were quite well aware of what had happened to their wounded, whom they had been compelled to abandon on the field. "So much the better," whispered we to one another; "the native levies will be our very good brothers this time." Next morning we were aroused without sound of bugle, and after the morning meal had been disposed of, every man received a ration of wine. Some fellows drank this at once, most of us, however, put it into our water bottles for use during the day. Soon we were on the march, due precautions being taken against a flank attack or a surprise, and about eight o'clock or half-past we arrived within sight of the enemy. They were not disposed to stir on our account, and we were quite satisfied. We had begun to despise them--I mean when we met them in fair fight. That is the way with all Europeans; a white man gets to know his yellow brother only to despise him. Towards nine o'clock the regular advance began. No. 4 Company of legionaries attacked on the right, my company being in support, with half-a-section, supported by some Annamite tirailleurs, flung out to guard against a flank attack on the part of the enemy; on the left a company of zephyrs were extended, the second company of Frenchmen doing the same duty on the left as mine did on the right; in reserve were the rest of the Annamite tirailleurs. Our men advanced in the usual way until they came within charging distance of the enemy's entrenchment. At this time a slight diversion was caused on the left by a feeble attempt to outflank and throw into confusion the white soldiers and native levies advancing in support. This attempt failed, and, just as we knew that it had failed, a similar one was made on us. We quickly put an end to it, pouring in a heavy fire at short range, and when these attacks were repulsed a considerable body of the Black Flags left the field. But the firing line in front had still to reckon with the soldiers manning the trenches, and these certainly fought with admirable spirit and determination. Better for them had they run away! When the time came, in the commandant's opinion, for the charge which was to end the fight, one section of my company was ordered forward to join No. 4, the other section, the one to the right, with about 100 Annamite tirailleurs, to overlap the enemy in that direction and, if possible, to take them in the rear. As we ran along we heard first the heavy, continuous firing that always precedes the bayonet charge, and then the hoarse roar of "Kill, kill!" that told us that our comrades were going up with the bayonet. We redoubled our exertions, slaughtered to a man a small body of Black Flags that tried to block the way, and very soon we were clear past the end of the entrenchments and were moving inwards--that is, to the left--to catch the savages in the rear. We just succeeded. The enemy, driven out of the entrenchments by the frontal attack, were pouring out in hundreds along their line of retreat We rushed at them with cries of exultation and revenge, and as we drove back the fugitives on one side a section of zephyrs and some natives drove them back on the other. We had now completely hemmed them in. Roughly speaking, on the south were a company and a half of legionaries and a company and a half of zephyrs, with a few Annamites who had come up from the reserves; on the north, half a company of legionaries, half a company of zephyrs, and about a hundred and fifty native tirailleurs; between these two forces about six or seven hundred Black Flags and their allies. It was now a game of battledore and shuttlecock: our comrades on the south drove the savages on to our bayonets; we sent them yelling back again. Once more our fellows attacked and pushed them towards us; we, who had re-formed the ranks, again closed and used the bayonet mercilessly until they tried to break away. This went on for some time, but every charge brought the opposed lines of white soldiers closer, and thus diminished the little space in which the Black Flags could move. At last we were all a dense crowd, in the centre a mob of savages so closely packed together that they had scarcely room to thrust or cut, around this a circle of maddened men stabbing furiously and crying out: "Vengeance for our comrade; kill, kill!" By scores the central mob went down. At last not more than fifty or sixty were left, and these were on their knees or thrown prone upon the ground crying out for quarter. We opened our ranks and let all the Annamites through; in three minutes not a Black Flag was left alive. In plain words, this was a massacre--of that there can be no doubt. It is only fair, however, to put the responsibility on the proper shoulders. Therefore I say that it was meditated upon and carried out by the simple soldiers; the officers and sub-officers merely fought well while there was any show of resistance. It would be unjust to the men to say that the officers led us, for we were far too anxious to get to close quarters to require leading, but when the resistance had ceased the captains and lieutenants vehemently ordered, and, when orders were disregarded, begged of us to stop. The sergeants and the corporals asked us to refrain from killing, but they were not over-earnest about it--they understood us better than the leaders of higher rank--and they knew quite well that our desire of vengeance could be appeased only by blood. The corporal of my squad said to us afterwards: "No doubt it was wrong, but perhaps it was necessary." But, it will be asked, were there no leaders in the affair? Yes; there were leaders--indeed, the very best leaders that could be found for such a deed. You must understand that we had in our ranks men of education and refinement; gentlemen, let me say, who had gone astray. These were of many nations and of various crimes. I have already mentioned Nicholas the Russian. I could also tell you something of a Prussian ex-lieutenant of hussars; of an English infantry officer, son of a high official in the Colonies, who had sent in his papers after a five minutes' interview with his colonel; of the Austrian _beau sabreur_ who loved women better than their honour and preferred cards to his own; of many others who came to the Legion as a means of committing social suicide, and who--unhappy rascals that they were--were yet good, honest, fighting men, and not bad comrades if one only put a guard upon his tongue. Two of them could not live in the same squad, and the authorities knew it. Every one of them was a second corporal, so to speak, and really, to take the case of the man I knew best, Nicholas was far more respected amongst us than our authorised superior, and the corporal was as well aware of the fact as we. Well, these were the leaders. When the officers and sub-officers, who thought only of victory and perhaps promotion, would have had us show mercy when the fight was over, these men, born and trained leaders, encouraged us to slay and spare not, and showed us an example of fierce brutality which we, angry on account of the murder and mutilation of our comrade, only too faithfully followed. We should certainly have done some unfair killing in any case, but we others should not, I believe, have been guilty of such excesses were it not for the ruined gentlemen who for once saw a chance of giving vent to their long pent-up feelings of anger with all the world--especially their world--that had for ever cast them out Long ago there was an Italian proverb: "Inglese Italianato e diavolo incarnato," and I believe it to have contained a good deal of truth at the time. Nowadays the "devil incarnate" is the gentleman by birth and breeding who has been rejected by his natural society because he has been so unlucky as to be found out. Well, the fight was over, and we, having cleaned our bayonets, rested quietly on the field. Nobody in the ranks said a word; the sergeants stood apart from us and from each other; a little knot of officers gathered together and spoke in whispers. The commandant rode up and spoke in a low tone to them, then he went away, and the sections were ordered to fall into ranks. The zephyrs and we were marched a little way from the place, and were ordered to prepare a small encampment; the Annamite tirailleurs were sent out scouting while this was being done; there was not the slightest thought in any man's mind of pursuing the flying enemy. Indeed, pursuit would have been useless; those who had got away had too long a start, and we were very tired and in no mood for further fighting that day. About two hundred legionaries and some zephyrs were after a short time sent out to bury the dead. I should mention that our wounded had been first carried to the place where we were forming the little camp. I was glad that I was not with the burial party; those who formed it had no stomach for their evening soup. Towards nightfall all things necessary had been done--the wounded cared for, the dead buried four deep in a long trench, this for the Black Flags, and two shorter trenches, one for the legionaries and the zephyrs, the other for the Annamite tirailleurs. The camp was very quiet; the men not on guard or outlying picket lay about smoking, but with very little conversation; the officers of all detachments had assembled in the centre, and were talking earnestly about the events of the day. Nothing was ever said to us about this ugly affair. It was over and done with; there was no use in talking about it In any case, how could eight or nine hundred men--that is, including the Annamite tirailleurs--be punished? Cæsar could decimate his legions--the day is gone by for such punishment; moreover, even if special soldiers were selected for trial by court-martial their comrades would surely have revenge on the officers, the sergeants, and the corporals. It is dangerous--take my word for it, very dangerous--to go too far with any regiment in any army. With us it would be even worse, for no one, not even the general in chief command, would be safe from our bullets if only a chance arose. I believe that we were at once the worst used and the most feared corps on the face of the earth. Not long afterwards No. 4 Company and mine rejoined our comrades of Nos. 1 and 2. We parted from the zephyrs in a very friendly way; they told us that they liked us very much, and we paid them a similar compliment. Often afterwards we heard from other legionaries that a certain corps of zephyrs had shown them singular friendliness. In a short time the story went round about the affair, and people began to understand why this battalion of zephyrs was so well able to get on with the soldiers of the Legion. Our fellows were good comrades to them, just as they were good comrades to ours. If the zephyr had money, the legionary had a share; if the legionary had money, the zephyr did not find himself without wine and tobacco and the other things that money procures. Frenchmen of other corps did not mind. After all, it was none of their business; besides, the zephyr as well as the legionary had a rather ugly camp reputation; both were too ready to fight with men of other regiments on the slightest provocation. In a short time we received some recruits, and the four companies of the battalion were brought up to a fairly respectable strength. Every company now numbered more than two hundred men, and at long last promotion came in the ranks. The sergeant of my section had died of wounds soon after the little affair I have just mentioned. My corporal was promoted in his stead. It will be remembered that the corporal of my squad had given the first intimation to the captain that we were about to volunteer for active service; the captain now took the opportunity of rewarding him for bringing the joyful news. There were only two soldiers of the first class in the squad--Nicholas the Russian and I. Nicholas, as the older and better soldier, was offered the rank of corporal. He refused it, as was natural. It was all right to become a soldier of the first class, because that rank saved him from many disagreeable duties, but the idea of one who had commanded a company accepting the control of a squad and receiving curses and abuse from the company officers when a soldier got into trouble was not to be entertained for a moment. The second chevron was then offered to me. I accepted it on the spot, and by none was I more heartily congratulated than by Nicholas. He went further than mere compliments and good wishes: he asked me if I wanted money to pay for some drink and tobacco for the men. Luckily, I had a few francs saved out of my scanty pay, and so I was able to decline his generous offer. At the same time I assured him that, if I wanted the loan of money from any man, I would rather be in his debt than in another's. And I paid him the further compliment--its truth pleased him--that I was, indeed, corporal on parade but that he was corporal in camp, and that I should find it hard to prove superior rank to his in a fight I knew--everybody knew--that Nicholas had more influence than any corporal or, for that matter, than either of the sergeants. He was glad that I openly admitted it to him, and a more loyal soldier never helped a sub-officer when help was really needed than he. I, probably the youngest corporal in the army--not yet seventeen--had a more orderly and well-disciplined squad than any other corporal in the service. Partly, I believe, this was due to my own desire to give fair play to all the men, but chiefly, I know, to the thorough-going way in which Nicholas supported me in everything. Every man under me felt that I would do my best to screen him if he broke the regulations, to save him as much as possible if he were brought before the captain or the commandant by sergeant or sergeant-major. Often I deliberately shut my eyes to things that were wrong in themselves but dear to the heart of the soldier, and one day I went so far as warmly to defend before the captain a man charged by the sergeant-major with a serious military offence, though everybody knew that the man's sole claim to be helped by me was that he was a member of my squad. Nicholas told me that I had acted imprudently. "The sergeant-major," he said, "will be your enemy; but there is one consolation, the squad is more than pleased. The Austrian, however," he went on, "had no right to get himself into such trouble and, as it were, compel you to save him from the consequences of his own guilt. We will punish him; get permission to go outside the camp this evening, and leave him to us." I understood. I got permission to be absent for four hours--from seven in the evening until eleven. When I came back the Austrian was lying on the floor of the hut with a blanket thrown over him, dead. "It was an accident, my corporal," said Nicholas. "Yes; an accident," said a Belgian; "we did not mean to break his neck." I examined the body. It was quite true that he was dead; already his jaw had fallen, and a coldness and rigidity had seized upon his limbs. I thought for a minute. The lights were out, only a feeble ray of moonlight shone through the door. "Is there anything to be done?" said I to Nicholas. "Yes," he replied; "if we are all true comrades." The others swore that they would be loyal to the death; as for me, there was no need of asseveration: if I tried to save the men of the squad, it was sink or swim for me with all. "Let us bring him out," said Nicholas, "and put him outside the camp. Then let nobody know anything of him save that he lay down at the usual hour. You, corporal, must say that he was present when you came in; I will give the rest of the evidence." We had some difficulty in getting out the dead body, but when Nicholas had interviewed a sentry we managed the rest easily enough. We left it about two hundred paces from the camp, fully dressed, and with a bayonet in the right hand. In the morning the nearest sentry called out for the sergeant of the guard. He on coming up recognised the body as that of a French soldier. It was carried to the guard-hut, and there lay awaiting identification. I reported the absence of the Austrian when the sergeant came round, and soon afterwards I was ordered to go to the guard-hut. There I identified the body. All the squad and myself were examined about the matter. Nicholas was the only one who knew anything, and his story was that, lying awake at night, he had heard the Austrian getting up, and asked him was he unwell. The Austrian had said: "A little, not much; don't disturb anyone about me." He had then gone out, and Nicholas had fallen asleep. Everyone believed that he had left the camp to visit some female friend, and that he had been suddenly fallen upon by natives and beaten to death. Such a little thing was quickly forgotten, and we of the squad took particular pains to avoid even mentioning his name. After this event the squad would do anything for Nicholas and for me. That was why it was so good a squad. Why, the captain looked surprised when a man of mine was brought up before him. Well, if I were good to them, they were good to me, and I had the pleasant consciousness that no man would try to shoot me in the back when the bayonets were fixed for the charge. I kept aloof from the other corporals, and was rather distant with the men--that is, with all except Nicholas. To him I never hesitated to confide my thoughts, and many a time he gave me advice well worth the having. He had read much and had travelled and mixed constantly with men, and all the worldly wisdom he had gained was at my disposal; indeed, I often felt secretly pleased that the Prince, as we sometimes called him in his absence, was so frank and free with me. He had, I knew, been exiled by the Tsar, or at any rate compelled by circumstances to leave his country. I knew of some things he had done--and they were guilty deeds--but he was so clever, so superior to us others in manner and bearing, so generous when he had money, and, best of all virtues in a soldier's eyes, so loyal to his comrades, that a far more experienced man than I might have easily fallen under his influence. I shall have more to say of the Russian in the next chapter, and soon after that he will disappear for ever from these pages. I shall not anticipate, however, but let the tale unfold itself in its proper order, making but one more observation here--namely, that when the account of the last fight which I have mentioned went through the Legion, and I believe I may say through all the army, it, coupled with the story of the fight at Three Fountains, gave No. 4 Company and mine a most unenviable reputation. In a way this was good; nobody felt inclined to quarrel with us, and a most unusual calm and quietness prevailed in every camp where we lay. At the same time the generals gave us our fill of fighting--more than our share, indeed--but these things will come in their own place afterwards. And so I close this chapter--the chapter of the slaughter. CHAPTER XIII The next important event of my life in Tonquin was the first battle of Lang-Son. This was, to put it bluntly, a defeat for our troops and a really creditable victory for our enemies. Of course, reasons are given by the beaten side for every mishap. "Rank bad luck," for instance, unknown and unforeseen difficulties of country, unsuspected numerical superiority of the victors--anything and everything except a fair and straight admission of an honest beating in open warfare. Now these are all nonsense. Why should a general talk of "rank bad luck"? If he ascribes a defeat to this, may not people fairly ascribe his victories to good luck, and that alone? As for saying that the lie of the land was not known, that is merely a confession of ignorance, and worse--of carelessness in using his mounted men and his scouts. That an enemy may succeed in massing a great number of men at a given point without the knowledge or even suspicion of his opponent is quite conceivable; is it not what every general who knows his business tries to do? Read the history of any campaign and you will find that all the decisive actions were won by a swift and secret concentration of troops against an important place held by comparatively weak numbers. If I were a general, I should try to divide my enemy's forces and concentrate my own. Ah, when a man is beaten let him say so honestly; let him point out, if he wishes, how his opponent out-manoeuvred him; and let him, in the name of all the gods, say nothing about luck, and, above all, be discreetly silent about anything that might hint at his own carelessness or the worthlessness of his scouts. Now, let me try to show how our defeat came about. But first let me again say that the enemy beat us fairly and squarely in the engagement; that we retreated is good enough proof of that. Well, in the first place, the generals and the other officers firmly believed that the Black Flags and their allies would never be able to stand up against either our rifle fire or our charge. They had good reason, I admit, for assuming this. Unfortunately, they never reckoned on having to fight regular troops, officered and disciplined by Europeans, and it was these regular troops, well armed, well drilled, well led, and showing an amount of courage and staying power which one does not usually attribute to Asiatics, that drove us off the field. There were Black Flags and other barbarians in the fight, but these we could have easily first stalled off with the rifle and afterwards cut to pieces with the bayonet: it was really the men in uniforms who won the fight. In the second place, we soldiers had learned to depend implicitly on our commanders. They had led us so well that we had as much confidence in their foresight and military skill as they had in our courage and steadfastness. The day before we were driven from Lang-Son no man even dreamt that our generals could be ignorant of anything occurring within a radius of a hundred miles; that a numerous and well-appointed army was within striking distance without their knowledge seemed, or would seem, if such a thing entered our minds, the fancy of a fool or the vain imagining of a coward. When the fight was going on we were surprised at the gallant manner in which our foes stood up against us. After a time, when more than once we had hurled them back with the bayonet, we recognised that we were dealing with the most formidable force that we had yet encountered. They gave us bullet for bullet, thrust for thrust. They were good men, and when the bayonets crossed they fought quietly and earnestly, and died without a murmur, almost without a groan. They could never hold out long against us in a charge--they were too light--and, another point to be noted, though the Asiatic will face death by the hands of the executioner with far more stoicism than the European, in the press of the battle the white man's enthusiasm is infinitely better than the yellow man's contempt of death. But in the firing they more than held their own, they were more numerous, their ammunition was evidently plentiful, and, to tell the plain truth, in spite of our bayonet charges they fairly shot us off the field. To put the matter in a nutshell: we were defeated because our generals did not know the kind and the number of troops opposed to them. Let me add, our overweening confidence in our own prowess gave way to something very different as we saw ourselves slowly but surely forced back, and noted that the bayonet was not used to gain ground for a fresh advance but merely to drive back for a moment a too closely pressing enemy. At the same time it is but justice to admit that the defence was a good one. We retired, undoubtedly, but we showed no confusion beyond that certain amount that always shows on a battlefield, nay, even at a peaceful review. I must now go on to my own part in the unlucky fight. After the first repulse my battalion had been constantly engaged in covering the rear of the retreat. On our right flank some French line regiment was busy in the same way. All the other troops, as far as I could judge--but a corporal sees very little of a battle outside the part borne in it by his own company--had been withdrawn, and were hard at work getting ready a new line of defence, while we who were just in front of the enemy kept them back in order to gain time. At last we could scarcely hold them at bay, and the order was given that our battalion should retire by companies. Nos. 2 and 4 quickly left the firing line; No. 1 was the next to leave, and my company poured in as hot a fire as we could until the order was given to run at top speed to the rear. I, as luck had it, had just loaded. I fired deliberately at a white man I saw about three hundred yards away cheering on the enemy, and saw him fall. I then turned and ran as fast as I could after my comrades. These were now some distance in advance, but as I went along I saw a good path leading slightly away from the point where the company would naturally fall into ranks again for another volley or two at the enemy and to allow the men time to regain their breath. This path, though slightly diverging from my route, at any rate would bring me away from the enemy, and I could, when at a safe distance from the Chinese, cut across country to rejoin my squad. I was running through rice-fields, and I knew that I could vastly increase my speed on the path. My one object at the time was to get away; I had no desire to fall, wounded or unwounded, into my pursuers' hands. I therefore turned and fled along the path, which ran by the side of a small stream. As I ran, I noticed that the ground on the other side of the path gradually rose and at length formed a fairly high mound. This, however, I did not mind; every step took me further from the savages. I gradually slackened speed as my breath gave out, and instinctively flung away the cartridge, that I had fired at the white officer and put my hand into the pouch at my right side for a fresh one. Just as my thumb and forefinger closed on a cartridge, a sudden apparition met my gaze. I was rounding a corner, and there, not twenty yards away, was a Chinaman, evidently as astonished as I at the rencontre. I have never been so frightened in my life as at this totally unexpected meeting with an enemy in such a place. I had no power to take the cartridge from the pouch and fit it into the rifle. I was thunderstruck; I felt an awful horror of impending death. The Chinaman--he seemed a giant in my eyes--hastily tucked the butt of his gun into his right armpit and fired. I ducked instinctively, and at once knew that he had missed. The awkward way he fired and the sudden movement on my part had saved my life. In a second I had a cartridge in the rifle and the rifle at my shoulder; the Chinaman dropped his weapon and fled. Now the pathway was quite straight and level for a distance of about two hundred yards. There was no means of making a hasty escape to one side or the other; on the right ran the stream, on the left stood up a mound about eight or nine feet high. I saw, therefore, that I could let my man go a good distance without firing at him. This I desired, for my rifle kicked a little. When he was about a hundred and fifty yards away I aimed carefully at the back of his knee, pulled the trigger, and probably took him fairly in the small of the back. He flung up his arms, reeled, and fell face downwards in the water, and lay there quite still. I was satisfied. I felt a natural and yet an unreasonable anger with the man who had sought to take my life--natural, because every man hates those who attack him; unreasonable, because why should not he try to do to me as I should have tried to do to him were the positions changed? But soon my anger gave place to caution. I reloaded and clambered up the bank, determined to leave the path, as I could not know that other Chinese might not stop my way with better success than the first. After crossing through some low shrubs and brushwood the sound of volleys quickly repeated led me to the company. I fell into my proper place. Nobody said anything except the captain--a new man not with us a month--who sarcastically asked if I had seen a ghost. We gradually fell back towards the new line of defence. The regulars attacking wasted no time, and pushed us rather rapidly along. At last a staff officer came with a message to our captain, and we hurriedly poured a heavy fire into the advancing enemy, then we all turned and ran towards the point whither the captain led us. We got a good start and covered the ground quickly; at a little line of small trees and underwood lay safety. As we straggled into this we were ordered to face about and lie down. We saw the Chinese regulars coming along with hoarse cries of joy, not extended in skirmishing order, but in dense masses of men, who pressed and struggled to the front. A bugle call rang out, and suddenly a horrible rattle of musketry began. The enemy were fairly caught. Every rifle of ours was blazing away at about two hundred yards' range at the easy target they presented. In a moment, as it seemed to me, the attack withered away. Where a minute before were triumphant soldiers rushing in pursuit of a fleeing foe, one saw now nothing but prostrate bodies on the ground. Many, no doubt, flung themselves down as the first shots rang out, but the vast majority must have been swept into eternity by our fire. But this was not all. Our guns began, and even those who were a thousand yards away felt staggered in their advance. For ten minutes we heard nothing but the rattle of musketry, the booming of the guns, the noise of the shells as they hurtled through the air, and then the explosions a thousand yards away. The cries and shrieking of the wounded were unheard and unheeded. If the enemy had driven us from the field and could fairly claim a victory, we in the end taught them such a lesson surely as defeated never before taught their conquerors. That last firing more than equalised losses, and, better still, gave us the bitter-sweet of vengeance, and restored the old feeling of self-confidence that had been so rudely shaken on that day. This was really the close of the battle. In various parts firing still went on, but an attack in force by either side was manifestly impossible. The Chinese regulars had been too much cut up towards the close of the fighting; as for us, there was only one course to be taken--retreat towards our base in order to prevent being outflanked. The new line of defence had served its purpose. It was not strong enough, nor were we numerous enough, to withstand an attack in force on the morrow, especially as our opponents were strong enough to hold us in front while flanking columns got round even to our rear. After an hour's rest, which we badly wanted, the order was given to retire, and for seven hours we struggled on, angry, weary and hungry. At last we formed a little camp; some rice and brandy were served out--we had no soup or coffee--and so, in bad humour with ourselves, the enemy, and our rations, we lay down on the ground to forget in sleep discomfort and defeat. Luckily, the enemy did not press their advantage as they should. We were soon reinforced, and when we had recovered from the fatigue of the fight and the retreat, we again tried conclusions with them with better success. The story of the second battle of Lang-Son will be told in due course. I must now narrate an incident that occurred between the battles, while we were still retreating and somewhat pressed by the foe. First, it must be understood that my battalion formed part of the rear-guard. There were French soldiers of several corps and native levies as well, and I may say here that the Frenchmen showed as much steady courage in retiring before overwhelming masses of the enemy as they usually show of gallantry and _élan_ in a charge. I can never again believe that the Frenchman is good only when advancing; given capable officers, he is a perfect soldier at all points. This retreat proved the fact. We were half starved; there was the continual fear of being wounded and left to the merciless Black Flags; for all that, while the legionaries were furious and occasionally downcast, though doing their duty like brave men, the men of the line, the zouaves, the marine fusiliers, the chasseurs--and I believe the rear-guard had men of all these--were, after the first feeling of anger and disappointment, cheerful, making light of difficulties, almost gaily prophesying a speedy revenge. Now one evening my battalion halted after a weary, heart-breaking tramp during the day. We had had little food, and that unsuitable, for some time. In my squad was a man whose country I have good reasons for not mentioning; suffice it to say that he came from a land lying on the eastern frontier of France. I shall call him Jean, though that was not his name. All the day he was saying: "Quelle misère, quelle misère!" until we were sick of the words, and I told him, rather roughly I am sorry to say, to keep his troubles to himself. When we came into camp great precautions were adopted to prevent surprise, and I may detail these so that everything may be quite plain. Moreover, they will show how careful our officers were. Now, as I have often mentioned, a battalion has four companies. Normally a company has two hundred and fifty men, but at this time the strongest company of my battalion numbered only about a hundred and sixty. In the camp the battalion lay in square, so that each company had one side of the square to protect in case of attack, and had to furnish all the guards and outlying pickets on that side. My company lay on the side nearest the enemy, or, as I should rather say, nearest the quarter whence an attack would most probably come. When the company was halted and faced outwards, a corporal and his squad--say seventeen all told--were detached to furnish the inner sentries. Of these eight men were posted at intervals about fifty paces from the main body; the corporal and the eight reliefs lay half-way between them and the company. Thus every soldier was on sentry for two hours at a time, and then had two hours to rest as well as he could on the bare ground. This squad constituted the guard. Now two squads with their respective corporals, having an officer or sergeant in chief command, formed the outlying pickets of the company or, if you wish, of one side of the square encampment. Half of each squad acted as sentries about seventy-five yards from the inner line of watching men; between the two lines of sentries the reliefs of the outlying pickets rested. The sentries of the guard stood up, the sentries of the outlying pickets lay down; no glint of buckle or bayonet was allowed to show. It was next to impossible to surprise the camp, even if the darkness should prevent the outer line of sentinels from seeing the approach of an enemy, by placing their ears to the ground they could easily hear the tread of any considerable body of troops, and it would require a very considerable body of men to surprise effectively--that is, to annihilate--about six hundred good soldiers, who knew how useless it was to ask for quarter from such enemies. I hope I have made this matter clear: military men, I know, will understand, and I hope that others may be able to comprehend it too. My squad was for outlying picket that night, and as it contained only fifteen men I had to borrow one from the corporal of the next squad for duty. This happened to be the one in which Le Grand was, and I asked for him. My request was granted, and Le Grand was attached for twelve hours to my little party. The sub-lieutenant of the company was in charge of the picket, and having led us out to our places he ordered the other corporal and me to post the first sentries. I posted eight men, amongst them Jean, who was still suffering from melancholy, and returned to the spot where the reliefs were to lie. Nicholas, Le Grand, and I lay near one another on the ground and began a whispered conversation in English, a language that the Russian spoke with great purity and ease. In the course of this I mentioned to Le Grand the strange way in which Jean had been speaking all the day, and Nicholas volunteered to tell us the poor fellow's strange story. I can only give the merest outline of it. I wish I could tell it just as I heard it that night, but Nicholas was a born storyteller; indeed, he was clever in all things. I must try to give it in my own words. Jean had been a light cavalryman in the army of his own country, which bordered on France. He was, in his own words, a _mauvais sujet_, always getting into trouble. He could not resist the charms of female society, and many a dreary hour he passed in prison for staying away from his duties because he could not tear himself away from some newly-found angel. Things in the end came to such a pass that his life in barracks became unbearable, as his comrades had now turned against him. A cavalryman's horse must be attended to, and if the rider be absent his comrades have to do extra work. Now extra work is merely a cause of extra swearing when the proper man for the duty is ill or absent on leave, or even absent without permission once in a while, but when a man is continually staying out and then getting sent to cells the affair is altogether different. In no army will soldiers stand that. It is quite enough, men say, for each to groom and feed his own charger, but it is very unfair that a soldier, his own work done, should be ordered to do the work of another who is away enjoying himself or paying for his pleasure in the guard-room. So Jean had been rather roughly disciplined by his fellow-soldiers, and this punishment did him so much more good than any inflicted by the officers that for nearly two months he was a fairly steady soldier. Seeing this, the other fellows became again friendly with him, never, indeed, having borne malice, and only desiring that he should do his share of the work. Well, one night a big gamble was carried on in the barrack-room. Some recruits had come in for training, and two or three of these were fairly well off. The old soldiers thought that card-playing would tend to a more equal distribution of the money, and preparations were accordingly made for a wakeful night. A few bottles of brandy and wine were smuggled in, and when all the lights were out blankets were judiciously placed over the windows, the lower edge of the door, and even the keyhole, so that by no accident might the game be interrupted. Then some candles were lit, and after the men had been cordially invited to drink, some game or other was begun, and, as was natural, the more equable distribution of the money began. Now Jean was a very good card-player, and the little pile of silver and coppers at his corner of the table steadily increased, and when the little party broke up at reveille, his head was heavy with sleep and his pockets with money. He got through the duties of the day as well as he could, and when evening came dressed to go out, just merely, as he said to Nicholas afterwards, for a walk and a glass of wine. Of course, he took all his money with him: that was an obvious precaution. Soon after passing through the gate he met a lady whose acquaintance he had made some time before. She was pretty and clever, knew how to dress, and was by no means averse to the society of a handsome light cavalryman whose pockets were well lined and whose reputation for generosity in his dealings with the fair sex was so well established as our friend's. The pair had ever so much to say to each other, and Jean admitted that he had a little money, sent to him by a rich aunt, he said, who would some day die and leave him a nice little property--oh, merely a few thousand shillings a year. (I use the word shillings as it gives no clue to Jean's country.) "How good she was!" said the pretty girl. "And I," she went on; "oh, you would never guess what I am doing now." Jean guessed, and guessed, and guessed again. It was all no use; he had to pay for a pair of gloves before his curiosity would be gratified. Then she told him that a certain rich bachelor, a Government official, had gone for a cure to some watering-place and had left her in sole charge of his domicile until his return. "Oh," said Jean, "I guessed the rich man, and yet I had to pay for the gloves." "True, my friend, very true indeed," she answered; "but you did not guess the visit to the baths, and is not that, my handsome fellow, the most important thing?" There was no denying this. Surely it must rejoice youth and health to find age and pain so careful, so thoughtful, for self and others! Jean was generous; he could well afford to be, as he had won a large sum, for a soldier; the girl, to give her her due, was not too exacting. An idyllic life was lived by both in the beautifully furnished house of Dives Senex for almost a week. Jean went out only at dark, and then merely for a walk around the unfrequented parts of the town for an hour. As he wore the old man's clothes, which fitted fairly well, there was little danger of his being recognised. At last the dreaded morning came when Jean should leave the house. He knew that sharp punishment awaited him at the barracks, but he had made up his mind to make a bold bid for liberty. This time he feared the anger of his comrades more than a court-martial, for he had been guilty of the unpardonable sin of winning money and spending it without the aid of the other troopers, while all the work of barrack-room and stable was left to them. He knew very well that the consequences would be ugly, and he determined to desert from his corps, more from fear of the squad court-martial than of the regular one presided over by an officer. Of course, his desertion was nothing--that is common in all armies--but Jean's plan of deserting was unique. I at least have never heard of a similar case. Now the town in which Jean's regiment lay was not very far from the French frontier. At this place there was a debatable ground about a hundred yards wide, and on each side a line of sentries, French on the west, Jean's countrymen on the east. Jean had quite made up his mind to cross to French territory; he believed that, if he could only get there and get a few kilometres away from the frontier, the French authorities would not trouble themselves to capture him and send him back. Moreover, desertion, as I have already had occasion to mention, is not an extraditable offence. The difficulties were to get to the frontier, to cross it safely, and to travel some distance into France. Well, Jean knew that at a certain hour that day his regiment would be out of barracks for cavalry drill. He also knew a way of getting into his quarters without passing any men of his own regiment on duty. An infantry guard lay at a certain gate. They would in all probability let him pass; he could then cross the infantry parade ground, go under an archway or through a gate--I am not quite certain about this--and enter the cavalry barracks. Once there he would act as circumstances required. To make as certain as possible of passing the guard, he bought a blue envelope, put a sheet of paper inside, fastened the edges, and wrote the address of some high officer upon it, and then placed the seemingly official document between his belt and tunic. Anybody would thus mistake him for an orderly carrying a despatch, and so no one would think of interfering. Thus prepared he easily passed the infantry guard, nodding genially to some of the men, and made his way across the parade ground to the entrance to the cavalry quarters. Here he was in luck; no one was about except a couple of recruits doing sentry duty--one at the stables, the other about fifty yards away. Jean was not recognised by either, and, going to his room, put on his sword, and dressed himself as if for general parade. He then went down to the stables, saddled his charger, which was the only animal in the place, mounted, and rode back the way he came. Again he passed without suspicion the infantry guard at the gate, and soon found himself smartly trotting towards the frontier. He was in high spirits. Everything had gone so well, surely luck would not desert him now. As he neared the frontier he trotted towards a guard-house on the side of the road. The sentry near the door looked carelessly at him as he came up, the sergeant did not condescend to come forward to meet him: he was evidently only a light cavalryman sent with some ridiculous message or other from the town. When only a few yards from the guard-house, instead of pulling up and delivering the blue envelope which he now held in his hand, he flung it on the ground, and driving the spurs into his horse's sides he passed the astonished sentry and galloped into the debatable land. A gap in the hedge allowed him into the fields that bordered the road. He heard as he went through the report of a rifle behind, but the sudden turn saved him. He now went towards the French line at a spot about equidistant from two French sentries, and as he did so he lowered his head to his horse's neck. The French sentries also fired and missed. You can scarcely blame them; their surprise must have been so great when they saw a presumably mad light horseman invading single-handed the sacred soil of France. In less time than it takes to tell Jean was through the second line of guards and careering wildly across country, taking hedges, streams and ditches like the winning jockey of the Grand National. A few scattered bullets whizzed about his ears, but rider and horse were untouched. He was now safe from the fire of his fellow-countrymen, and the French sentinels probably did not want to hit him; his escapade, serious though it might be for the others, was only a good joke to them. Moreover, a private soldier must be very bad-minded indeed when he tries to shoot another private, though of a different army, who has evidently got into trouble and is seeking to escape. Certain things excite compassionate feelings amongst men of all armies--amongst the simple soldiers, I mean. As for the sergeants and corporals, the thoughts of the chevrons they have and those they hope for make them dead to all feelings of pity for a man in trouble. After some time Jean began to feel somewhat at ease. He pulled up under cover of a small wood and began to consider his next move. If he could only get rid of the uniform he fancied he should be comparatively safe. This had to be done quickly, as he was not more than three miles from the frontier, and the French cavalry would soon be on his track. While he was thinking he glanced around to see if he were observed, and saw an old man, evidently of the farming class, looking at him with surprise. Jean determined to appeal for aid, and going towards the peasant frankly told his story. The peasant smiled at first and then laughed heartily. "My good friend," said he, "take off the saddle and bridle and put them here," at the same time pointing to a place where the underwood was very thick. Jean did so, and the old man carefully concealed them. "Now lead your horse by the mane to that field where you see the cows grazing, and return." Jean obeyed. "Now come to my house"--he pointed it out--"in ten minutes: no one will be within. You will find clothes on a chair, but be sure to take away again your uniform, belts and sword--they would be of no use to me; hide them where they will not be likely to be found." Jean did as he was told. He found some old clothes on the chair just inside the door; on a table were some bread and milk. He drank the latter and pocketed the former when he had put on the disguise, and then flung all his military clothing and equipments into a stagnant pool. On that day he did not travel far, but found a secure hiding-place until the darkness should allow him to go his way in safety. During the night he tramped about twenty-five kilometres, keeping his eyes and ears on guard, but only once was he in danger. He heard the footfalls of horses at a distance and left the road. Two mounted gendarmes passed, and after a short interval Jean resumed his journey. At daybreak again he sought and found a hiding-place, and there slept for some hours. When he awoke he felt hungry and thirsty, and resolved to try to buy something at a farmhouse that was visible about five hundred yards away. As Jean spoke good French he anticipated no difficulty on the score of language, and, having some silver in his pockets, there surely ought to be no difficulty in the way of obtaining supplies. When he went to the farmhouse he was met by an old woman, who at once pitied the tired wayfarer with the handsome face and the ragged clothes; she gave him bread and meat and a glass of wine, refusing all payment. She was so good and looked so trustworthy that Jean told her his story, omitting, however, all mention of women, and explaining that his desertion was due altogether to the tyranny of the officers. The good old woman pitied him the more for his sad tale; she even gave him a suit of fairly good clothing belonging to her son, at the time serving with his regiment. How the women of Europe love and honour the soldier and pity his misfortunes! There the army has hostages from all homes. She even pressed money on him, but this he refused to take. He had money enough in his pocket to carry him a good way towards Paris, and, even if he had to tramp a bit of the way, with his new clothing he felt independent and free from care. In the end Jean entered Paris, and immediately volunteered for the Foreign Legion. At once he was accepted, and after a short time in Algeria was sent to Tonquin. There he was taken into my battalion, and handed over to me to help to make up the number of the squad. And now he was amongst us, calling out every moment the unlucky words: "Quelle misère, quelle misère!" Nicholas took up a longer time in telling this story than I, but you must remember that the Russian was very clever and had the story at first-hand. I have only given the general outline; most of the details have been forgotten by me after so many years. Well, at last the sub-lieutenant in charge of both squads of the outlying picket ordered the reliefs to be posted. I took Nicholas the Russian, Le Grand the Irishman, and six others of various nationalities to relieve the half-squad that had done sentry duty for the previous two hours. I remember I put Le Grand in place of poor Jean. When we--that is, I, the corporal, and the eight men relieved--came back to the lying-down place I dismissed quietly the men, of course only from duty, not from the place, and lay down on my back, shut my eyes, and began to muse. Almost before I felt it I was in a half-doze, when suddenly the report of a rifle caused me to jump up. As I opened my eyes I saw, so quickly did the alarm arouse me, the falling body of a man. I hurriedly called out the names of the reliefs--the men relieved were now the reliefs--all answered except Jean. "I think, my corporal," said an Alsatian, "that he has shot himself." The whole camp was roused; the sub-lieutenant ran down and called me to account for the alarm. I went over to the prone figure, passed my hand across the face, and found it at once warm and wet. Poor Jean, as we saw when dawn came, had blown away the top of his head. There was no enemy, it was true, but I fancy the legionaries did not sleep any more that night; a dead comrade in the camp is worse, a thousand times worse, than a living foe outside. Now I won't moralise over this. Jean, as I have called him, was a good comrade, especially when he had money; he was fickle, but so were all, amongst the women; he chose to shoot himself, that was his business and not mine. And that is all that I, his corporal, have to say. CHAPTER XIV A little time after the suicide of Jean we found ourselves in a position to attempt the recapture of Lang-Son. We went forward cautiously, doing at most ten kilometres a day. Then even at the end of a day's march we were in fit condition for a battle, in case the enemy elected to attack us in the evening or during the night. As we again went forward our spirits rose. We were extremely glad to have done with the constant retirement in front of the enemy; of all things in the world the most disheartening is a withdrawal after a defeat. A victory means hard work, and a pursuit harder, but a retreat is the hardest of all. I am not speaking of the glory of victory or the disgrace of defeat. Like most soldiers I think only of my private troubles and the troubles of my comrades, and I can assure the reader that, when a battalion is falling back on the base, supplies are bad and insufficient, anxiety on the part of all is heart-breaking, an attack in force is always to be expected, and no one can safely say that those who have beaten his side once may not do so again and more decisively. Even in a pursuit, when the rations are short, one feels that the enemy is suffering more than himself, and the thought that the battalion is pressing on their rear, giving them no peace or ease or quietness, adds a zest to the bad and scanty food which makes it palatable and satisfying. Let no one run away with the idea that we simple soldiers did not feel the sting of defeat--indeed, we felt it, and sorely too--but while one can forgive himself for a disaster, he finds it very hard to forgive the enemy for following it up. It is bad enough to be driven off a stricken field; it is infinitely worse to be harassed afterwards. War is like gambling: if you win first, even though you lose afterwards, you like to keep on playing the game; but if you lose in the beginning, you will at once imagine that the game is not worth the candle. The young soldier who in his first battle tastes the bitterness of defeat and endures the hardships of the hurried march, the wakeful rest under arms, the wretched food, the dirt and worse than dirt, the continual strain upon the nerves, and all things else which are the portion of the conquered, will see war divested of all its seeming glory; his voice at least will never be for war. The Black Flags and their allies, the Chinese regulars, gave us very little trouble on our march towards Lang-Son. What little fighting did take place on the way cannot be described by me, as my battalion had nothing to do with it. Annamite tirailleurs with some French soldiers and legionaries formed the first line of the advance. They easily overcame all the opposition offered to them; it was only when the grand assault in force had to be made that we others came into the fighting line. While advancing rations again were both good and sufficient; occasionally too we got an allowance of wine or brandy, and these extra rations pleased us very much, for it is wonderfully easy to make soldiers happy. Our guards and pickets were just as well set and kept as ever--our officers were taking no risks--and God help the man of ours who slept at his post. We acquiesed cheerfully in this; and in any case we were so accustomed to exact discipline and perfect precautions against surprise that constant guard and picket-mounting seemed as natural as getting one's morning coffee or evening soup. Since we did not march much any day there was always a fairly long time in camp, and when we entered camp in the evening, the men who had been up the night before lay down and rested while the others, who had had, thanks to their comrades' watchfulness, a good night's rest, lit the fires and cooked the evening meal and performed all the other duties that soldiers have to do in the field. This had a good effect upon all; it was just as if one man said to another: "You watched last night while I slept in safety, I will now work while you rest in comfort and wait for your soup." The officers, I am sure, noted this and were glad: anything that makes soldiers better comrades tends also to make them better fighting men. At last the day came when we were within striking distance of the enemy. All ranks were satisfied. We knew that very soon the disgrace of the last action would be wiped away, and we in the ranks were just as eager to clean the slate as our officers. I do not think that many were thinking of gaining promotion or distinction in the fight. The important thing was to show to all the world, or at least to that part of it which was interested in the campaign, that our reverse was but an accident of war and its effects only temporary. Again, we all desired satisfaction for the torments and annoyances of the retreat; these were too recent to be easily forgotten. The battle was begun, as usual, by the artillery. They, however, were not long the only men engaged, for very soon after the cannonade had begun the long lines of infantry were extended to right and left. My company was in the right attack, and we went gaily forward in skirmishing order until a man or two fell. Then we opened fire at a pretty long range at the place where the cloud of smoke told us that our friends the enemy lay. This firing did not delay the advance. On the contrary, it hastened it, for now we fired and ran forward, fired again and made another dash towards the front. Indeed, our officers and sergeants had a good deal of work to keep us from going along too quickly, and in the end we corporals were commanded to cease firing and to devote our attention exclusively to keeping our squads well in hand, so that the line might advance evenly and the men be brought up in sound wind and condition to the point where the bayonets would be fixed for the final charge. Of course, I know you will say that the corporals should have been doing this from the very outset, but it is very hard for a man to carry a rifle and cartridges without making some use of them. Why, I have seen officers, and those of high rank too, take the rifle of a dead man and half-a-dozen cartridges from his pouch in order to have the satisfaction of firing a few shots at the enemy. It is human nature, or rather the nature of soldiers in a fight; one likes to feel that he is doing something on his own account to help his comrades and to hurt the foe. Well, the officers and the sub-officers worked well together, and the men, to give them their due, obeyed orders willingly, especially when the excitement of the first firing had passed away and they had settled down to the steady work of the advance. When we came within about four hundred yards of the entrenchments the rushes succeeded one another more rapidly, and men went a greater distance between shots. Thus we gradually approached, until finally we were all ordered to lie down and fix bayonets. As we did so the supports joined the fighting line--they were somewhat blown with the last race forward--and so we lay about eighty yards or less from the enemy's position, firing as quickly as possible. The Chinese regulars and the Black Flags were not remiss either in their volleys. A hail of bullets crossed the zone between us, but their fire slowly slackened, especially as a very storm of shells was falling towards their rear. Their supports, we saw, could not easily come up. At length the guns in our rear ceased shelling the position; at the same time the fire had greatly diminished in front. The commandant saw that the time had come, and at the sound of the charge we sprang up, ran at the regulation _pas gymnastique_ towards the trenches, and, when about twenty yards away, rushed at the top of our speed, with the usual charging cry of "Kill, kill," at the fortifications, which had been already so badly damaged by the guns. In a few seconds we were in and using the bayonet with deadly earnestness and a grim determination to wash away in blood the memory of our recent defeat. The Black Flags flung down their weapons and ran out at the back of the entrenchments, but the Chinese regulars fought very well indeed. Well as the Chinese fought they could not long stand up against us. I have already mentioned that they are very light; indeed, I doubt if the average weight is much more than seven stone and a half. Then they can stand bayoneting without shrinking, but they are by no means quick in using the bayonet themselves; again, if a Chinaman gets you on the ground he will drive his weapon home six or seven times more than are needed, and will never notice your comrade coming along, quietly, with lowered head and levelled bayonet to attack. It seems to me that the Chinese go into a fight with something ugly to foreigners to meet, but altogether unlike what we Europeans call courage; they just go in, they kill, they are killed, and that is all there is about it. Yet they are not cowards; if they are, why did they not run like the Black Flags? And they will charge wounded men with spirit, if I may use the word in that connection; and with just as much steady calmness they will await the onset of the foreign devils when they rush the mound, get into the ditch and slay, and, not yet slaked with blood, rush out at the rear of the entrenchments with bloody bayonets, and loot and murder and rapine in their minds. We got in, and in a few moments not a man was left standing up in the trenches. We looked around. What was the next thing to do? "No. 1 Company, remain here," shouted the commandant as he tried to staunch the blood that ran down the left side of his face from an ugly sabre slash on the temple; "the other companies advance." We three companies got out at the rear of the field fortifications and awaited orders again. "Go up that hill, captain"--this to my captain from the commandant--"and help the soldiers of the line to carry it." "Yes, my commandant," said the captain. We turned towards the right and looked at the little hill. It was about three hundred yards only from level ground to crest; the top was fortified, but only slightly; the soldiers of the line were half-way up on their side, but they were meeting with a very gallant resistance. The rifles above showed no signs of slackening; a heavy, dense smoke covered the crest of the hill; midway down you saw the spirts of flame and little smoke clouds where the French were going up. That smoke quickly disappeared, for the men never fired twice in the same spot. We ran at first up the hill, and were not noticed; very soon we went more easily, as the hill grew steeper and the rifles above began to pay us attention. Then we fired upwards in return, but our bayonets were fixed, and we knew very well that in these alone lay any chance of success. How could we hit men above us whom we could not see? It was impossible, but we could, and did, send bullets so near their heads that aiming down was almost as fruitless for them as aiming up was for the soldiers of the line and ourselves. As we went along an officer ran up almost to the top, waving his sword, and crying out to the men to follow. We went a little more quickly. Just as he reached a point about ten paces from the outer face of the entrenchments he fell, shot through the heart. A great cry arose from us; we sprang up, disregarding all cover, and madly raced for the summit of the little hill. Volley after volley was fired at us, but with little damage. Take my word for it, when the Asiatic sees the European charging with bayonet on rifle-barrel his aim is not quite so good as usual, and in any case his best is not much. So we rushed, and when we came to the little fortification we had small difficulty in getting in; by that time the French soldiers of the line had crowned the height on their side and were over the entrenchments. We were almost shoved back by the fugitives running from the Frenchmen, but we steadied ourselves and gave them the bayonet, until at last they were all down, and the soldiers of the line and the legionaries alone stood facing one another on the little hill with ugly curses and bloody steel. Not that they cursed us or we them; only when you are using the bayonet, and for a while afterwards, your language is a real reflex of your thoughts. It was the Frenchmen who really carried the hill; we had only come in towards the end to their assistance. So we left them on the ground that they had so gallantly won, and, going down the side nearest the remnants of our opponents, we looked for more work, more excitement, more glory, and more revenge. And we found them all very soon. We had scarcely reached the bottom of the hill when a crowd of Chinese regulars, with some Black Flags who had not run away, charged us with loud cries and imprecations. We met them fairly and squarely, and pushed them at the point of the bayonet a few yards back. They were reinforced, and by sheer weight of numbers made us for a time give way. Our officers fought like devils; truth to tell, though we did not like them, we could not help admiring their courage in a fight. The captain was down, so was the sub-lieutenant, the lieutenant had been wounded at the beginning of the battle; the one sergeant who was left took up the command and led us back from a short retreat in an ugly rush against the enemy. I saw a Black Flag carrying a standard in his left hand, while he cut all around at our fellows with the sword in his right. I determined to have that flag, or at least to make a bold try for it, and went with levelled bayonet at the barbarian. He cut down a man of ours as I came, and had not time to parry my thrust with his sword, and failed to do so with the staff of the banner. He took the point fairly in the left side, and I had only just time to get my weapon back when he delivered a furious slash at my head. Receiving this on the middle of the rifle-barrel I thrust a second time, and sent him fairly to the ground. Reversing my rifle--that is, holding it at the left side instead of the right--I stabbed straight down, and pinned his right hand to the ground. Pressing then on the rifle with my left hand, so that he could not free his sword arm, I plucked away the banner with my right. Nicholas at the time shouted out: "Look out, corporal, look out." And, looking up, I saw half-a-dozen Black Flags coming straight at me. I flung the banner on the ground, pulled my bayonet out of the savage's hand, and, just in time, got into a posture of defence. The first man I stopped with a lunge in the face just between the eyes, but the others would have killed me were it not that now the squad came to my assistance. Nicholas and the others soon finished the half-dozen who had attacked me, but others came up too, and very soon about a dozen of us were desperately resisting a desperate attack. They outnumbered us by about four to one, but we were heavier, steadier, and, above all, quicker with the bayonet. All the same, man after man of ours went down till half our number lay dead or dying on the ground. Luckily, Le Grand noticed our difficulty and, calling together six or eight men of his own squad, came to our assistance. Le Grand and his comrades took the Black Flags in the flank; the new assailants overwhelmed them; they gave way sullenly at first, but in the end broke and fled, leaving more than half their number on the field. I was happy in retaining the banner, but I almost at once learned how dear that banner was to me. A cry from Le Grand made me turn round, and I saw Nicholas lying on the ground and a wounded Black Flag cutting at him with a sabre, while the poor Russian did his best to ward off the blows with his hands. As I looked, a Spaniard of Le Grand's squad drove his bayonet up to the rifle-muzzle three times in quick succession into the body of the wounded savage who was trying to kill our good comrade. I ran to Nicholas and, laying down rifle and captured flag, asked him how he felt, was he badly wounded, and without waiting for an answer began to bind his wounded arms and hands. He shook his head sadly. "It is no use, my comrade; I have got worse than that." Indeed he had, for his left side was torn open. Nicholas nodded his head towards a dead Black Flag, and we saw at once the weapon that had inflicted so horrible a wound. It was shaped somewhat like a bill-hook, but could be used for thrusting as well as cutting, about four inches of the end being shaped like a broad-bladed knife, the remainder of the steel rather resembling a narrow-bladed hatchet. The poor Russian, in spite of the severe wound, had managed to kill his enemy. I am glad he did so, for, had the barbarian been only wounded, I should have been sorely tempted to finish the work, and though one may kill a helpless man without pity when "seeing red" or to avenge a friend, yet afterwards the thought of such slaughter is unpleasant. After some time we stopped the bleeding, and were glad to be able to give him a good long drink, and then to refill his own water bottle with the few drops still remaining in the bottoms of ours. We left him only when we had to rejoin the company. The sergeant who now commanded it asked me gruffly where I had been. I showed him the captured banner, and in a few words told of the desperate fight made by the Black Flags to regain it. He seemed satisfied, and asked how many men I had lost. "Nine," I replied. He counted us, and said: "Nine lost and nine left; that is rather serious; a banner is not worth so many men." But you may be sure that it would have been worth a whole section in the sergeant's eyes, had he taken it. There was little more fighting to be done that day. All along the line the French had been successful, and already linesmen, chasseurs, zouaves, legionaries, and tirailleurs were bivouacking in Lang-Son. My battalion searched out its wounded and brought them to an appointed spot; you may be sure that poor Nicholas was carried as gently as possible to the place. I went back for him before I thought of looking for anyone else, even an officer. He was lying quietly where we had left him, and I found that already he had drunk all the water in the bottle. Luckily, as I was going back, I passed the dead body of a white officer of our opponents; he was dressed in a yellow tunic and trousers, with tan boots; his white helmet lay a foot or so from his head; a heavy, fair moustache curled outwards on both cheeks; his jaw had fallen, and his wide-open blue eyes were staring upwards at the sky; at least a dozen gashes showed red upon the body, and a bloody sword in one hand, an empty revolver in the other, were evidence that his death had been amply paid for. A white man fights well when he knows that there is no quarter for him. Luckily, as I have said, I came across this body, for slung round the right shoulder and resting at the left hip was a leather bottle. I took this, and was glad to find that it was more than half full of brandy and water. "A share, corporal," said a comrade. "No," I answered; "all for Nicholas." "Pardon me, corporal; I forgot." Nicholas thanked me with a glance and a nod. With some rifles and a couple of greatcoats we made a fairly good litter, and bore him to the quarter where the surgeons were working in their shirt sleeves. There we left him with the attendants and went out to bring in others. When I was leaving the hospital, if I may call it so, for the last time, as every wounded man had been brought in, Nicholas beckoned to me. I went over, and he whispered: "I am dying. I make you the heir to all I possess. Very little--but still all; here it is." He pressed a small bag into my hand. I said: "Not at all, good comrade; you will want it when you recover, or at least to get better attendance and a few delicacies in hospital." "No, my friend; I am leaving _la gamelle_. Take it and I shall be pleased. Try to see me in the morning; to-morrow evening it will be too late." He forced the little bag again into my hand. I had to take it, but I resolved to see him in the morning and to return it if he were still alive, though I could not help feeling an ugly presentiment that my poor friend was really dying and that the best friend I had in the little world of the Foreign Legion was about to leave me for ever. After soup had been served out to all the men the sergeant, who still commanded the company, told me that I was wanted at the hospital. I, thinking only of Nicholas, said that I should go thither at once. "Do you know, corporal," said he, "where it is?" "Certainly, yes," I answered. "Did I not help to bring many wounded there to-day?" "Of whom are you thinking?" he asked. "Nicholas, the prince, you understand. Do you not remember Three Fountains?" "Very well--too well, indeed," the sergeant replied; "but it is not the Russian who desires to see you, it is the captain." Calling to a hospital attendant passing at the time he inquired if the man were going to the officers' hospital. He was not going there, but would pass it on his way to his own destination. "Go with him," said the sergeant to me; "he will show you the place. Ask for our captain." I went away with the hospital orderly, and was shown the officers' hospital quarters by him. On giving name, company, and battalion--they saw my rank upon my sleeve--I was told to wait until the surgeon-in-charge could be told that I wished to see a patient. Very soon the surgeon came. He asked me quite abruptly whom I desired to see. I told him with military directness, but respectfully, and he said that I might be brought to where the captain lay. I went there with an orderly. The captain had a wound on the right arm not of much account; it certainly did not keep him in hospital, but, as he had been knocked down and stunned by a blow of a musket-butt on the left temple, the surgeons would, and did, detain him for awhile. Several times while I was with him he put his hands to his head and swore a little. But, of course, that was none of my business. He asked me about the banner I had taken--"not, you must remember," said he, "that that was very useful or very creditable." I told the story, and especially laid stress on the facts that poor Nicholas had warned me of the first attack and that he was now dying in the simple soldiers' hospital. "You are sorry?" he queried. "Very; he was my good comrade." "Had he much money?" "He gave me all." And I showed the little bag. "How much?" I counted, and replied: "One thousand four hundred and fifty francs, twenty or thirty piastres." "You are rich." "My captain, he will share with me if he lives, and if he dies I am the poorer by a friend." "Pouf! a sergeant does not want friends amongst the simple soldiers." "No, my captain, nor enemies; but I am not a sergeant." "You are; the commandant will announce it to-morrow. He was with me an hour ago." "Thanks, my captain; I did not see a ghost this time." "Ah, you remember! What made you look so pale that day?" I told him, and his only remark was: "It might have frightened a man, and you are only a boy. How old are you?" "Oh, in truth," I said, "not yet seventeen." "But you are over eighteen in the records." "That, my captain, is my official age." "Very well, very well; it has nothing to do with me." After awhile the captain said: "Who was Nicholas? What was he?" I answered truly that I did not know--that nobody knew--that he had often plenty of money, and was a good comrade. "We could not fail to see, my captain," I went on, "that he had been in a high position once; there is, indeed, a story that he commanded a company of Russian guards at Plevna, but no one knows with certainty. He did not tell, and we did not like to inquire." Then I asked the captain for permission to leave the company for half-an-hour in the morning. "Why do you ask that?" "I want to see Nicholas; he will be disappointed if I do not go to see him." "Perhaps he will be dead." "I think not so." "Perhaps he will ask for his money." "I mean to offer it to him." The captain smiled, and said: "You are a strange legionary; you do not care for money." "On the contrary, my captain, I do like money and what it buys; but Nicholas is my friend." "You may go; stay away an hour if you like. Tell the sergeant that I, the captain, have given you permission." "A thousand thanks, my captain." After some further questions and answers the captain ordered me to go. I saluted, and was just turning to leave when he called me back. Pointing to a cigar-box on a rickety table, he told me to give it to him. I did so. He opened it and took out two cigars. "Give that to monsieur the prince, with his captain's compliments, and keep this for yourself. Tell him, sergeant"--he laid stress upon the word--"that I am sorry for his misfortune and proud to have had such a man in my company. Say to him exactly what I have said to you." "Yes, my captain," I answered, saluted again, thanked him for the cigars, and went away. Let me say here, though it does somewhat anticipate events, that the captain was my good friend afterwards, and more than once broke my fall when I got into trouble. The death of Nicholas deprived me of a good comrade. By it I gained a friend in a higher position, but I would any day have surrendered the captain's good will if by so doing I could regain the companion of the barrack-room and the canteen. When I got back to the company, I reported my return at once to the sergeant. He asked me what the captain wanted me for, and I told him that the officer had questioned me about the affair of the banner and about Nicholas. I said nothing of the money or the cigars. "Did he tell you anything?" "Yes; he said that I was to be sergeant to-morrow." "Indeed," said the sergeant. "I suppose, sergeant, I may thank you for a favourable report about to-day's fight." "I only told the truth," said the sergeant, "and I always liked you when I was corporal of the squad." Then I told him about the captain's permission to me to absent myself for an hour in the morning so that I might pay a visit to Nicholas. "You must tell that," he replied, "to the sub-lieutenant in charge; an officer has been sent to us from another company." "Very well," said I. "Where is he?" He brought me to the sub-lieutenant's quarters. I told the officer of my permission; he was satisfied. Before I went he asked about the captain's wounds and a few questions of curiosity about Nicholas. I told him all I knew about the captain and almost nothing about my comrade. As I was leaving, the sergeant drew my attention to the fact that I had omitted speaking about my promotion. "You captured a flag, you say?" "Yes, sir; and there was a hard fight to retain it." "And the commandant will promote you sergeant to-morrow?" "Monsieur le capitaine said so, sir." "Very good, very good; somebody must be sergeant, I suppose, and why not you as well as another? You may withdraw." As we went away I asked the sergeant if there were any place where I could get a drink of wine or brandy. "Certainly, yes--if you have money, my comrade." "Come then," I said, "let us go there together." He brought me to a small hut, where I had to pay a stiff price for his brandy and my wine, and when he saw that I had plenty of money he unbent and congratulated me more than once on my promotion. He ended by borrowing twenty francs, which I willingly lent; of course, he forgot to repay me. The next morning on parade the commandant praised me a little and ordered me to take over the duties of No. 1 section. The sergeant who had borrowed the twenty francs from me the day before was appointed sergeant-major, and the corporal of a squad of No. 2 was made sergeant of that section. When we were dismissed, I reminded the new sergeant-major of my permission to visit Nicholas. He remembered the money I had shown the evening before and promptly brought me up before the sub-lieutenant in temporary command of the company, in order that I might report my intention of taking advantage of the leave given me by the captain. The sub-lieutenant offered no opposition. As I was going away the sergeant-major, no doubt remembering that I was comparatively rich--that is, rich for a sergeant of legionaries--told me that he would take care that my section was all right during my absence. "Many thanks," I said; "perhaps monsieur le sergent-majeur would wet the promotion in the evening." "But yes, but yes, with pleasure. Do not hurry, you will be back in good time; sometimes the sergeant-major is a better friend than a simple sub-lieutenant." He was right, and we both knew it. I went across as quickly as I could to where the field hospital for the wounded of the right attack lay. I had little difficulty in finding Nicholas; he visibly brightened at seeing me, and, when I tried to shake hands, he put his finger on my sleeve, where the single gold chevron was that a sergeant of a section wears. "It pleases me," he whispered; "but don't be too ambitious, other men have lost all through ambition." I said nothing. I was glad that he was pleased, but I cannot tell how sorry to see him weak, worn out, and, as one may say, with the dews of death already gathering on his forehead. He could not speak, even in a low tone, he could only whisper; I had to bend down to catch his words. He asked about a few men of the squad, and I told him who were dead, who dying, who still in the ranks. He was anxious too about Le Grand, and was very glad to hear that the latter had gone through the fight without even a scratch, though he had had one narrow escape. "Le Grand," I said to Nicholas, "had to take a dead man's helmet." "Why, why?" he eagerly whispered. "Because his own was cut in two by a sabre-stroke. Had the cut been downwards, Le Grand would be alongside you to-day." "I am glad he escaped so well; I like him." After a little more conversation I was told that my visit must end. "Who is chiefly with you, Nicholas?" I asked. He nodded towards an attendant. I went to this man and gave him a hundred francs. "Be good to my comrade," I said. "Yes; yes," he replied, astonished at such a gift from a mere sergeant of legionaries; "I will do all I can, but that, alas! is little." "I know," I answered, "there is no hope; but smooth the way for him as well as you can to Eternity." He promised with many oaths that he would do so. I don't know whether or not he kept his word, but I really do think that the unexpected money, and still more the unexpected amount of it, made him a good friend to the last to my poor comrade. So Nicholas the Russian passes out of my story. I never saw him afterwards, for that evening my company left Lang-Son for an outside station about ten miles from the place. Some time afterwards a legionary of No. 2 Company told me that he had been in hospital with Nicholas, and that the Russian had died about four o'clock in the afternoon of the day I visited him, and was buried in the evening of the same day. He is out of the turmoil of the world now, and I wonder, had he in early youth understood life as he learned it in the Foreign Legion, would he have "played the game" in the same way? One never knows. Perhaps he would have lived and died that wretched nonentity, the respectable member of society--the Pharisee who has neither courage to do evil nor heart to do good--but who lives his life out in constant endeavour to equate God and the devil, to balance, for his own benefit of course, his duty to his fellow-man and his so-called duty to himself; perhaps he unknowingly thought at the end as the Dying Stockrider spoke: "I've had my share of trouble, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short, the longest life a span, I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil Or the wine that maketh glad the heart of man. For gifts misspent, and chances lost, and resolutions vain 'Tis somewhat late to trouble: this I know-- I would live the same life over if I had to live again, And the chances are, I go where most men go." Anyway, whatever he was to others, he was good friend and good comrade to me, and if no one else regrets, I regret. _Amice mi, vale, vale, vale!_ CHAPTER XV One evening the sergeants and corporals were ordered to forewarn the men that the battalion would leave the neighbourhood of Lang-Son early the following morning. Where we were going we did not know; indeed, I believe that even the commandant himself was unaware of our destination when he ordered the battalion to hold itself in readiness for a march. When the morning parade had been inspected--we, of course, paraded in full marching order--the commandant ordered us to stand at ease. While thus waiting in the ranks, an officer of the staff came and gave a written paper to the commandant. Shortly afterwards the staff-officer went away, and we were marched off in column of fours for some place or other, where, we--sub-officers and men--knew not, nor did we care. Restlessness is the chief characteristic of the soldier; he stagnates in garrison, or, if he doesn't, he avoids _ennui_ by illegitimate amusements--excitements, I should say, that sooner or later get him into trouble. I am ashamed to confess that I was as happy as the others as we tramped along. Of course, I was sorry for Nicholas, and as I spent the money he had left me with the other sergeant and the sergeant-major of the company, I felt that all the fun and gaiety that money can produce cannot make up for the loss of a good comrade. I took care to do as Nicholas would wish me towards my late associates, the corporals, and my former associates, the simple soldiers--they were not forgotten when the money was spent. Of course, I did not go outside my section, and I took good care that my former squad, the squad I had soldiered in ever since I was sent from the depot to a battalion, first as soldier of the second class in the little trouble with the Arabs in Algeria, in the big trouble at Three Fountains, in the troopship, at Noui-Bop; then as soldier of the first class till the end of the vengeance at a place I have not named--you may be sure it gets scant mention in the official records; then as corporal in the defeat at Lang-Son and the retreat afterwards, and at the second battle, when we recaptured the town:--oh no, I did not forget the men who were what Xenophon would call my table-companions; for their part, they thanked me but little, but we all understood. There is no use in detailing our life for the next few weeks. We were always marching, now to the north, anon to the west, then a sudden turn to east, perhaps, or south or back towards the north again. It was all one; we looked for the enemy; we did not find him. At last a momentous order came for us. We were much reduced in strength, and the general commanding-in-chief determined to send most of the battalion to the sea coast and, if the doctors should recommend, back to Algeria. I don't think that we mustered six hundred of all ranks at the time, possibly we did not exceed five hundred. When I tell you that we were constantly receiving batches of fresh men--almost every troopship brought out a hundred or two hundred soldiers of the Foreign Legion--you will be surprised at this; but then the country is bad for Europeans, and we were always in the fighting line of the battles and on tramp here, there, and everywhere between them. Anyway, the commandant asked for volunteers to form a company to be left behind, and officers as well as men were asked to come forward. "First," said the commandant, "I want a captain." All the captains stepped out He selected mine. I forgot to state that my captain had been sent back to duty, as soon as the surgeons found that the blow on the head had produced only temporary ill-effects. "Now," said the commandant, "a lieutenant." Forward stepped every officer of that rank. The sub-lieutenant--now a lieutenant--who had come out with my company, the _vieux militaire_ who had risen from the ranks, the man who was good at fighting and better at pillage, the man who could overlook much if you were a good looter and handed him over a decent percentage of your gains, the man with the piercing eye, the hooked nose, the spike-like grey moustache was taken on the spot. I believe this selection gave the old soldier immense pleasure. "Ah," I can fancy him saying to himself, "the commandant knows better than to take boys fresh from school." Everybody under forty was to him a boy fresh from school, except, be it noted, Nicholas. He did not understand Nicholas, but he was too old a soldier, too experienced in the Legion, not to know the ruined nobleman, the dangerous man, when he met him. A sub-lieutenant was selected in turn, a mere boy who had been sent to us for some little peccadillo, some little indiscretion, probably in connection with a senior officer's wife. Then a sergeant-major was taken, an Alsatian from No. 3. The sergeants were now called on for volunteers, and, just as we all stepped forward, a French officer of chasseurs approached the commandant to speak with him. "Select your own sergeants and corporals, captain," the commandant cried out to my captain; "the doctor will select the men, for I assume that all will volunteer." The captain promptly selected the two sergeants of his own company. I was delighted. I, a boy of less than seventeen, as the captain knew, though in the records of the battalion I was approaching nineteen, found myself senior sergeant of a company that was evidently to be a separate unit for some time. How I mentally thanked the officer of chasseurs for his timely intervention, for I felt sure that the commandant would not have selected me. The corporals were quickly chosen as the captain took all his own corporals who had not been seriously wounded and who did not show signs of breaking down, the others were taken by him from corporals of other companies after a hasty walk down the line of volunteers. He was a clever man, that captain of mine: all the outside corporals he selected were fair-haired. I have already mentioned that such men can stand hardships better than the black-haired ones. When the commandant had finished his chat with the chasseur, he said: "All men in the front ranks"--we were drawn up in column of companies--"that wish to volunteer, step one pace to the front; all men in the rear ranks that wish to volunteer, step one pace to the rear. March." All stepped forward or backward, as the case might be; the commandant went down the right flank and saw all the companies opened out. "Very well, _mes enfants_, since you all volunteer, the doctor will make a selection." The doctor examined every man. As he marched down the ranks he cast out almost half, one glance told him that these could not be accepted, wounds and disease and semi-starvation and hardship had worn them out; the rest he carefully examined in the afternoon, and, to cut the matter short, next morning the commandant and other officers and other sub-officers and other soldiers said good-bye to a fairly strong company--we were more than two hundred and twenty all told--and started on their march to the coast. We felt sad as our comrades went away. In twenty-four hours we had forgotten them, as, undoubtedly, they had forgotten us. Wrong! you say; well, the soldier who can't forget will die of brooding over his memories. In a day or two a few Annamite tirailleurs and eight or ten French engineers had came into camp. The chief officer of the tirailleurs brought a message for our captain, and in accordance with this we pushed forward about seventy or eighty miles and seized a strong position, right, as one may say, in the heart of the enemy's country. This we proceeded to fortify, the engineers superintending, the legionaries working, and the Annamites out on all sides to give us notice of any movements against our little post on the part of our foes. These, however, allowed us to finish the little fortification in peace; once it was finished, we cared not a jot for them. We had brought along a good deal of supplies; more of every kind that the country produced were collected from all sides; ammunition was plentiful, so why should we care? This was my captain's first separate command, and he had a nice little force to help him to keep the post. First, there were the legionaries, two hundred and twenty seasoned soldiers; then about a hundred and eighty native levies under French officers; last, a really admirable demi-squad of engineers. No artillery, of course; but who wants artillery when he has enough of rifles? My captain did not, and he was really a clever man. Not that guns and gunners have not their uses--oh, they have--but they are wanted with brigades and divisions for big battles; they are useless, they are worse than useless, to small parties on the trail of the enemy or holding some out-of-the-way position which may have to be abandoned at a minute's notice. In a retreat, when you are burdened with guns, one or two things must be done--destroy the artillery, and so produce a bad effect on the men; keep it, and by so doing slow down your march in swampy ground. We were all glad that no guns had been sent to us. We were quite confident that we could maintain our ground with the rifle alone; then, if we really had to withdraw, we felt more confident of cutting our way through with steady bayonet fighting than if we had to depend on the spasmodic assistance of artillery in a retreat. When the little fortification was finished to the satisfaction of the captain and the sergeant in command of the engineers, the little force was divided into four parts. Every part had a special duty every day. If No. 1 were employed guarding the camp for the twenty-four hours, No. 2 would be out in the day gathering stores of all kinds and getting information; No. 3 would be cooking and doing the other work of the camp, except guarding it; and No. 4 would be quietly resting. Thus every part had three days' work for one day of rest, but, be it well understood, every man was on guard-duty only one night in four. Every party, I may mention, had one-fourth of the legionaries and one-fourth of the Annamite tirailleurs. As for the engineers, they examined the fortifications every day, and did nothing then but cook and eat, mend and wash their clothing, and lie about and smoke. The officers commanding the parties were the lieutenant and the sub-lieutenant of the legionaries, the lieutenant and the sub-lieutenant of the native levies, while the captain exercised a general supervision over all, especially the entrenchments, the engineers, and the stores. Things went on well and pleasantly for some time. In fact we were all getting tired of the monotony--that is, all except the Annamites, who were quite satisfied--and we sergeants and corporals especially were desirous of some excitement. This we got, and in full measure. That everything may be understood I must give a brief description of the post--the fortified encampment I may call it. The main post was almost rectangular in shape, but a little way out from one corner stood a block-house, its nearest angle pointing towards an angle of the fort. This block-house was built with the intention of protecting the portion of the camp nearest to it, and also in order to prevent the enemy from taking up a commanding position within less than half musket-shot of our quarters. Furthermore, it dominated a spring from which a stream flowed in close proximity to the main fortification. This was very necessary, for the Black Flags have no compunction about poisoning "foreign devils." The block-house had two storeys, and was generally occupied by about twenty men, detached, of course, from the party on guard for the day. It was rather exposed on the two sides away from the main position, but being well and solidly built no one dreamed that it could ever be in any great danger. Well, it was; but that came afterwards, and will be dwelt on in due course. As for the big position being in danger, everyone scouted the thought. Ah, it's well for men that they are generally fools! Well, the time came at last when the Black Flags came to visit us. The first token of their arrival in force was given by the cutting off of a squad of Annamite tirailleurs; the second, firing at long range on a party of legionaries; the third, the burning of a couple of villages. I suppose they thought that the people in these hamlets were friendly to us; they were, indeed, friendly, but so they would have been to any men who carried arms. The poor people who remain quietly at home and take no part in fighting always suffer most. We took their property and paid them for it, at least our officers did; the Black Flags came, took their money, their women, and often their lives, and then set fire to their wretched habitations. In war both sides live very much, if not altogether, on the country. You can imagine how pleasant that is for the cultivators and others who seek to continue the occupations which can be profitable only in time of peace. Well, cowards sow and brave men reap. After the burning of the villages we scouted much more cautiously. Up to the first appearance of the Black Flags the Annamites were often by themselves, but afterwards we never went in smaller parties than thirty, of whom two-thirds were legionaries. So long as we had the natives, we could not very well be surprised; and so long as they had us with them, they knew that they would not be asked to bear the brunt of the fighting, if the enemy only showed himself in force. One day I was in command of a small party that cautiously felt its way towards the north-east, where a village had been seen burning the night before. I had two weak squads of my section and a dozen natives, in all we were about thirty-five rifles. As we went slowly on, the corporal of the tirailleurs gave me to understand that there was danger ahead. I did not thank him for the information--I knew as much myself--but, as the ground was fairly open, I determined to push on a little farther. At the same time I took the precaution of sending a couple of men to reinforce the little party guarding each flank, and four to the corporal of legionaries who commanded the advance-guard. Scarcely had these soldiers reached their respective destinations, when heavy firing began in front, followed almost at once by scattered shots on the right. The Annamite tirailleurs came back at once, the legionaries did not retreat so quickly; they fired as they retreated, and showed no signs of panic. I steadied the natives by telling them very plainly that the man who moved without orders would be at once shot. When they understood this, they stood up to their fight fairly well. As the outlying squads closed on my command, I asked the corporal who had led and the legionary of the first class who had commanded on the right, what they thought of the attack. The corporal said it seemed serious; the soldier of the first class, that we ought to move off to the base at once, as many men were trying to creep round to our rear. Now both of these might be depended on. The corporal was a man of much service; the other a Prussian who had found life in his own country too exciting, but who was a good soldier in all respects on active service; in garrison, of course, it was different. I fell back, therefore, showing a bold front, keeping the Annamites and six legionaries together--the latter to hold the former--and leaving all the other legionaries to fight in skirmishing order as we went away. A few of ours were wounded, and these the natives had to carry, but we managed to withdraw for more than half-a-mile without any serious casualty. Then a legionary was shot through the heart; an Annamite was sent for his rifle and ammunition, and the retreat went on as before. Once only did the enemy attempt to rush us. I hurried to the right with tirailleurs and legionaries when I saw them nearing for the charge, but our rifle fire was so effective that no man reached our bayonets. Not very long afterwards the lieutenant of my company came up with about forty men, two-thirds of whom were legionaries. He at once took over the chief command, and had little difficulty in getting us all back to camp. I fancy, however, that the Black Flags could have done a great deal of harm to us if they had tried more resolutely to come to close quarters, for they outnumbered us certainly by six to one. They made only faint-hearted attempts to rush us, and every time they tried that game, we concentrated our fire on the men concentrated for the charge. They made a great mistake in massing themselves together, for our bullets could not fail to find a man or men amongst them in the too close formation they assumed. We, on the contrary, kept a very open formation in the firing line, but behind there were always two little squads ready to hurry up to the part where there was any danger of a serious attack. For my part, I was glad to see that the lieutenant practised the same tactics as I; in the first place, it was a sort of compliment to me; and in the second, no one could blame the sergeant for doing what the officer, a most experienced fighter, did. To end this portion of my story, I may say that the little party got back safely to the fortification with the loss of three legionaries and one Annamite tirailleur killed and about seven or eight wounded severely enough to go into hospital. There were other men wounded, but their wounds did not count--they were only bullet-grazings or flesh wounds. When we were safely inside the little post, the captain ordered us to see first to our wounded and then to hold ourselves in readiness to go to any part of the defence where we might be required. The Black Flags, however, did not press the attack; evidently they were only part of the enemy who meant to assault our position, probably a few hundred sent out for raiding purposes. Nothing of any importance occurred for two or three days. We knew that the Black Flags were closing round us; in fact, we could not go five hundred yards from the camp without being fired on, but that gave us no uneasiness. Ammunition and stores were plentiful, the block-house made our water supply safe, our friends were only a hundred miles away, and we guessed that very soon a general or other high officer would come to inspect the post, and, of course, such people are always accompanied by at least a couple of thousand men. A gold-laced cap and an escort are not a sufficient outfit for a general; you must, to satisfy his _amour propre_, give him an army as well. One thing must be noted here. Though the block-house commanded the spring from which arose the rivulet that ran by the outer side of the fortification, yet the captain was not satisfied. He feared that in spite of all vigilance the well might be poisoned or polluted, so that orders were given that no water was to be taken into camp until four hours after sunrise. By that time all poisons that might have been deposited in the spring during the dark hours would be washed away, and a fatigue-party would have examined the stream carefully for dead bodies of men or animals. As I shall not allude to this again, I must tell here that on several occasions we found putrid bodies in the stream. We always took them out on the spot, and the men would take no water from the parts below where they were found for at least twenty-four hours. If the carcasses were got in the spring itself, a couple of engineers and two or three legionaries went out and cleansed it. At last we recognised that regular siege was being laid to our position. The Black Flags, assisted by a fair number of Chinese regulars--we knew these by their uniforms--had possession of every natural vantage-point around the camp. In some places, the nearest enemies were fifteen hundred yards away from the outer face of the entrenchments, in one or two the ground permitted them to come with safety as near as six or seven hundred yards. The average distance between the opposing forces was, I believe, about a thousand yards. They did not carry round a big fortified line--that would be too much trouble and would require a large number of soldiers to man it at all points--but they selected six or eight places of natural strength, erected forts upon them, and crowded these forts with defenders. The intervals between these were held by constantly moving bands, numbering anything from half-a-dozen to a hundred. For some time the fighting was desultory. We did not fire at them unless they came within easy range, for there was no use in throwing away ammunition, and, besides, it would be a good thing if they would only learn to despise us. They knew our strength to a man. If they saw or believed that we were short of cartridges, they would surely reckon us a certain prey. At the same time they would be doubtful of the success of a mere blockade, as our stores were plentiful, and any day might bring a relieving force. As for us, we eagerly desired a grand attack. We had enough of men to provide all parts of the entrenchment with a sustained rifle fire, and even if they did get up to our fortifications we trusted to our bayonet work too much to have any fear of the issue. Moreover, since the second battle of Lang-Son and our selection to remain behind when our comrades went down to the coast, we had conceived, unconsciously, I believe, a very high idea of our prowess both as individual soldiers and as a company. The grand attack which we had been expecting and praying for--I mean that we should have prayed for, if we ever prayed--was delivered at last. For a couple of days and nights the enemy kept up a brisk fire, giving us no rest. To this we made but little reply. The Black Flags became bolder every hour, and on the second day of the fusilade some were so contemptuous of our fire that they crawled up to within less than two hundred yards of the entrenchments to burn their powder. Our arrangements for the second night did credit to the captain. He divided his little force into two parts. The first of these kept watch and ward from sunset until half-past one in the morning; the second, which had been resting with rifles by their sides, took up guard duty in turn until six. Thus, along the entrenchments half the men, clad in greatcoats, were standing up, looking out for any movement of the enemy, while the other half, wrapped up in greatcoats and blankets, lay down only a yard away from their watching comrades. Thus half the rifles in garrison were ready for instant use; the remaining half could be in action in thirty seconds. Our captain was clever--I have always said so, and I will always assert it; other captains are creatures of routine, and will do the same thing in a fortified post in the enemy's country as they were in the habit of doing in a quiet town in the heart of France. Routine, so admirable in time of peace, is a thing rather to be neglected in time of war. The moiety to which I was attached lay down just behind the men on guard from sunset to half-past one. Then we were called to take our turn of duty. I had only dozed off once or twice while lying down, but for all that I was as wakeful as if I had slept for a week, when I turned out of the blanket and stood up in my greatcoat in the chilly air. Very soon I had the men under my charge at their posts. First, the lieutenant came round to ask in an undertone if all were ready within and if all seemed right outside; then the captain visited me and bade me pass the word up and down my command that the attack, if made at all, would be made within an hour, or an hour and a half at most, and that all should be thoroughly on their guard, for on every man's rifle a good deal depended. I, standing at the centre of my section, told the men on my right and left what the captain had said, each of them whispered the message to his next man, and so the words went down the ranks. After this all was quiet; the men seemed like so many bronze statues, but one knew that every eye was peering out intently into the blackness and that every ear was straining to catch the lightest sound. As for me, I looked now to the front, then to the right, and then towards the left; I neither saw nor heard anything which could betoken the approach of an enemy. We were nearly an hour so waiting, watching, and listening, and the constant strain had just begun to tell upon the nerves, when from the eastern side of the camp a report of a rifle came. Almost at once this was followed by a constant fire, not firing by volleys, be it well understood, but a well kept-up fire on both sides, never ceasing, but swaying, as it were, up and down, as now the reports came almost all together, now they came in twos and threes, or in dozens and in scores. The eastern side was not engaged long when the northern and southern ones joined in. A moment afterwards the red spirts came to us out of the darkness of the night. We replied, and a hot fusilade was well maintained without and within. The block-house garrison was also hotly engaged. They had little trouble with two faces, for the fronts of them were swept by the fire from the nearest angle of the fort, but on the other faces their work was far harder than ours. As was obvious afterwards, when the light came and gave us the advantage, the Black Flags had tried to catch the main position unawares, if possible, but at least to give its garrison enough to do. The chief object was to win the block-house; that captured, we others could be poisoned out. I afterwards learned that in the block-house there were two engineers and twenty-one legionaries, the whole being commanded by the sergeant-major I spoke of, the Alsatian who came from No. 3. They were good men; one engineer and seven legionaries, all simple soldiers, were killed; almost all the others were wounded, but even wounded men who could stand remained at their posts, and those others who had to stay out of the fight loaded their rifles and the rifles of the dead, and passed them to the fighting men, so that two shots often went through a loophole when, in the Black Flags' minds, only one should be expected. They were good men; I am proud of having soldiered with such. But one attempt was made to rush the fort. This occurred at the angle where the fire from the two sides swept the ground in front of two faces of the block-house. I don't believe that the enemy dreamt of taking our place by storm, but one thing was certain, the attack in force took away all aid for the block-house from the main position and made the men outside dependent altogether on themselves. That the determined attack on the little garrison outside, weakened as it was by death and wounds, did not succeed was due, first to their determined resistance, and secondly to the fact that, just as the attack became fiercest, the light became good enough for us to see our foes, to reckon their strength, and then to allow our captain to withdraw men from the two sides that were but feebly fired at to the others where the firing was practically point-blank. The sudden reinforcement overpowered the attack. A rapid and unexpected sally by fifty or sixty legionaries with fixed bayonets relieved the pressure round the block-house. The little garrison received from the sortie party a dozen men as reinforcements, the rest returned, and that really finished the engagement. A few shots still continued to be exchanged, but the firing after the sally was of no account--a man killed or wounded on either side "did not count in the tale of the battle." After this we had a little peace. We buried our dead outside the ramparts, but we left no mounds to afford shelter to enemies. All the earth that would in ordinary cases form heaps above the graves was taken to strengthen our defences; the plain outside was left as level as before. Was he not a clever captain? As for the enemy's killed and wounded, the uniformed men amongst them took them away under a flag of truce. We never allowed more than twenty-five to be engaged on the work within a hundred yards of the outer face of the fortifications, because we never trusted the Chinese. One thing else we did, we sent out the Annamites to gather all the weapons and ammunition of those who had fallen near the camp. These were of no use to us, but we deprived the enemy of them. Some of the wounded fell out with the Annamite tirailleurs; well, it was so much the worse for the wounded. When the burials were over and the wounded were going along well, we began to look forward to another attack. The Chinese regulars evidently took the business in hand this time, for there was no attempt to carry the main post or the block-house by assault; now we had to contend with mines. It was very well for us that there were engineers in the garrison; without them we should in all probability have seen most of our defences blown into the air. As it was, the Chinese mined and our engineers countermined. At first the mining was comparatively simple, as far as we were concerned. The Chinese had not the skill of the French sappers, and the result was that we always found out where they were boring, before they even imagined that we could know anything about their operations, but after we had destroyed a few mines, and with them a certain number of men, the underground attack became more skilful and more concealed. On more than one occasion both parties of tunnellers discovered each other at the same time, and the earth was quickly put back by both; we did not want a communication between mine and countermine, for that might give passage to a couple of thousand Chinese and Black Flags into our camp; the enemy did not want to come to close quarters with us, for more than once they had learned that, bayonet to bayonet, the Asiatic stood no chance against the European. I shall not say much about the underground operations, as I am not an engineer; moreover, my duties as sergeant kept me almost always above ground; we allowed the military engineers to direct everything below. Of course, it will be understood that the legionaries, and sometimes the Annamite tirailleurs, furnished the working parties; the regular engineers chiefly concerned themselves with planning the works first and overseeing them afterwards. There is a story of one countermine which, however, I must narrate, as it intimately concerned myself. Our fellows had cautiously dug forward for a considerable distance. No sound of tunnelling on the side of the Chinese had been heard; as the _dénoûment_ proved, they had been as cautious as we. The working party was tearing down the earth with the sharp edge of the pick, not striking with all their strength. Thus very little noise was made, and, besides, it was enjoined on all who were at work in the mine that talking could not be allowed. The men loyally obeyed orders, even if they had not felt inclined to do so through the spirit of discipline, the knowledge that the others were doing their best to tunnel under the fortification and then blow part of it to pieces prior to a grand attack with rifle and bayonet, would have made them obedient enough. I had gone down into the mine, more out of curiosity than because I had business there; my excuse was that I wished to get the names of the men of my section working in the pit. When I went down, I stayed for a moment or two. While I was holding a whispered conversation with a sub-officer of engineers, a cry from a worker drew our attention. In a moment the engineer saw what had happened, and cried out: "Les Chinois, les Chinois!" As a matter of fact, the Chinese miners and we were separated only by a thin wall of loose earth; a blow or two struck by I know not which party tumbled this down, and we were all mixed up together, French and Chinese, in the tunnel. All struck out at random. I drew my bayonet, which, of course, I always wore, and dashed the point in the face of a yellow man from outside. The lamps were extinguished in the struggle that ensued; we were all striking blindly about with pick-axe, shovel, and bayonet; no man knew who might receive his blow. It was a horrible time. In the darkness I heard the cries and oaths and groans; I shoved forward my bayonet, it met something soft; I drew it back and lunged again; again it met the soft, yielding substance, or perhaps the blow was lost on empty air. If I struggled forward, I tripped over a body; if I went back, surely a miner would knock my brains out with his pick. This went on for a short space that seemed an eternity. At last hurrying footsteps and shouts of encouragement and a welcome gleaming of lights told of the arrival of aid. When our comrades came up, we found that all the Chinese able to flee had fled; fourteen of them, however, and eight or nine men of ours, were lying pressed against and on top of one another in a narrow space. All, dead and wounded alike, were carried out; the place was blocked up at once, and the countermine that had taken so much time and work on our part was filled in. When the dead and wounded were examined two legionaries and two engineers were found dead, four legionaries and an Annamite tirailleur wounded, ten Chinese killed outright, four just alive. An ugly list for the small place in which the fight was, but it was the darkness that caused so heavy a casualty list amongst comparatively few combatants. It was a most unpleasant struggle. After that experience I shall never care to fight again in the dark. For some time afterwards the siege went on in a less exciting way. The enemy had evidently resolved to starve us out. We had, as we thought, enough of stores in the beginning to last until relief came, but when the relief did not make its appearance at or after the time expected, the captain began to have serious misgivings for the future. We were utterly shut off from all communication with the outside world; for all we knew, another disaster might have befallen the French troops, and, if that were the case, there could be no hope of relief in time. A full fortnight had now elapsed since the date that we had confidently set for the coming up of reinforcements; we were all asking one another the reason of the delay. Other questions also arose. Would our comrades come soon? If they did not, would our provisions hold out? Should we be able to fight our way through, in case the post had to be abandoned? There was no thought of surrender, for all understood that it was better to die fighting than to give ourselves up to the diabolical tortures inflicted by the Black Flags and their allies on unlucky prisoners of war. One day rations were reduced by one half. In some way to make up for this an allowance of native spirit was served out every afternoon, but the brandy and the wine were carefully kept for the use of the sick and wounded. These were by no means few, and when the dead were added to the ineffectives the total reached almost fifty per cent. of the original force. Indeed, after we had been on half-rations for a time, we legionaries formed a skeleton company of skeletons; we were so few and so reduced in weight. But through all we were resolute and, nearly to the last, cheerful. Certainly when the half-rations were further diminished, our spirits markedly sank, but no one expects starving men to show much gaiety. The soldiers were kept constantly on the alert both by the enemy and by us, their sub-officers. The captain told the sergeants and corporals that the men were to be always engaged in some work or other, as he did not wish to give them time to annoy themselves by thinking. This instruction made me a busy man. I was always on the look-out for little duties for my section, at the same time taking care not to overwork the men, and I tried to be as cheerful as possible with them. My fellows and I got along well together on the whole. I never brought a man before the captain if I could help it, and I let the corporals of the section understand that the squads were not to be sworn at more than was absolutely necessary. At the same time all knew that an order once given had to be at once obeyed. Things had been going on in this fashion for some time when the enemy again plucked up courage to attack. We were very glad of this, because it showed that they feared the arrival of a French force before they could reduce us to extremity by a mere blockade. The second big fight was a replica of the first one, only that on this occasion the assault on the block-house was more determined than before. It lasted longer too, for we were too few in number to risk fifty or sixty men in a sortie, but, in spite of all, the defence was successfully maintained. Two days afterwards some Annamites captured a Chinese. He was in a state of abject terror when brought before the captain, and on the promise that his life would be spared and liberty given him, he soon told us all he knew of the French movements. We learned then that a strong force was approaching and might be expected almost at any moment; we were also told that a third and last attack was in preparation. This attack, however, and the relief of the post will be told in the next chapter, as they deserve a chapter to themselves. CHAPTER XVI It was quite evident that the block-house would have to stand the brunt of the attack this time as before. Now we were rather weak in numbers for the adequate defence of the main position, yet not a single man could be withdrawn from the little garrison of the outside post. Even with the full number of rifles allowed to it the block-house might be taken--taken, that is, in the event of the death or the rendering ineffective of all its men, and that this was by no means an impossibility was proved by the losses in the last fight. Out of twenty-two sub-officers and men only seven were unscathed, and of the others three were slightly, five severely, wounded, and seven killed. With a more desperate and better sustained attack upon more exhausted troops, might not the Chinese fairly hope for complete success? To make up in some degree for the anticipated loss of the outpost the captain gave orders that all vessels in camp should be filled, that, as these were emptied they should be refilled, and that no soldier should drink out of any vessel except his own water-bottle. All the rest, filled as they were, were placed in a central position in the camp, and this place all were forbidden to approach under pain of death. The sentries on guard had strict orders to allow no one to go near the precious stock of water. The captain said: "If you do not shoot or bayonet the trespasser, I will drive you forth unarmed to become the prey of the Black Flags." If their own brothers had dared to approach the water, the sentries would have shot them after hearing that. A strong party was sent to the block-house, for there was a chance that it might hold out, and in any case the captain resolved that the enemy should not have it for nothing. The lieutenant of my company was in command. I was second; there were two corporals, one an Alsatian, the other a Lorrainer, and twenty men. This was as many as could be conveniently accommodated in the small space. We were all well supplied with ammunition; we carried, every man, three days' provisions. When we paraded before going out, the captain told us that we should hold our ground as well and as long as we could; if we managed to repel one assault, only one, our lives would be saved and the honour of the corps maintained. Our small party took up its quarters, relieving the others, who were, you may be sure, not sorry to be relieved, and was at once divided into three parts. I commanded one, a corporal each of the others; as for the lieutenant, he was over all, and seemed to be ever watchful and absolutely incapable of feeling fatigue. While one party watched, the rest lay down and slept or tried to sleep. There was no cooking to be done, as our provisions were of the cast-iron pattern--baked bread and cooked meat; as for drink, we had a small allowance of native spirit and as much water as we should want for three days. For twenty-four hours we were undisturbed, except when once the door was opened and a man looked out. Then a regular fusilade of shots came towards us. We saw that we were fairly cooped up, and that the only chance of our ever leaving the block-house alive lay in the arrival of French troops. We fancied, but this was perhaps imagination, that we could hear firing in the distance; this gave us hope and renewed our courage. Early in the evening of our second day on duty a strong attack was made not only on our post, but on the main position as well. At first this was confined to a hot fire, and four of ours, one the Alsatian corporal, were shot at the loopholes. As night came down, the enemy approached to short range, and even in the dark we were a splendid target for them. All the night they fired, and twice they set the block-house on fire, but volunteers quickly put out the flames, though at a fearful sacrifice of life. As the first beams of the rising sun illuminated the battlefield, the Chinese regulars, followed by a crowd of Black Flags, tried to storm the post. They succeeded in breaking down two upright beams on one side and tried to pour in, but our bayonets soon piled up a heap of bodies in the narrow entrance that they had made. We got a short respite now, and heard with feelings of indescribable joy a steady, well-sustained firing outside the position held by the enemy. Once more, however, the Chinese attacked. With battering rams of wood tipped with iron they broke down a clear half of one wall. Some of the superstructure fell and delayed them for a time, but this they quickly tore away, and the remains of the little garrison, having no longer power to hold the fort or hope of escape, sallied desperately forth, to sell their lives as dearly as possible. The lieutenant leading fell shot between the eyes; the rest of us rushed straight at the Chinese and bore them back. They rallied and again attacked. We fought with the courage of despair. We could make little head against them, but for all that we steadily piled up a rampart of bodies in our front. I heard as I fought the familiar war cry of the legionaries; I shouted out in reply. Just as a Chinese lifted his musket to fell me to the earth, I saw the advancing line of reinforcements. There was a sudden shock, and then came darkness on my eyes, and, when I came to, the block-house, now on fire, was blazing in the sunlight, and I felt a terrible agony in head and limbs and body. But the post had been held and relieved; the enemy were scattered in all directions, with hundreds of pursuers at their heels; there were no more short rations to be dreaded, no more night attacks, nothing now but rest and peace and warm congratulations. Let me tell the fate of the little guard of the block-house. The lieutenant, both corporals, and eighteen soldiers were dead; two soldiers and I, the sergeant and second in command, were wounded. Both the soldiers died that night; I, the sole survivor, was promoted sergeant-major and recommended for the military medal. Had I been a Frenchman, I should have got the cross and a commission; as it was, I was more than satisfied, for did not I get the rewards won by my comrades as well as by me? For a few days I lay in hospital, and the doctors feared that I might suffer from concussion of the brain as a result of the heavy blow dealt me by the Chinese. However, all bad effects passed away quickly, and I returned to duty on the day that my promotion to the rank of sergeant-major was confirmed. The captain visited me in hospital; he would not allow me to talk, and merely said that he was glad I had survived, and then laughingly told me that "the devil's children had their father's luck." He could be sarcastic on occasion, but I did not mind; I can take a joke as well as another. After the post had been relieved the remains of the original garrison were transferred to the sea-coast. The march down was exactly similar to all the other marches, except in one important matter, we did not have to break camp hurriedly and run after rapidly vanishing enemies. No; our daily marches were not too long, our nightly rest was unbroken, and, as we approached the coast, we got better quarters and better supplies. The men too had the proud consciousness of a dangerous and difficult duty well done. The other soldiers whom we met used to cook our soup and prepare the camps for us; that's the soldier's way of offering congratulations, and these were the compliments we liked. When we marched one afternoon into Saigon, I was in very bad health. The reaction after the siege, with its reduced rations, its constant watchfulness, and all the little annoyances that beset a poor devil of a sergeant trying to keep the men of his section content under difficulties, together with the fatigue of the march, made me feel very ill by the time we came to the base. Moreover, I was troubled about the accounts of the company. The sergeant-major who preceded me, and who was killed in the last attack, had left the company's accounts in an unintelligible state; no one could tell whether any man had or had not been paid a piastre since the beginning of the siege, nor could you find out who had drawn occasional rations of wine and extra tobacco. The captain knew nothing; he had been too busy with fighting and looking after stores. I went to him and said that it was not fair to ask me to make up a dead man's accounts. He agreed with me, and asked me what the devil I was going to do about the affair. "Let the clerks at headquarters settle all," I replied; "it ought to be their business and not mine." "Very well," said the captain; "but how will you throw the work on their shoulders?" "Easily enough," I answered; "I need but refuse to accept the books until they are set right." "But suppose you are ordered to take them and to set them in order yourself?" "Very well, sir; I will then claim money for every man, dead or alive. When the clerks point out to me that a certain man is dead, I will withdraw his name: in that way I shall give them more trouble than if they were to make up the accounts themselves." "Do what you like," said the captain; "only pay the survivors--the dead may rest." I took the hint, and made out the accounts in such a way, that it appeared that all the dead had been paid in full up to the day of death, and that none of the survivors had obtained a centime for months. The paymasters grumbled, and I was called on more than once for an explanation. I could only say that I knew nothing about the men's accounts beyond what they told me. "But how do you know," asked a commandant one day, "that the dead men were paid in full?" "I don't know it, sir," I answered; "but I have marked them as paid because I cannot afford time to look for their heirs." Everybody laughed at this--the idea of a legionary leaving legacies to his relations was too ridiculous. In the end, however, we survivors got nearly all the money we claimed, and everybody was satisfied. It was easy to see that most of our company were unfit for further duty at the time. Many were in hospital, and those of us who remained in camp were listless and easily fatigued. The medical officers did not like our looks, and it became a current report that we should all be very soon sent back to Algeria. The transport was in harbour on which we were ordered to embark for transportation home--that is, to the legionaries' home, the wastes and sands of Northern Africa. Yet to us these very places seemed like heaven compared with Tonquin: we were all tired of the harassing warfare, the starvation, the marches, and the constant watchfulness. It was fated that I should not return in this vessel, as, only two days before it sailed, I had to go into the military hospital, a place dreaded above all others by soldiers. There I lay with an attack of fever, but my naturally strong constitution shook this off, and in a few weeks I was ready to embark in a hospital ship, with a few hundred others of all ranks and regiments, for Marseilles. I had a relapse while in the Red Sea, and thought for the first time that there was no longer hope for me. What made it worse was that every day a dead body went overboard, and, though the officials tried to keep this fact from us, sick men are too clever and too suspicious to be easily imposed upon. One morning I saw the cot near me empty--a poor marine fusilier had occupied it the day before. I had known that he was sinking rapidly, but still the fact of his death gave me a great shock. I got up with difficulty from my couch and made my way on hands and knees to the companion-ladder, ascended this in the same posture, and at length gained the deck unperceived. I felt the cool breeze of the Mediterranean on my face, and thanked Heaven that I was out of the horrors of Tonquin and the almost worse horrors of the Red Sea. I remember no more until I woke up to find myself back in my cot, with a couple of doctors and an orderly or two around me. The doctors spoke in a friendly way to me, and asked me why I had gone up to the deck. I said that I was restless, and scarcely knew what I was doing, but that the fresh breeze above had done me much good. They then said that very soon we should be at Marseilles and that I should be better off there. I thanked them, promised not to leave my cot again, and they withdrew. As they went, however, I overheard one say--so sharp are sick men's ears: "He will come up again, probably to-morrow." I wondered vaguely whether he doubted my word or whether he was merely alluding to my probable death, but after a time I thought of other things. I made no further attempt to go up on deck; even had I not promised to stay quietly below, I had not strength enough to climb the companion-way again. A few days after we arrived at Marseilles and were carefully transferred to a large hospital on land. There, I must admit, we received excellent treatment. Not only were the doctors and the orderlies kind and attentive, but the ladies of the town were also extremely good to us. Chaplains also came round the wards frequently, and, of all the places in which I have ever been, the military hospital at Marseilles was one of the best. I could thoroughly appreciate the kindness then, for my health came back quickly from the day I landed from the hospital ship. One day when I was allowed to get up and go to a convalescent ward for a few hours an orderly came into the room, in a great hurry apparently, and called out my name. I said: "Here I am. What do you want?" He replied: "Monsieur le général will be here soon." "Does he come to tell me that I have been appointed his aide-de-camp?" I inquired, laughing at my own little joke. "No, my fine fellow," cried a corporal of some line regiment in a corner; "he has come to ask you to be so kind as to marry his daughter, who has a fortune of only one hundred thousand francs." "Ah," said a cuirassier--I forget his rank, "the request is that our friend the sergeant-major will consent to act as the general's second in a duel with the Tsar of Russia." A chasseur believed that that was not true, as he had learned from a morning paper that I was to be ambassador to His Holiness the Pope, "who knows," he went on to say, "how moral and virtuous are the lives the legionaries lead, they being, in fact, monks in uniform." This settled the matter; nobody could invent a more improbable--let me say impossible--reason for the general's visit. I was asked continually afterwards how the Pope was. Did he still hold the idea of asking France to give him the sanctified legionaries as a new army? If we went to Rome, should we have to soldier with the Swiss and other guards? And a number of other questions were asked, all of which I answered to the best of my ability, trying in every case to give a "Roland for an Oliver," and often succeeding. I told the chasseur one day that the Pope would not take us of the Legion as his guards; he preferred the chasseurs: by converting them to decent practices he would gain greater glory in heaven. The cuirassier learned that His Holiness would soon send him the shield of faith--he already had the breastplate of caution. The cuirassier did not like this. He indignantly protested that he would rather fight in his shirt sleeves. "Very well," I answered. "Do as the Austrians do--take off your cuirass in time of war." He asked me how I knew that. I replied: "Easily enough. I have many Austrian comrades, but I have no French ones. We legionaries are seemingly in the French army, but not, in real truth, soldiers of it." Truth to tell, I was getting a little angry, because all wished to unite against the solitary soldier of the Legion in the room. I let the rest see that I was tired of their jokes, and afterwards they left me alone. Well, the general came in a short time into the room and called out my name and rank. I stepped forward and stood to attention. "You the sergeant-major?" he asked, in a tone of surprise. "Yes, sir." "Why, you are only a boy. How long have you been in the Legion?" I told him. Then he asked me a number of questions about my service, to all of which I answered clearly and respectfully. "You are a young sergeant-major--very young." And he turned to speak to a surgeon. Both looked at me often during this conversation. I maintained always the stiff, erect attitude of the soldier in front of his superior officer. "You have been recommended for the military medal," at last the general said. "Yes, sir; my captain told me that he would recommend me for the decoration." "The recommendation has been confirmed," said the general, "and I have come to give you the medal. I thought," he went on, "that I should meet a veteran, and I find a schoolboy." I said nothing; indeed, I did not know what to say. "It does not matter about your age or the length of your service," the general continued; "you have won rank and distinction, and I wish you a prosperous career." "Thanks, my general." "Is there anything you want?" "Yes, my general." "What is it?" "A Little Corporal to lead a schoolboy sergeant-major, that is all." He drew back and looked at me. A susurrus of approbation went through the room. Very little more was said. The general gave me the medal that I had won, paid me a compliment or two, and went away. But the story went round, and what would be hurtful to a Frenchman, who was at once soldier and citizen, was a cause of no offence in a legionary, who was only a soldier. But what I said was liked, and many a present I received afterwards. The French know that the legionary is a soldier pure and simple--well, not always pure, and very seldom simple--and they know that the soldier of the French army who gives up for life the clothes of the pékin and who dreams of nothing except fighting and promotion looks on Napoleon the Great as a terrestrial Archangel Michael. Him would we follow, him would we serve. God grant us another like him, and then----. And the legionaries understood, and wished as warmly as any Frenchman for the advent of another ideal restless man and restless man's idol. The Little Corporal when he was the great commander was bad, let us admit, to many, but he was never bad to the man who served him well. It was not birth or wealth that brought promotion under him but courage and devotion to duty. True, he made mistakes, and these great ones--the imprisonment of the Pope, the invasion of the white Tsar's frozen land, the too early return from Elba were such--but in his mistakes even he was colossal, unapproachable. It was after this visit and the receipt of the military medal that the jesting conversations began amongst us. However, I have told of them already, and there is no use in going back upon a told story. That does very well in conversation, especially when the glasses are filled and the pipes going merrily, but in writing it is of no account. Very soon after this I was strong enough, the surgeons said, to cross to Algeria. All the men whose acquaintance I had made were good enough to say that, though they were glad I was able to leave hospital, yet they were sorry to lose my companionship. I thanked them all, told them that I had had a pleasant time, and hoped to meet them again. In this I was sincere. I have very pleasant memories of the hospital, but all the same I wanted to get back to my own comrades. Shortly after the surgeons had put my name on the outgoing list I left the hospital for the troopship. I was brought to Oran, and there sent again to hospital, but only for a few days. Here I was treated very well indeed by those in charge, and I made a few casual acquaintances, whose comradeship helped very much to pass the dreary time of waiting until the principal surgeon should order me to be sent back to the regiment. I think they kept me longer than was absolutely necessary, and this for two reasons--my youth and the military medal. The surgeons were quite as curious as my hospital companions to hear my story, to learn all about my country and why I left it to join the Legion, how I liked the French service, and every other thing that they could think of. For the first time in my life I was made much of as a man of good service and tried valour; if I gave somewhat exaggerated accounts of the perils I had passed who can blame me? There was no sneering now at the Foreign Legion; oh no! we were in Algeria, _la patrie des légionnaires_. At last the surgeon-in-chief told me that I should soon leave the hospital. I thanked him for the information, and said that the only cause of regret at leaving was that I should leave so many good comrades behind. "Have you been well treated here, sergeant-major?" he asked. "Very well, sir; so well that I have lost the simple soldier's fear of the hospital." He laughed, and said: "I am glad. Take the advice of a friend, always seek the surgeon when you are ill or wounded. The old prejudice was, in its time, a just one; nowadays things are different." I promised that I would do so. At the same time even to-day I fear the surgeon's knife more than an enemy's bayonet or sword or even lance, and the lance is what the infantry man most dreads--that is, of course, of weapons. However, I have not since the day I left the hospital at Oran ever been the occupant of a bed in one, and I sincerely hope that I may never see, as a patient at least, the whitewashed wall of a hospital again. From Oran I was sent to the depot at Saida, where I remained for some time. I did ordinary duty there as sergeant-major of a company of recruits during the illness of the regular sub-officer, and so learned a good deal more of my new duties than I knew when leaving Tonquin. I was very glad of this, especially as the officers were very decent to me. I was a different man now--a sergeant-major without a moustache but with the military medal--from the young recruit who was sworn at and abused every day by the drill instructors. No swearing or abuse now, only compliments and flirtation and general friendliness. A happy time indeed, too happy to last, as I learned before I was many months older. I must now tell about my love and my sorrows and how I came to leave the Legion for ever. Truly, I cannot say that I am sorry; truly, I cannot say that I am glad. If the service of the legionary was a hard service, yet it had its consolations; if you did wrong nobody minded--that is, so long as you broke only the ten commandments. Of course, military regulations and the rules of our society were very different things; the first had to be kept if one did not wish for punishment, you had to respect the second, or else lose the respect of your associates, and though boycotting is a comparatively new word yet it denotes an old and universal practice. And now to tell of my _grande passion_, its course and its results, the story of which was at one time, and may be even still, a classic tale of the Legion. CHAPTER XVII I left the depot one morning with a large party of recruits for a battalion in the inland parts of Algeria. We were about a hundred and eighty strong, and as a lieutenant was the only officer I ranked as second in command. We had two sergeants and eight or nine corporals to help to maintain discipline, but the men acted in a very good way on the march. I can recall no incident worth relating, but I remember one circumstance that made the march very pleasant. As the lieutenant had no brother officer to speak to and was naturally talkative, he had to associate very much with me. It must not be supposed that this diminished the respect in which I was bound to hold his rank; on the contrary, since he made the time pass agreeably for me, I felt more and more disposed to render him all outward signs of honour; and if I did address him as "my lieutenant" as we marched 20 paces ahead of the party, when others were within earshot I fell back on the more respectful "sir." I am sure he noted this, but he said nothing about it. This officer was a most entertaining talker; he was naturally clever, had received a good education, and was full of stories of Paris which were well worth hearing. He saw that I enjoyed his tales of life there, and thus had the best of all incentives to story-telling--a good listener. On the other hand, I told him more than he, as an officer, could learn of the Legion and the men who were in it. I did not trouble about the Alsatians and Lorrainers, who had enlisted solely to gain the rights of French citizens, but I let him know the life-history of more than one of the Russians, Austrians, Germans and Spaniards who filled our ranks. I did more. I allowed him to see the trend of thought in the corps; I told him of our traditions, our jealousies, our loves and our hates; by the time that we arrived at our goal he understood better than most officers the character of the men whom he would have under his command. So the lieutenant and the sergeant-major were good comrades. When we came to the battalion at the borders of the Great Desert the recruits were distributed amongst the companies, the sergeants and corporals were appointed to sections and squads, the lieutenant took the place of an officer who had died of fever, and so all were settled in the new battalion except myself. The commandant did not know what to do with me; he had enough sub-officers of my rank already, and yet he did not like to put me to any duties except those of the rank I held. This was on account of the military medal. If I had not had that, I should very soon have found myself acting as simple sergeant of a section. However, a way was found out of the difficulty--a way which led me into many sorrows--though these I have never regretted, counterbalanced as they were by so many joys. There was a woman in the place who kept a canteen. She always remained with this battalion, and where others might starve she waxed wealthy--that is, wealthy for a _cantinière_. Her husband had been a sergeant of the third company. He had fallen fighting bravely in an obscure skirmish at some desert village, and when he fell he left a wife and baby daughter to the care of his comrades. The story of the pair was never fully known. They were Italians, and both of evidently gentle birth. When I heard about them first I thought of a Romeo and a Juliet giving up all for love, leaving behind family animosities with family riches, and seeking security from all search in the safest retreat in the world--the "legion of the lost ones." All the men saw and admired the heroic self-sacrifice of the gently-nurtured lady who left all to follow the chosen one in such a career, and I am proud to be able to say that during her husband's life and after his death no man ever said in her hearing anything that would bring a blush to her cheeks; in her presence even the most hardened rascal put on the semblance of a gentleman. People say that even the best man has some fault or imperfection of nature. It may be so. At any rate even the worst man has some good, some respect for virtue and honour, even though he possesses them not himself. After the death of her husband the widow opened a small shop, in which she sold wine, tobacco, and other things that soldiers spend their money on. The officers of the battalion stocked this for her, but in a short time she was able to pay them back, and she insisted on their accepting the money though they did not at all desire repayment. The regimental convoys were allowed to bring her goods as she required them, and the legionaries of her dead husband's battalion loyally spent most of their scanty pay in her canteen. Whenever anyone received money from friends or relations in Europe her stock would be all cleared off at once, and so by the exercise of a little frugality she was able gradually to put by some money for the little daughter whom she idolised. At the time when I came to the battalion this girl was about fifteen years of age, slight, graceful, lively, bright-eyed, the pet of the battalion. Everyone jested freely with her, she jested freely with everybody, but no one ever thought of saying anything which her mother, a model of virtue, would not like to hear. I had been but two or three days in my new quarters when an alarm of fire was raised one night, and we all turned out promptly as the cry went around. There was no danger for us, as the huts were one-storeyed and did not contain more than a squad each, but there might be some for the officers, whose quarters were more elaborate, and who, of course, were more isolated. A dozen or a score of men in a hut will all get clear, because some at least will be aroused, and these can pull out their suffocating comrades; a single officer may be smothered in his bed before even the watchful sentry realises the outbreak. When I came out of my quarters, in shirt and drawers, I glanced around, and saw at once that all the cantonment was safe. Then I heard a cry from the direction of the main guard-house that the village was on fire, but this was afterwards proved to be false. I flung on my clothes hurriedly and ran to the guard-house, for I had no assigned place on the parade that was now rapidly forming on the parade-ground, not being sergeant-major of any company, and asked the sergeant of the guard where the fire was. "Madame's canteen," he replied; "twenty or thirty men have already gone to put it out." "May I go to help?" (Of course, though I was of higher rank, he was the man in charge of the guard, and could prevent me, if he wished, from going out.) "Certainly, my sergeant-major." "Thanks, comrade, thanks." And I ran out and went to the widow's canteen. There I found the whole a mass of flames, and I saw at a glance that there was no hope of saving even the smallest portion of the house or its contents, especially as there was a sad lack of water. I asked a man if the woman and the girl had been saved. He told me that the girl had discovered the fire and awakened her mother, that both had made good their escape, and that then the widow had run back to recover her little store of money, the hiding-place of which no one else knew. "Then," he went on, "the daughter tried to go into the blazing house to bring back her mother, but she was forcibly prevented by some soldiers, and one or two of the legionaries who tried to enter were driven back, severely burned, by the fire and smoke." The flames, indeed, were terrible, all the wine barrels and spirit casks were blazing fiercely; there was no hope of life for anyone in such a hell. The poor widow fell a victim to her desire to regain for her daughter the money she had hoarded with so much anxious care, and nothing remained of her except a few charred bones, which were reverently gathered up and decently interred on the morrow. As for the money, it must have been chiefly in paper, for very little metal could be found in the ashes, and so the poor daughter was left completely alone in the world, without relations, at least as far as she knew, without means, and with only the friendship and the pity of the battalion to look to for aid. The Italian girl was taken charge of by a sergeant's wife--one of those few noble women, few, I mean, comparatively speaking, who will go anywhere with their husbands, and who furnish in the most abandoned communities examples of unselfish heroism and exalted virtue, which make even men whose knowledge of the sex is confined to its most vicious members have some respect for purity and some doubts as to their favourite axiom: A man may be good, but a woman cannot be. The officers proposed that she should continue as _cantinière_ in place of her mother, and generously offered to put her in a position to do so. As for us sub-officers and simple soldiers, our duty was plain: as soon as she was in a new home and shop, to go there, and there only, with the constant copper, the occasional silver, the God-sent gold. She knew this, the officers knew it; we made no resolutions; and said scarcely anything about the matter amongst ourselves, but all understood that it would be bad for the legionary who bought his wine or brandy elsewhere. The commandant sent for the four sergeant-majors of the companies and for me, the supernumerary. He asked us how much it would cost to erect a new house. We said that it would cost nothing; the soldiers would build one in their spare time. "Very well, my friends, very well. How much will it cost to put in a new supply." We did not answer this at once, but after some time we all agreed that 2000 francs would put in a fairly good stock--that is, if carriage cost nothing. "Oh, the carriage will be settled; I will see to that," said the commandant. "Now, sergeant-major," he went on, turning to me, "you have no company whose accounts you must make up, will you undertake to look after this business for Mademoiselle Julie?" "I will do my best, sir, in this matter if you wish it." "That will do," he replied; "you shall be sergeant-major of the canteen company. Is it not so?" Every other sergeant-major laughed at me. They were glad that I had been sent to some duty, for a sergeant-major with the military medal is not long employed as simple sergeant, and each man, so long as I was unemployed in my proper rank, would fear for himself and his own position. Thus I became sergeant-major responsible for a canteen and the curious crowd assembled there. Some time afterwards, when the new quarters had been built by the legionaries and the little stock of _eau-de-vie_, wine, tobacco, and cigars had arrived, there was a grand opening. All the men had been saving up for awhile, and more than half the stock was sold at a good profit on the first evening. The girl was asked to do nothing except to take the money; four men willingly acted as assistants, pouring out the wine and the _eau-de-vie_, and, indeed, now and then tasting them too, for "you must not muzzle the ox treading out the corn," nor ask a man to help others to good things without occasionally helping himself as well. One of them took so much brandy that I had to turn him out, a couple of comrades brought him away to his hut, and nothing was said about it, as the poor little _cantinière_ begged him off with tears in her eyes. Just as things were becoming almost too lively the commandant and the other officers came down and entered the little shop. The first intimation we inside had of their arrival was the silence of the men who were laughing, singing, and carousing outside. The commandant put down a couple of gold pieces and asked for two bottles of wine. He and the others took each a sip of this and wished mademoiselle a prosperous business. Then the commandant gave me a strong hint that enough of business had been done for that day, and I promptly shut up shop after his departure. When all had left Giulia and I counted the money. We had a little gold, a good deal of silver, and a great quantity of copper--altogether over fourteen hundred francs. I congratulated her upon the successful evening's trading, and then we went to reckon up the supply still left. We found that at the same rate of sale the two thousand francs would be changed into at least two thousand six hundred, and that surely was excellent profit in an out-of-the-way camp of legionaries where money was rather scarce. Then Giulia asked me to take a glass of wine and a cigar. I did not refuse. What legionary, what man, indeed, would, when pressed by so lovely a girl? Of late I had seen her constantly, as my management of her affairs and my continual reports about the progress of her new house brought me daily into her society. We always got on well together--fifteen and seventeen don't usually fall out--and my rank and medal brought me favour in her eyes. Moreover, I was very respectful in my words and demeanour. I pitied her misfortune, and my pity was not lessened by the sight of her beauty, and, before I had been three days attending to her affairs, I took more interest in them than I could by any chance take in the accounts of a company. We were very good friends and companions, but there was not a hint, not a suspicion, of love on either side. She was pretty and in trouble, and, therefore, had my sympathy. I was kind and attentive to her, and she was grateful. _Voilà tout!_ Before I drank the wine I made her put her lips to the glass, which she did, prettily and with a blush. "You must never ask me to do that again," she said. "Why, it is the custom of the Legion, ma camarade," I replied. "You are now a legionary; surely you will do as your good comrades do?" "Well, at least not in the presence of others." "Very well," I answered; "but always when we are alone?" "Yes," she whispered; "when we are alone. I trust you." And she put her little hand out to me. I took it, and by a sudden impulse kissed it. "You may always trust me," I said--"always." A question now arose as to the disposal of the money. There was no danger from natives, as the new house was inside the lines; there was not much, indeed, from soldiers, as there were sentries near. At the same time I told Giulia that it would be safer to transfer it to some other place. "Can you not," I suggested, "take it to the woman in whose quarters you live?" "No, no," she replied; "I will take some to give to her--she has been very good to me--but you are in charge, you must keep the greater part." "I?" I said in astonishment. "Yes; if you do not, I will leave it here." "But, Mademoiselle Julie, there are very bad men in every battalion, and someone may break in and steal all." "Let the sentinels keep watch." "Ah! a sentinel may be glad to get half." "I do not care; you are my sergeant-major"--as she said this a rosy flush came up over neck and face and ears--"and it is your duty to keep my money for me. Besides, did I not say that I trust you?" In the end I had to take twelve hundred francs, though with many misgivings. Giulia told me that she would give two hundred to the sergeant's wife, the rest she would keep herself. Then we locked up the place and departed to our separate quarters, after having made an appointment to meet in the morning, to inspect the stores and see if anything had been touched during the night. Giulia wanted me to take the keys as well as the money, but this I refused to do. I could scarcely sleep that night on account of the money. I occupied a small room in a long, low-roofed building, given up to the accommodation of sergeants whose domestic arrangements did not include a woman. I barricaded the door, put a glass on the window, so that anyone trying to enter that way might knock it down on a tin basin placed just below, and put a naked bayonet and the box containing the money under my pillow. For all these precautions I spent a wakeful night, and rose in the morning, restless, anxious, and unrefreshed. After the morning coffee I felt better, and laughed to myself at my fears of the night. Who would take the money? surely not one of the sergeants. I did not, I could not, suspect them, but I certainly should not like to trust every man in the battalion; the Legion contains more than a due percentage of desperate ruffians, and our battalion had its fair share of the bad ones. As I went across the parade-ground to keep my appointment with Giulia at the door of the canteen I met the captain of my company, or at least of the company to which I was attached, though I seldom paraded with it. He noticed the box and asked me what it contained. When I told him he laughed, and said that many a man would be pleased to be so trusted, especially by so beautiful a girl as Mademoiselle la Cantinière. I answered that the trust was pleasant but the responsibility too great; I did not wish to have the safe keeping of twelve hundred francs. "You cannot help it now, my sergeant-major of the canteen, you must undertake all the duties of your position." Then he told me to present his compliments to Mademoiselle Julie, and went away. I met Giulia at the door. She looked annoyed at having to wait, but when I made her acquainted with the delay caused by meeting the captain her face cleared. "I thought, mon ami," she said, "that you had forgotten your duty." "That might be possible; but, Mademoiselle Julie, how could I forget you?" She curtsied at the compliment, and I noticed the grace of her figure, the beauty of its curves, the wonderful arch of the instep; and I must have looked my admiration, for when she lifted her eyes to meet mine, again the rosy flush came up over her neck and cheeks. "Let us see that all is right within," she said, and opened the door. When we were inside we saw at a glance that everything was as we had left it on the previous evening. "Now let us count the money," I said. In a second Giulia flew into a rage, she stamped her foot upon the ground, she cried out that I wished to insult her, that I thought her mean and suspicious, and finally burst into tears. I laid my hand upon her arm and wished to know what had vexed her; she flung it off with an indignant gesture and bade me go away. I was thunderstruck. I could not tell how I had offended, and was beginning to feel aggrieved. Why should I be told that I had insulted her whom I would not pain for all the world? The more I thought of my conduct towards her, the less reason I could see for her anger and tears. I was wise enough, however, to let her have her cry out: when she had done with weeping she would be reasonable. I was not mistaken. When she had dried her tears, I asked how I had offended her. She looked, calmly enough now, at me, and said: "Did I not tell you yesterday that I trusted you?" "Yes," I replied. "And yet to-day you ask that I should count the money. How can I do so and trust?" I took off my kepi, bowed, and said: "Pardon me, I was wrong." "You will never offend me again?" "Never. And you, you will forgive?" "Yes; once, but not a second time." Again she gave me her hand, again I kissed it, then she put her hands upon my shoulders, and said: "My dear friend, if I did not trust you more than you think, I would not be alone with you here." She asked me to take a glass of wine, voluntarily put the glass to her lips, and then handed it to me. I deliberately turned it round, so that my lips should touch where hers had touched, and drained it to the bottom, looking the while over it at Giulia. She smiled and looked pleased, and then turned away to get some cigars. I had more sense than to offer money. I took the cigars, and said: "You are a good comrade, Giulia." It was the first time I had called her by her name. She hesitated a little, and then answered: "And you too, you will be a good comrade, will you not, Jean?" "Oui, ma belle." And I bit off the end of a cigar, while she struck a match to light it for me. Just as I began to smoke there came a knock at the door. I shouted out "Entrez," and the commandant came in. I put down the cigar and stood to attention. "Everything goes well, is it not?" he asked. "Yes, monsieur le commandant," Giulia replied; "I can soon repay some of the money advanced by you and the other officers." "No, my child," the commandant said; "you are the daughter of the regiment now. The battalion must be father and mother to you; we cannot accept repayment." "But my mother paid back the money given to her by the officers." "Yes, my dear child; but your mother was not born in the regiment, and though we lent to her we give to you. We gave it, indeed, and did not expect to be repaid. I was a sub-lieutenant then, and I remember all. She insisted, and we were compelled to accept. With you it is different; we will insist, and you must not refuse. How do you like the sergeant-major of the canteen?" he went on. We all laughed at the queer title; no one had ever heard of such a rank. "Very well, monsieur le commandant." "Yes, yes; I think he will be good; if he is not, tell me." With that he went away. "I must be good, Giulia?" I said, as I lit the cigar again. "Yes; very good, my comrade; you must never offend me again." "Ah! you do not forget--perhaps you will never forget--and then, what is the good of being forgiven?" "I will forget; yes, I will never remember, unless you force me to." I promised that I should never offend her again, and she smiled and said that she believed me. "Nobody will enter here during the day," I told her, "and I will leave the box here; if I do not I must carry it everywhere with me, and that will be inconvenient." Giulia asked me why I should carry it about with me, and I told her that I should have no peace or ease of mind while it was out of my sight unless it was in the canteen, which was near so many sentinels. I also mentioned my fears for its safety the previous night and the precautions that I had taken. She was very sorry that I had been so restless, and advised me to leave it in future in the canteen. To this I demurred. I told her that if the box were there, I should be getting up at all hours of the night to come and look at the place, and perhaps I might be shot by a sentry. "But can we not find a hiding-place--some place that nobody could find even in broad daylight?" The idea struck me as a good one. We searched in all directions, and finally decided on an empty box half-full of straw that had contained bottles. By leaving this, of course, without the money, in full view of everybody during the day, no man who might enter at night would dream of searching it. Then I proposed that we should put only the money there every evening and that I should take away the empty box. "No, my friend, you shall not. Something might happen if the bad ones thought that the box was full; better lose the money than a good friend's life." "As it pleases you, my comrade; I will obey orders, then I cannot offend." That evening the canteen did a good trade, so good, indeed, that we--that is, Giulia and I--determined on sending for more wine and _eau-de-vie_. I went to the commandant in the morning and told him how affairs stood. He was glad to hear my report, and ordered me to make out the order and give it to him to be forwarded. I brought him the written order to a merchant in Oran and handed over eighteen hundred francs in cash. He had the money counted by a clerk, and then told me that he would see that Mademoiselle Julie's order and money were safely transmitted. I saluted and went away. As day after day passed Giulia and I became all the better friends. We openly showed our liking for each other. We were constantly meeting, sometimes by accident it is true, but oftener by unexpressed design, and, whenever we met, we always stopped to speak. I, being unattached to any company for battalion duties, had plenty of time on my hands; Giulia, of course, had nothing to do until evening, as I took good care that her place was swept and cleaned every morning by legionaries, who were only too glad to do this work for a glass of brandy and an ounce of tobacco apiece; thus we, as it were, could not help meeting so frequently. The others noticed and said nothing; it was tacitly understood at the time through the battalion that we were lovers, and yet we had never even spoken of love, and I had kissed her hand only twice. We were happy together, and that, for the moment, was enough for both. CHAPTER XVIII When Giulia and I met next morning at the canteen we found money and goods untouched. She did not ask me to take a glass of wine this time but filled it out, put it to her lips, and gave it to me. I drank the wine, lit a cigar, and asked her if she had any orders. We laughed at this, then she in her pretty way insisted that I was the sub-officer in charge and that her duty was to listen and obey, mine to command. I objected, saying that the lady's wishes had to be considered first. A good deal of harmless chat followed. I smoked the cigar, she deftly rolled a cigarette and lit it from my cigar, our faces were close together, and I told her it was well that cigarette and cigar were between us and also kept our lips engaged. But this was all fun, we had nothing to do; the men of the battalion, at least three companies of them, were out marching with knapsacks and pouches full, the fourth company was up to its eyes in work, some on guard, some cooking, some doing the necessary duties of a camp; I honestly believe that we two were the only idle, careless ones in the cantonment. As she flung away the end of a cigarette she said: "I have resolved to live here after a few days." "What!" I cried, "you to stay here alone, beautiful and with money?" She smiled back, as it were triumphantly, and replied: "Why not?" "But you are beautiful." "Thanks, my comrade." "And there will always be money in the house." "It is true." "And beauty and money, what will they not tempt men to do?" "I shall have a protector." This was a blow to me, and she must have seen it, for she said quickly, putting her hand on my arm, that the sergeant and his wife whom she had been staying with since her mother's death would keep house for her. "Oh," I cried, "I am so glad and I was so sorry." "I trust you, Jean," she answered; "will you not trust me?" I was not allowed to reply; she put a pretty finger on my lips, and said: "Yes, I know you trust me; why say to me what I know?" What pleasant days we had together! What fun and jesting and pretended rebukes! When the sergeant and his wife were installed in one of the rooms over the canteen, I used to stay until the call went for "Out lights," and then I groped my way in the darkness back to my quarters, challenged by every sentry on the road. Soon the battalion got to understand that _le jeune_ was always to be found going to his quarters at a certain hour, and the sentries used to look out especially for me. I, of course, had to answer their challenges and to give my reason for being out at night. I always said: "Visiting Sergeant M----." As I passed the scoundrels used to say: "Sergeant M----, is he married? Has Madame M---- a friend at her house?" And I dared not say anything in reply, because if I did all the battalion would be laughing at me and somebody else next day. You must not think that the men wished to hurt anyone's feelings. No; bad as they were, forgetful as they were of the ten commandments, they had no intention, not even the slightest, of offending Giulia or me. Giulia was the pet. Many envied me, I am sure, but they envied me because they thought things; had they known that Giulia and I were merely good friends, good comrades, and that no word of love had ever been said by either of us they would have laughed, and said: "Oh, boy and girl to-day, lover and mistress to-morrow," but that was because, with a lingering taste for good, they had quite given up expecting it here or hereafter. One thing I must say, the legionaries were very quiet in the canteen. They called for their drinks and went outside at once, and there smoked, drank, and sang as best pleased each. Sometimes a man would have no money and would wish for a drink in the morning or a pipeful of tobacco at night. He came to me, and said: "I want it, my sergeant-major; will you give it me?" "I can't give it," I used to say, "but I'll ask for it for you, and if you don't pay when you have money I shall have to pay instead and I'll never ask for you again." They did not always pay, but that was because a man's money was stopped--he was in hospital, perhaps, or in jail--but Giulia and I never minded that; the men who could pay did. To say the truth, no battalion in the world was so good or so comfortable as ours at that time. The men never drank out of the lines, therefore those who went too far could be easily carried away to bed. There was very little fighting, for no man, indeed, would strike a blow in Mademoiselle Julie's canteen, and if a blow is not struck soon, soldiers forgive and forget easily; moreover, if a man had no money he could get his bit of tobacco and, perhaps, his glass of _eau-de-vie_ without begging for it. Giulia never wrote down the name of a man she gave credit to; she said always: "It is not my honour, but yours, that is at stake." That phrase with us was worth all the ledgers in the world. One evening I was sitting on the edge of the counter talking about something or other to a corporal who had dropped in for a glass of wine and had asked me to join him in the drink. In spite of the difference in rank I consented, for I knew quite well that the social position that the corporal used to hold was very much higher than my own; as a matter of fact, the man had at one time a commission in the British army, and his father draws to this very day a big pension from the British Government But that is by the way. As we chatted Giulia listened and was interested; we spoke of some affairs of the battalion, and Giulia knew as much as we did of such things. We three were the only persons in the canteen. I had just told Giulia to refill the glasses, and she was about doing so when a man entered, a simple soldier. I did not know him at the time; I found out afterwards that he was a Hessian and bore the reputation of being taciturn and unsociable, thereby rendering himself an object of dislike to all. He called for a glass of brandy and drank it, then for another, which he sipped slowly, and tried to enter into conversation with Giulia. The corporal and I resumed the conversation interrupted by the Hessian's entrance, and Giulia evidently preferred to listen to us rather than to the new-comer. As he noted this he became rather angry, and made some remark about his money being as good as another's, and that canteen girls should be obliging to all customers. Giulia, who had a hot temper, told him at once to finish his drink and to take himself and his money elsewhere. The Hessian drank his brandy, and as he was leaving said that she knew the difference between a simple soldier and a sergeant-major, and if someone had no chevrons on his sleeve he would soon be taught that it was unmannerly to sit on a counter in the presence of a lady. My temper had been gradually rising and this was too much for me. I jumped down from the counter, took off my belt and bayonet, which I handed to Giulia, stripped off my tunic, and told the scamp that there were no chevrons on my shirt. He was astonished, and almost before he could put himself on his defence I had given him in quick succession right and left fists in the eyes. I followed up the attack vigorously, and in less than three minutes all the insolence was taken out of him and he begged for mercy. Then I kicked him out of the canteen and told him never again to enter it, put on my tunic and sat down, this time on a chair. "I must apologise," I said to Giulia; "I should not have sat on the counter; in one sense he was right. I will not ask pardon for quarrelling, for he offended you too." "You may sit where you like, my sergeant-major," Giulia replied; "I shall not be offended." "But I should not sit on the counter." "Sit where you wish," she repeated; "I shall be satisfied." "Même sur vos genoux, mademoiselle," said the English corporal, with a smile. Giulia blushed, laughed, and shook her head. I may finish here about the Hessian. The story was told by him that I had committed an unprovoked assault When the commandant heard this, he sent for me. I told the truth, and my version of the affair was corroborated by Giulia and the corporal. The commandant would take no official notice of the affair, but he privately admonished me that it was very wrong to take off my belt and tunic. "You should not have undressed, even partially," he said, "in the presence of a lady and an inferior." But he gave me no blame for the beating I gave the Hessian. Here I must explain the military meaning of being undressed. If a man is on duty and wearing a belt and bayonet, he is undressed if he takes them off. Should he be supposed to wear white trousers and white gaiters, he is undressed if he wears red trousers with black leggings. So one can understand that, when the commandant admonished me for being undressed in the presence of Giulia and the corporal, he referred quite as much to the taking off of my belt and bayonet as he did to the taking off of my coat. Soldiers have to be very particular about their clothing and equipments; this is quite right, as it tends to good discipline and order. When the canteen closed for the evening Giulia and I smoked our cigarettes as usual, while I sipped my glass of wine. We were rather silent, for I was thinking of the quarrel and its probable consequences; what Giulia thought of I cannot tell. At last I finished my cigarette, carefully extinguished the end for fear of fire, and drained my glass. I rose to go. Instead of shaking hands with me across the counter--for she had been sitting inside all the time, whilst I occupied a seat outside--Giulia came round to where I was and for the first time asked me what I thought would happen. "Oh, nothing, nothing," I replied; "what can happen? I had to do as I did; I surely could not allow any man to misconduct himself here?" "Yes, yes; but you took off your belt and tunic." "Oh, that will never be mentioned; why should the scoundrel talk of that?" "Yes; but he will talk of it, and there will be trouble--trouble for you on my account." "Well, if there is to be trouble for me I shall not mind it, since it will be on your account; were it on account of any other I should be vexed." "But you may lose your rank," she insisted. "I shall not mind, so long as they leave me on duty in the canteen." "But they may not leave you here; another may come." "That is true," I answered, "and that is the only thing I am afraid of." "You would like to stay here with me?" said Giulia, blushing as she spoke. "Always, always with you," I replied, and, putting my kepi on the counter, I took her in my arms and kissed her full upon the lips. Then we forgot all about the Hessian and thought only about ourselves. I have no mind to write all about our love story; people who have loved will understand, and those poor wretches who have never known what it is to love passionately and to be as passionately loved could never comprehend, were I to write till Doomsday about Giulia and myself. At last the time came for parting. Giulia told me that she should not sleep for thinking of what might happen as a result of the quarrel, but I succeeded in calming her fears. "Trust me," I told her; "I took the wisest course, though I did not think of that at the time. If I had allowed the rascal to go away unpunished, the commandant would call me a coward and say that I was unworthy to wear the military medal, and all the officers and men would agree with him. Now the worst that can be said is that I lost my temper and forgot my rank. Even that too will be pardoned, since they will easily see that I could not allow myself to be insulted in your presence without taking instant vengeance for the affront." She grew more composed as I spoke, and I felt more at ease; in comforting Giulia I comforted myself. I did not get the message that the commandant wished to see me until about three o'clock in the afternoon of the next day. All the morning I had enough to do to prevent Giulia from breaking down; her eyes showed that she had spent a restless night, a night of tears, but as the morning wore on she almost forgot her anxiety in my cheering words and more than cheering kisses. When a sergeant told me that I was wanted at the officers' quarters Giulia broke down completely. I kissed her once more, bade her be of good courage, and gave her over to the sergeant's wife, whose kindness and tender sympathy were of inestimable value to us both. The sergeant's wife was a good woman and deserved a better fate than that which was her lot afterwards; but then, what will you? It is only the good who suffer in this world; the bad are always to be found at the top of the wheel. Well, the commandant received me as I have already told, and after a kind admonition--how kind these officers that men fear so much can be when they like!--sent me away. I saluted, turned, walked a pace or two, and then set off running at the top of my speed to the canteen. I burst in the door, ran up the stairs, taking three steps at a time, and bounded with a loud cry of joy into the room where Giulia was weeping. I could say nothing, nothing intelligible at all events, but Giulia understood. So did the sergeant's wife, for she discreetly went away and left us to ourselves and our happiness. Things went on badly for the Hessian. He was always an ill-liked comrade, but this last affair was too bad indeed. All sympathised with Giulia and myself, and the sympathy was not merely on account of the chance a man had of getting tobacco and a glass of spirits when his pockets were empty. Oh no; the legionaries were glad that they could get a little credit, but then they always paid--that is, all paid except the poor devils whose money was stopped for some reason or other--and they were pleased with the canteen, pleased with Giulia, who had been born in the battalion, and I think they were not discontented on account of my position, for was not I a legionary like themselves? So the Hessian was not spoken to, or only spoken to to be cursed; if he replied he was beaten; if he complained, there were plenty to prove that he was a bad comrade and that it was impossible to soldier with him, and, unfortunately for himself, he had been known as an unsociable fellow for a long time. The end was that he volunteered for Tonquin, where there were some of ours still, and his captain was by no means sorry to be rid of him, for one can never know what may occur when a man is deservedly unpopular in the Legion and has not grace or tact enough to get back to favour with his comrades. As for Giulia and me, life was idyllic. We did not mind the laughing jests of our comrades; they never went too far. There was a leaven of the gentleman in the battalion, and this leaven leavened all the mass. Then the really bad ones were afraid; the example of the Hessian was too fresh in their minds. But, indeed, all were kind and agreeable. That Giulia and I should be lovers had been obvious to all others long before we ourselves thought of being such to one another, and when the legionaries noticed that she lived for me alone, just as all my thoughts were alone hers, they kept their coarse jokes to themselves and were as polite to us as if we were far higher than they in social position. Some of the songs were not of a moral kind, but as the evening concert always took place outside the canteen Giulia was not supposed to hear, and, indeed, when she did hear she did not always understand. When she did comprehend she said nothing; one cannot be a _cantinière_ in the Legion and a prude. At this time Giulia and I were always together. Certainly while the canteen was open I was outside the counter, often making one of a party of sergeants who came to drink in comrade-like fashion with one another; at other times merely going around to see that there was no disorder--well, no more disorder and abandonment than are reasonable in a canteen where belts are off and tongues wag freely. I very seldom had any trouble, most of the legionaries kept within bounds, and those who felt disposed to give a loose rein to the desire of ardent spirits were prevented from doing so by a constant lack of money. Sometimes, however, when some Russian or Prussian or Austrian had received money from Europe there was a little danger of a free fight, and I, who had been in the encounter at Three Fountains, did not like these things. I had told Giulia about that trouble and she was just as concerned as I, but she was concerned for my safety and my rank, while I was anxious about her shop and herself. Any man can start a row--oh, it is quite easy, I assure you--but it is not every man that can stop one. Besides, I remembered how the huts were torn down at Three Fountains and the Russian's advice to the old soldier sutler: "Take your goods and madame away." The advice about madame seemed especially applicable to Giulia, and yet I knew she would stay by me, and it was my duty to stay by the canteen. One day the English corporal whom I have mentioned came to the canteen and asked Giulia to take care of some money for him. Giulia refused point-blank, but said that he might speak to me. When I learned what he wished me to do I at once saw the reasonableness of the request, inasmuch as no man would like to keep so large a sum of money as the corporal had in his own possession in a hut. The Englishman had just received from home a Bank of England note for £100, and many a simple soldier would kill him for such a sum. But, one may object, how negociate such a billet in such a place? Oh, no one could do that except the owner, or someone like Giulia, who would change it for him in the regular way of business; but many a man was nearing the end of his five years' service, and a Bank of England note could be easily hidden for a time and in the end changed in Paris. One hundred pounds!--twenty-five hundred francs!--why, it was a fortune. I said that I would take the note and give him a receipt for it, and that, as he drew money from Mademoiselle Julie, he could give receipts until the full amount was withdrawn. He thanked me, gave me the note, took a receipt, and immediately applied to Giulia in my presence for a hundred francs. She gave him the money at my request and he gave me an acknowledgment. That evening his squad was merry; he had given them fifty francs to spend, the other fifty he spent with his brother corporals. On the following day he asked me about the stock in the canteen. I told him that there was not at the time enough to justify him in giving a spree to a section, but that in less than a week he could stand treat to the battalion if he liked. "Oh no; not the battalion, only the company." "I understand," said I; "I know that you cannot go outside your own company, but I spoke of the battalion merely to show you Mademoiselle Julie's resources." "I see," the corporal replied; "well, tell me when you are ready, and my comrades shall enjoy an evening's carouse." Let me now tell about the money. Of course, it was Giulia's, not mine, and she kept it in her money box, which was snugly hidden in her own room in a place that no one knew of except ourselves. Even the sergeant's wife did not know it. She never entered Giulia's room except on invitation. Giulia herself kept the place as it ought to be, sweeping it, dusting the furniture, and having everything as neat and clean as it could be in a palace. Once a week she gave me the key. I went there with a couple of privates--of course, she then took the box away--the legionaries with me removed everything to another place and washed out the room and left it with windows and door open for a couple of hours. They then returned, replaced the furniture, got a couple of drinks, a couple of cigars and a franc, and went away satisfied. But this is mere domestic economy. Giulia also kept the receipt for the hundred francs. But, one will say, why not transact the business without troubling me? Well, the amount was so large and the money was so strange that she wished me to settle everything for her, as I was, in her opinion, the one man in the world who knew everything and was always right. Again, she knew how much I prized her trust, and so was glad to pay me a delicate compliment. Moreover, we were so closely united to each other now that it would seem to so gentle and confiding, yet high-spirited a girl as she was a breach of faith for her to engage in such a transaction without my knowledge and consent. Yet when I asked Giulia why she had not taken the money from the corporal at once, she only answered: "I don't know; but I would not." Then she kissed me, and said: "I will never take anything, unless you know about it and are satisfied." What a sum of happiness the events, even the very words, of our lives made at this time! Ah, well! the sum was soon to be added up, and the total not exceeded, for ever. About five days after my last conversation with the English corporal the new stock arrived. It had cost altogether about two thousand francs, and we--that is, Guilia and I--were sure to make at least five or six hundred francs profit. When we ordered the stuff we expected that it would last for some time, but now, knowing the corporal's resources and intention, we settled that it would all be sold within a week. We were not disappointed; in fact, the day after it arrived we had to send an order for a similar quantity to our agent at Oran. "I see that the new goods have arrived," said the Englishman to me as I met him on the parade-ground. "Yes," I replied. "I have been looking for you. If you tell me now how much you want I can get it, and you can write out the receipt." "Thanks, my sergeant-major; but you are a man of experience in these things. You were at Three Fountains; is it not so?" "Yes," I answered, laughing. "Then will you tell me how much I ought to have for the entertainment of my company?" "Oh, five hundred francs will do well, but seven or eight hundred will really be a generous amount to spend." "Let me be very generous then; get me a thousand." "Very well; but remember there will be change left. Let your squad understand that they will have the spending of that, so shall you have sentries guarding your sleep." "You are right, my sergeant-major, you are right; I am obliged to you for the hint. Will not Mademoiselle Julie give us a glass of wine, so that we may clink our glasses together?" "Oh, certainly. Nobody amongst the officers troubles about the canteen. One can generally get a glass of _eau-de-vie_ or _vin ordinaire_ at any reasonable hour. The commandant knows that no man is given more than he can safely bear, and what is the use of being strict in such a place as this?" The corporal knew this. If a man wanted a drink at any hour when the canteen was supposed to be shut, he could speak to me and I could get it for him. He did not, however, enter the canteen; he had to take it, and that quickly, at a window at the back. As a rule, men only wanted a glass of brandy in the morning--about half-a-dozen at most; these were the men who had had too much drink the evening before and who possessed or borrowed the necessary coppers in the morning. As the English corporal and I took our drinks together at the little window, I told him the true story of Three Fountains. Giulia listened with interest, though she had heard all about it before. Once I asked her to refill the glasses. She said: "Do not continue until I return; I wish to hear it all again." Of course, I waited for her return and then proceeded with my tale. When I had finished, I said that I hoped there would not be any such work here. "Oh no," replied the corporal; "not if I can help it." "You must not make them drunk," said Giulia. "No, no, Madame Julie; I give you my word of honour." It was the first time that she had been addressed as madame. She blushed a rosy red, turned her head aside for a moment, and gave me one swift glance of----Oh, I knew well what it meant and how it pleased me, but I will say no more. The corporal was a gentleman and went away at once. He finished his drink, raised his kepi, and said adieu. There was a good deal of boisterous mirth that evening at the canteen and around it. A couple of men did strike each other, but before any serious damage was done, I had both under guard and on the road to the guard-room. The rest took the hint; they saw that fighting meant loss of the drink and fun of the evening, and a night in the guard-room and punishment in the morning. A few men who were evidently overcome, or nearly so, by the effects of the liquor were carried away to bed by their comrades, and, taken all in all, the evening passed away satisfactorily. Next morning, however, nearly a hundred men turned up for _eau-de-vie_, and all had money. The corporal had been judiciously generous; everyone was pleased. The Englishman gave one more spree, three nights after, to his company, but this second one did not cost him more than four hundred francs. Then he spent two hundred francs one evening with his section; what was left was kept for his squad. In acting as he did he followed the custom of the Legion, but I have already said enough about that. As he was drawing the last fifty francs I said to him in Giulia's presence. "Monsieur le caporal, you have spent your money as it should be spent, but it may be a long time until you are rich again. Do not hesitate if you want a litre of wine or some brandy or tobacco and have no money. There has been a great profit in a short time; whenever you feel inclined come and have your share of it." "Yes," said Giulia; "you will be always welcome, whether your pockets are full or empty." "I thank you both," the Englishman replied, "and I like and respect you too much not to take advantage now and then of your generous offer." "Come as often as you like," I said; "you will always find a welcome, and that not merely on account of the profit." "Yes," said Giulia; "that is true." "I will come," the corporal answered, "but not very often; such a welcome is too good to be worn out." He lifted his kepi to Giulia, bowed, and went away. He did not come very often without money, only now and then, as he had said, but, you see, he was very proud. CHAPTER XIX Soon afterwards some important changes took place in the battalion. We were ordered to prepare a draft of four hundred officers and men for the East, and in lieu of these we received a corresponding number of recruits and veterans sent home. The changes in the officers were many, for, in addition to those who went as a matter of course with the draft, others volunteered for foreign service and were accepted. As far as I was concerned, the officer most to be regretted was the adjutant. The man who went was always kind and had ever a pleasant word for Giulia and for me; the one who replaced him was destined to be our greatest enemy. We could not guess this at the time, and naturally thought that all things would go on as usual, but it was not long before we were cruelly undeceived. The new adjutant was a stout, thick-set man of about thirty-five years. He had seen a good deal of service both in Algeria and Tonquin, and was undoubtedly a very smart soldier and a most capable man for performing the duties of his rank. That is all one can say in his favour. He was harsh, even tyrannical; he never spared a man's feelings, and his tongue could cut like a whip-lash. All the legionaries, from sergeant-major down to simple soldier, feared and hated him; before he had been in the battalion a fortnight we, who had been the most joyous and careless fellows on earth, every man pleased with himself and with his comrades, became the most sullen and dogged lot in the world. There was just as much drinking as ever, but the singing, the _camaraderie_, the easy give-and-take feeling that used to prevail, were all gone. Moreover, the men drank more brandy and less wine, and, as I pointed this out to Giulia, I said: "Carissima, there will be bad work soon; somebody's blood will flow, and then there will be an execution." She shuddered as she replied: "How I wish that that bad man were sent away! Before he came we were all happy, now I, even I, am gloomy and troubled; I am oppressed by some foreboding that I cannot understand." I could enter into her feelings, for I too had anxious thoughts, not for Giulia or myself, indeed, but for the other legionaries. I felt that an outbreak of some kind would occur, but the chief trouble was to persuade myself that it would be merely a rash act on the part of one man, who would free all from tyranny and take the punishment by himself, but as the days wore on I, who knew the Legion by heart, could see that there was a far greater chance of a number of men being concerned in the _émeute_. One thing delayed action, the newcomers and the rest had not sufficiently fraternised--four hundred strangers are too many for any battalion to assimilate quickly. One morning half-a-dozen men were having a nip of brandy each at a little window at the back of the canteen; I was standing a little apart, and Giulia was passing out the glasses. Suddenly the new adjutant came round the corner and sternly asked the meaning of giving out drink at such an hour. Nobody could reply. We all knew that the commandant winked at the business, we all knew too that the canteen should not be open at that time, but then no harm had ever come of it, no man ever got more that one _petite verre_, and surely that would rather help a man than hurt him if he wanted it. But how could I, the one chiefly addressed, say all that? Oh no; I had to be silent and take my abuse as best I could, and truly the adjutant was abusive. He was still speaking like a brute when Giulia, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, broke in, and said: "The sergeant-major has nothing to do with it, it is I alone who am to blame." The adjutant saluted her politely and replied that he understood that I was in military charge of the canteen, but, even had I nothing to do with it, I was acting in a most disgraceful fashion when I allowed these pigs to get drunk so early in the morning. "The soldiers are not pigs," answered Giulia, "and they are not drunk; no man ever gets more than a _petite verre_ at this hour." "Then it is usual to supply drink so soon," the scoundrel said; "ah! the commandant must hear of this." Then he took my belt and bayonet and sent me to my own room, to remain there under arrest; as for the others, he merely wrote down their names and ordered them away. When they had gone--it was long afterwards that I learnt this--he tried to begin a conversation with Giulia, but he had scarcely uttered an endearing word when she put down the window and walked away. She was right, and the scoundrel was wrong, but he made her and me suffer for it. Just as I was expecting my morning coffee, I heard a tap at the door, and cried "Come in." Giulia entered carrying a tray with coffee and rolls and butter. I took the tray from her and put it on the floor. There was no table, of course; in a bachelor sergeant's room nothing, indeed, but the camp-bed and a shelf or two for my equipments. Then I kissed her, and said: "You spoke bravely this morning; I am glad of it I should like to say what you said, but they would punish me." "Are you pleased?" she asked. "Yes, carissima mia; and all the battalion will be pleased when they hear about it." "I do not care about the battalion if you are content." "Yes, yes, ma belle; I am very content. Is he not a rascal?" "Oh," said Giulia, "I hate him; all the trouble comes from him; somebody must kill him or we shall never again have peace." "Somebody will kill him," I answered; "you may rest assured of that." "But not you, not you," she cried; "promise me, not you." "Certainly not," I replied; "why should I kill him when there are so many others who have more grievances than I? Moreover, I have no desire to be shot; I am too happy here with you to wish to leave you. Heaven for me is here." She was satisfied with this, and insisted on my tasting the coffee. "Is it nice?" she asked. I smiled, and said that it was very nice. "Does it taste well?" "Oh yes; I never drank any coffee I liked so well." The truth is, Giulia had put a glass of _eau-de-vie_ into the coffee, and I felt that I wanted it after the scene in the morning. How kind, how thoughtful she was! I told her so over and over again before she left, and when she did go, she said with a pretty way of command that she had: "Expect me in an hour, and do not lose your temper with anyone until I come back; there is trouble enough already." I promised and she went away. Giulia, as she had promised, came back in an hour. She brought me a little wine, for she knew that very soon I should be in front of the commandant, and a glass of wine does summon up one's courage. A glass of wine before an interview, a glass of brandy before a battle--that is sound sense. Very soon a couple of soldiers of my own rank came for me. I gave them the remainder of the liquor, and they were very pleased. "I hope you won't get into serious trouble," said the Alsatian. "Not at all," chimed in the Spaniard; "he'll get off, but there must be no more drinking out of hours." "I will take care of that," said Giulia; "will you tell your companies?" They promised to do so, and we three went away, I in the centre without belt or bayonet, and Giulia followed, after locking the door of my room. When we came before the commandant one of the escort took off my kepi. The adjutant was present, looking as stiff and unimpressionable as a block of wood. When the accusation was read out I was asked if I had anything to say. I replied that I had not. The commandant considered and considered and considered. He walked up and down for a few moments, then stood still for a second or two, and resumed his walk. After about five minutes he said: "You are young, you have the military medal; I do not like to punish you." Here the adjutant interposed and asked permission to make a statement. When this was granted, he raked up the whole story of the quarrel at Three Fountains, as if everyone did not know about it. He laid stress upon the fact that I had been one of the ringleaders in that affair, and ended by asking was such an one as I fit to look after a canteen. Then the commandant said: "When you came first to the battalion there was a sergeant-major in every company, and I could not find a place for you. Most commandants would have made you simple sergeant of a section. Will you now consent to give up one chevron and become sergeant? If you do, I will say no more about this affair." I jumped at the offer, the more readily as nothing was said about taking me from the society of Giulia. "Very well," said the commandant; "present yourself here to-morrow morning with only one chevron on your sleeve." My kepi, belt and bayonet were returned to me. Having put them on, I saluted and walked away a free man again. Giulia was waiting for me a short distance off. I told her all about the matter as we walked towards my quarters. When we arrived there I said: "Get your scissors and cut off the chevron." "No, no," she cried; "I will never cut it off." "Then give me your scissors and I will do it." But she would not give her scissors for that purpose. So I had to take off my tunic, and with the point of a little Spanish knife which I used for cutting tobacco--these Spanish knives are very handy little things, for one cannot always wear a bayonet, and one never knows how trouble may arise--I ripped the upper chevron from my sleeve. I laid it on my camp-bed. Giulia took it, kissed it, and put it in her bosom. "I would not cut it off," she said, "but I will sew it on again, when the time comes." That time never came. Giulia went away to see about some things in the canteen. In less than five minutes she was back again, looking as angry as a tigress at bay. When she grew a little composed, she told me that the sergeant who stayed with his wife in the room over the bar had been appointed to the charge of the place and that I was to be assigned to his section in No. 4 Company in the morning. This was most unpleasant news, but I comforted her by saying that it really made no difference, except that I could not now go to see her at the canteen except during the hours when it was open, but that I should do my best to see her as often as possible outside duty hours. "They cannot separate us anyway," I said; "you are all in all to me and I am all in all to you." So she relieved her sorrow by a good cry, and then sat, quite quiet, on my lap. After all, the great thing was that nobody could part us altogether. Next morning things turned out as Giulia had said. I was posted for duty to the first section of No. 4 Company instead of the sergeant whose wife had given shelter and protection to Giulia after her mother's death, and he was assigned to look after the canteen. I very soon fell into the routine duties of a sergeant. The section was handed over to me in first-class order and temperament save for one thing--the soldiers were discontented with the tyranny of the adjutant. This did not affect me much, as they were more or less inclined to look upon me as a martyr, and my reduction in rank was a fresh source of ill-humour, showing, as it did, another proof of the mischievous malevolence of the adjutant. I took, or pretended to take, the matter easily. I did my duty as it should be done during what one may call business hours, but when the work of the day was over I was good comrade to all. It was lucky that I made so many friends at the time; I wanted them--every one--very soon. While I was acting as sergeant, the adjutant made several attempts to get into the good graces of Giulia, but she repulsed him on every occasion. At last he asked her point-blank why she would not even acknowledge his salute, and she told him bluntly that she disliked him and that she wished him in Tonquin or in his grave--anywhere, so long as he was out of the battalion. Now Giulia was passionate even for an Italian, and as she spoke she raised her voice, unthinkingly, indeed, and some soldiers going with a corporal to relieve the sentries heard what she said as they passed by. The adjutant saw that they heard; he knew that he was hated by all, and he felt that in a couple of hours the whole battalion would be secretly enjoying his rebuff. With a curse he turned on his heel. Afterwards he neglected Giulia but paid more than enough of attention to me. He cursed me openly on parade, he found fault with every man in my section, not a buckle was bright, not a strap was clean, the greatcoats were badly folded, the bayonets were dull and the rifles were foul. In short, every fault that a man can find was found by him, but, be it well understood, only in the absence of the captain and other officers of the company. When the adjutant had charge of the parade and the sergeants commanded the companies, then the men of my section knew that a bad quarter of an hour awaited them. The other legionaries noted this too. They were glad, because it was quite obvious now that the majority of the battalion might endure the adjutant's harshness patiently, for were not the men of No. 1 section of No. 4 Company the really aggrieved ones? It was tacitly understood in the battalion that the avenger would come from us. All this time Giulia and I met every afternoon just before the opening of the canteen, and afterwards for ten minutes or so when the canteen was closed for the day. While the place was open I was always to be found there, unless I was on guard or had some duty to perform that kept me away. The other sergeants had easy lives. Every extra piece of work was passed on to me by the adjutant, and let me say here that the adjutant is the worst enemy a sub-officer can have. It's bad to be disliked by the commandant, because he will block promotion; the captain's enmity is hard to bear, because he can snarl three or four times a day; but the adjutant can play the very devil with a man in a thousand ways. Imagine asking a man who has made a slight mistake in making out the orders of the day: "Can you read and write?" "Yes, sir." "Well," comes the reply before more than a hundred soldiers, "take care in future to read and write correctly. Go back to your place, you stupid pig." And as the man departs he is suddenly ordered to halt and face right-about, and then asked: "Who promoted you sergeant?" And before he has time to answer, the remark is made, loudly enough to be over all the parade: "There is not a man in the camp less fitted to wear the gold chevron than you. To your place, rascal!" If Giulia happened to be passing through the parade ground it was worse. The abuse I received--and remember there is no redress in the Legion unless one settles matters for himself with an unexpected bullet or bayonet-thrust, and then there will be an execution--the abuse, I say, that I received made my blood often almost boil with rage. I could not have endured it but for the sweet company of Giulia; with her in the evening I forgot the wrongs and insults of the day. Truly there is no solace for a troubled spirit like the society of the loving and beloved one; her sweet sympathy more than makes up for all. The sergeant of No. 2 section of my Company was a German Pole, a good-humoured fellow, ready for any fun, except when the adjutant's eyes were fixed upon him, but withal a good soldier. His time was nearly up, and he meant to go to Paris, and there make a living somehow, when he should be at last done with the Foreign Legion. He and I were on very friendly terms, and, indeed, I was oftener with him than with any other sergeant of the corps. One evening--it was almost his last evening with us--he drank more than was good for him, and awoke in the morning with a headache and a sick stomach. I saw that he could not drink his morning coffee, and asked him if he would not like a glass of _eau-de-vie_. "Yes," he replied; "but one cannot get that now, this cursed adjutant has spoiled all." "Never mind," I answered, "I will get it for you." "Take care, my comrade, you will get into more trouble, and are not things bad enough with you already?" "So bad," I said, "that they cannot be worse." And I took my kepi and sallied forth. As luck would have it Giulia was sitting at the open window of her bedroom, and when I beckoned to her she came out on the cantonment square to meet me. I told her that a poor devil was ill and wanted some brandy. "All right," she said, "I will get some and give it to you at your own quarters." I returned, told the Pole that he should soon receive some medicine, and waited for Giulia at the door. Now either the adjutant must have observed all this, or some scoundrel must have told him about it, for just as I turned into the bachelor sergeants' quarters with the drink and Giulia went away again towards the canteen, the adjutant came running up at the top of his speed, crying out: "Halt, halt, sergeant; what have you got there?" I was forced to deliver up the little flask. He uncorked it, smelled, and said: "Very well, very well, consider yourself a prisoner. Ah, Mademoiselle Giulia," he went on, "what excuse can your lover make now?" "Go away, Giulia," I said. "Silence; to your room, rascal!" roared the angry adjutant. "Good-bye, my well-beloved," said Giulia. "Out of my way, pig" (this to the adjutant). And she walked across the square with the air and tread of an empress. The adjutant gnashed his teeth and bit his moustache with rage; he hissed rather than said to me: "You, rascal, shall pay for this, and this payment, understand well, is only the first; others are sure to come afterwards." I turned on my heel and entered my apartment. The Pole was very sorry, and would, I believe, have told about his part in the affair, but I pointed out, as others also did, that there was no use in his getting into trouble, as by so doing he could not help me in the least. Everyone saw quite plainly that I should certainly be reduced to the rank of corporal, if not lower, and all were, or professed to be, sorry for my misfortune. To cut the tale short, I may as well say at once that I got my choice of resigning my position as sergeant of a section and becoming a mere corporal of a squad or of going before a court-martial. Of course I resigned, for the offence of obtaining liquor at a wrong hour after the previous warning could not be overlooked, and, as likely as not, a court-martial might send me back to the ranks, a thing I had no desire for. The first time I passed the adjutant with the two red chevrons on my sleeve instead of the single gold one he smiled with an unholy joy, but the smile changed to a scowl as he saw the kiss of welcome that I received from Giulia at the door of the canteen. It was well for all the other squads in the section that I was reduced. They were now treated not worse, certainly, than the rest of the legionaries, but my little squad of sixteen men had to bear the brunt of the adjutant's anger. I was very concerned at this, and told Giulia. She--clever and good girl--at once found out a means of in part compensating them, but she did not tell me, and she strictly warned them not to tell me either. They--poor devils--were only too glad to keep her counsel, and it was by a mere accident that I learned the truth afterwards. Her plan was this: She told the men of my squad that they could come to the canteen with or without money and that they need not be afraid of a refusal on her part to supply them, as far as they could reasonably expect, with drink and tobacco. Now a legionary will stand a good deal of abuse during the day if he knows that brandy and other comforts await him for nothing in the evening; and, moreover, it was evident to all that no one was especially aimed at except me, and that, when No. 7, let us say, of the squad was told that he was a dirty pig, he was merely getting the benefit of remarks that were really meant for me. When the adjutant had done abusing the men one by one he gathered, as it were, all the abuse together and hurled it at my head, and often those rough legionaries, smarting as they were under their own vexations, used to feel for me more than for themselves. I said to them one day after the devil had left the hut, where he had kicked about our equipments, swearing that we did not know the meaning of good order, that I would never report any man for anything: "No matter how bad we may be," I continued, "we are abused and sworn at. We are all punished for the evil we do and the evil that we don't even think of." "I hope," said a simple soldier, a Sicilian, "that the devil will be dead soon." He looked significantly at me, and then at the others, but, as I said nothing, the implied proposal went by the board. But we all began to think seriously from that day forth. Many a stolen interview I had with Giulia when all in the cantonments were asleep. I could rarely see her now, for the adjutant found me plenty of work for my leisure time, and I took care to be in the hut every evening lest there should be a fight amongst the comrades of the squad. One must not imagine that they were bad comrades to one another. On the contrary, they were very good indeed, but when men are angry at being abused and sworn at without cause and without mercy they will easily quarrel among themselves. So I watched the squad carefully, and more than once stopped a dispute that might have suddenly led to a general fight, and very soon the simple soldiers saw that I was taking care of them for their sakes as well as for my own. At first they were inclined to resent this, but common-sense prevailed, and they acknowledged--tacitly only, of course--that I was in the right. One night about twelve o'clock I was speaking to Giulia at the little window at the back of the canteen. We had been talking for half-an-hour of various matters and the time had passed quickly for both. I was about kissing her good-night when I heard a step behind me. In a second I was out of Giulia's arms and had faced about. Instinctively my hand sought my left side, where the bayonet was. "Who is there?" said the well-known voice of the adjutant. "Caporal Le Poer de la quatrième compagnie, monsieur," I replied. "What are you doing here? Why are you not with your squad? Who is in charge at the hut?" I said nothing, for I had nothing to say. I almost felt the chevrons take flight from my arm. I had sense enough, however, to take my hand from the hilt of the bayonet. Things were bad enough as they were. The adjutant marched me to where a sentinel was on duty. He gave me in charge to this man and went to the guard-hut. Very soon a corporal and two men of the guard arrived, and I was taken to the prisoners' quarters, to rest as well as I could on a plank bed until morning. When I was brought before the commandant the charges were read out against me of having been absent without leave or necessity from the hut where my squad lay, of having left no one in charge while I was away, and of going to the canteen in the middle of the night. The commandant looked very serious, and, I daresay, so did I. What I had done was good to do, but bad to be charged with doing. Any other officer coming upon me as the adjutant had come would have passed on and not minded; even the commandant, I am sure, would pretend not to see. But when the charge was made and its truth admitted, then discipline compelled that proper notice should be taken of it. I was not sent before a court-martial. I was permitted to resign both chevrons, and so I went back to my company a simple soldier of the second class. I said to Giulia as we talked that evening at the end of the counter in the canteen--the other legionaries, I must mention, were decent enough to keep out of earshot--that I should be very careful now, as I had no more chevrons to lose, and an ugly punishment was sure to follow the next charge. "But for you, carissima," I went on, "I should volunteer again for Tonquin." Giulia at this began to weep quietly, but I soon reassured her. I told her that I would never go anywhere willingly unless she came with me, and then she quickly dried her tears. "You must take good care, Jean, of everything, and above all things, you must never allow yourself to lose your temper. Yes," she continued, "no matter what is said to you, no matter how hard it may be to bear, control yourself and all will be well. Come every evening, and I will comfort you for all the troubles and insults of the day." I promised faithfully to follow her advice, and though oftentimes it was hard to keep my temper, yet the remembrance of my promise and the thought that every minute that passed brought the time of our next meeting nearer made me feel, if not supremely happy, at least well content to endure with outward equanimity the curses, epithets and abuse that were my daily lot. I had one other consoling thought, some day surely the devil would be struck down by an irritated man, and he would in all probability be taken away in the midst of his sins. That was the constant prayer of the legionaries of the battalion. May he die, and die soon, and may he go safely home to his father, who is in hell. Now that I was as low as I could be in the Legion, the adjutant, sergeants and corporals led me a terrible life. There was no work too hard or too dirty for me; I did twice as much camp-cleaning as any other; my spare time was encroached upon; and I found myself almost every night a prisoner in the guard-house. The adjutant had the right of making me what one may call a prisoner at large for a week, and longer, at a time. All he had to do was to pretend to find fault with me for laziness, though I was an active soldier; for dirt, though I was a clean one; for carelessness, though I, for my own sake as well as for Giulia's, was the most careful soldier in the battalion. Then, when all the day's duties were over I could not go, as others went, to the canteen. I had to report myself at the guard-room and enter the prisoners' quarters, where I might stretch myself on the plank bed in the clothes which I had worn all the day, until the call went next morning to summon me to another dreary round of hard work and hurtful words. No one must wonder that the sergeants and corporals ill-treated me; the adjutant would have ill-treated them, if they had shown me any signs of favour or even of fair-play. Moreover, it's the way of the world to kick the man that's down, and human nature is the same in the Legion as elsewhere. I should have become quite reckless but for the love and kindly sympathy of Giulia. With her I almost forgot my sorrows, and the firm assurance I had that nothing could lower me in her eyes, and that no man in all the world could steal her heart from me, was my great safeguard in the moments, and they were many, of temptation. The rest of the legionaries watched with interest the conduct of the adjutant; they felt that some time or other the crisis would arrive; it was agreed on all sides that I was the predestined avenger. CHAPTER XX Though I did my best to keep out of trouble, still I could not help now and then breaking the regulations. Other soldiers broke them far oftener than I, but I knew quite well that the sergeants and corporals were all watching me in order to bring me up before the commandant on some charge or other, and so curry favour with the dreaded adjutant. Now it would not be fair to blame them for this, every sub-officer naturally preferred that the simple soldier should get into trouble rather than himself; and, moreover, the man who could get me punishment was sure to be left alone by the tyrant of the battalion. I certainly felt a bit sore about it at times, and Giulia, to whom I communicated my suspicions, was very angry indeed. The first serious affair in which I was involved, as a simple soldier, occurred one evening in the hut where my squad lay. I was not a prisoner at large at the time, and so had not to go to the guard-hut, report myself for the night, and then take up my quarters in the cells where the prisoners were kept under guard. As I sat on the edge of my bed-cot, smoking and thinking, an Austrian came in, evidently under the influence of drink. This man was as pleasant a companion as one could wish for when sober, but when drunk--he was not often so, I must confess--his disposition underwent a change; he became violent, abusive and quarrelsome. The first person he laid eyes on when he passed the door was myself, and towards me he accordingly staggered. I cannot recall what he said first, but I know that I was angry and returned a very sharp answer. He then began to curse and revile me, and I am afraid that my language in reply was as "frequent and painful and free" as his. The corporal of the squad came in as we were warming to our work and saw how matters were going. He left the hut at once, and, mean hound that he was, listened just outside the door. Very soon he returned, and, ordering some other soldiers to arrest us, marched us both to the guard hut, and left us there for the night in charge of the sergeant of the guard. In the morning the Austrian, who had slept off the effects of the drink, was very sorry. I told him that it was a pity he had not fallen out with someone else, as I was certain to get a heavy sentence. "You know," I went on, "the corporal will put the affair in as bad a light as possible for me, because by doing so he will have the adjutant as his good friend; and, besides, I have been up before the commandant so often of late and have been reduced in rank so much that he will consider me a soldier of very bad character and will punish me as such. In any case you are a soldier of the first class, and at most he can only take away your chevron." "That is true, my comrade; I am very sorry, that cursed brandy made a fool of me." "Well, it can't be helped now," I said; "I bear no malice." "Thanks, my friend, thanks," the Austrian replied; "but Mademoiselle Julie, she will never forgive me." "So much the better," I told him; "then you will get no more brandy, and so will keep out of prison." He sighed heavily and said no more: I could see that he was really sorry at last. At the usual hour all the prisoners made their appearance before the commandant. The Austrian and I were the last to be tried, and we could see that our judge was in bad humour that morning and unsparing of abuse and punishment alike. When our turn came we presented ourselves before him, bareheaded, without belts, and guarded by an armed escort. When the charge had been read out the corporal and some men gave evidence in support of it, and we were asked, the Austrian first, as he was a soldier of the first class, what we had to say in reply. Neither could say anything, and truly, unless we had a very good defence indeed, it was best to say nothing, for the commandant, a good man in many ways, was very short-tempered, and was evidently in a rage that morning. The Austrian was condemned to lose his chevron, and then the officer turned to deal with me. "You have been here often of late," he said, very mildly to all appearance, but I knew what that sudden mildness meant. I said nothing. "Can you not speak?" he almost roared. "Yes, sir." "You have been here often, very often--too often; is it not so?" "Yes, sir." "Do you think that I have nothing to do except to listen to complaints against you?" Again he spoke very quietly. "No, sir." "Then why are you here almost every day?" "I cannot avoid it, sir." "Well, well, it is necessary that you learn a lesson. Four hours _en crapaudine_. Remember, remember well, not to appear here again soon." Now I have already described this punishment, and have said something about its effects, as I heard about them from others, and as I saw men when they were put in it, but I was now for the first time to feel them for myself. The adjutant did a very mean thing, and many men who would not mind seeing me _en crapaudine_, not through any dislike of me but simply because they were used to the sight of prisoners so placed, severely blamed him for it, and blamed him the more severely as they felt that this new system of punishment might become the custom of the battalion. Everyone feared for himself, one may say. Now it was usual to keep a soldier sentenced to this discipline in the guard-hut until the great heat of the day had passed and then to put him in a certain portion of the parade-ground trussed up like a dead fowl. The adjutant, however, did not allow this to be done with me. He came down to the guard-hut a little before noon, had me taken from the cells to the place of punishment, and there, my ankles being fastened together and my hands manacled behind my back, I was forced upon my knees, my body pressed back until the centres of both pairs of irons were joined as closely together as possible, and so every joint of my body put upon the rack. But this was not all. When I was safely _en crapaudine_ the brute knocked my kepi off with his stick, and so I was left in a posture of agony, exposed with bare head to all the torturing rays of an African sun. Now one can understand why my comrades were indignant; now one can see why they dreaded punishment in the noonday hours, for even if the kepi were left on a man's head, he would in all likelihood cast it off by his own struggles, and be sure, be very sure, that no one would dare to approach to replace it. It was replaced for me, I grant, and replaced more than once, and other things were done that helped me in some sort to bear my punishment, but Giulia was not amenable to military law as we others were, and even the adjutant dared not fall out openly with her, for all Frenchmen, including even the commandant, naturally side with the woman in a quarrel, especially when the woman is _figlia del reggimento_. I was not long _en crapaudine_ before I realised to the full the awful agony that men endure when they are truly and literally on the rack. Pains were quickly felt by me at the knees and at the ankles and at the wrists. My hands, forced backwards into an unnatural position, dragged heavily upon my neck, and the pain, beginning there, travelled down gradually to the shoulder-joints, so that from neck to ankles there was not a joint without its share of torment. Soon afterwards the small of my back became involved in the general dislocation, and then it seemed to me as if a heavy weight had been placed upon my abdomen and was squeezing the lower part of my body out of all proportion. Then a tight band, as it were, was fastened on my chest; I seemed to feel my ribs crushed in upon my heart, my breath came and went quickly, and, to complete the agony, my forehead began to feel constricted, and shooting pains ran from temple to temple, as if some demon from the lower regions were thrusting and thrusting and thrusting again a red-hot knife through my brain. At this time I must have begun to cry out, or at least to groan, for I was suddenly aware of a rough hand grasping me by the head and another pulling down my underjaw, some hard substance was shoved into my mouth, and in spite of all the pain that I was enduring my senses for a moment came back fully to me. I knew that I was gagged and that the first part of my punishment was over, for men generally drift into insensibility when the gag is applied; there will be an occasional lifting of the eyelids, a spasmodic shaking of the head, and that is all. I learned afterwards that Giulia had replaced my kepi more than once, and had even bathed my temples and forehead with cold water, but she was not allowed to remove the gag, though she begged and prayed that it might be taken away. The adjutant had wisdom enough to keep away; it was well known that Giulia, for her own protection in so strange a society, so remote too from civilisation, always carried a knife about her person, and very often a dainty little five-chambered revolver that would certainly kill at near range. But for all that he saw that I was bound and gagged to the last minute of the four hours, and the sergeant of the guard, as well as the sentry who stood near, knew very well the consequences of yielding to Giulia's prayers and entreaties. "Oh no; anything in reason, Mademoiselle Julie; but you know as well as a _vieux soldat_ that we cannot disobey our orders. Disobedience on our part would injure us and not save your lover in the least." Giulia understood, and could only weep and pray that the time might fly with eagle wings. Alas! for her, even more than for me, time, had only leaden feet that afternoon in the little cantonment near the desert, and, worst of all, the sun blazed furiously in a cloudless sky. At long last the fourth hour came to an end. Quickly the gag was withdrawn from my mouth, the irons were taken from my limbs, and I was lifted up to my feet But I could not stand, I staggered and almost fell; Giulia was not strong enough to hold me up, but the sergeant caught me at the other side, and both lowered my body gently to the ground. One could easily see that it was impossible for me to reach without help the hut where my squad lived, and some legionaries who had been looking on with interest at the scene--poor devils, not one of them could tell when his own turn might come--came across from where they were standing and volunteered to carry me to my cot. Giulia gratefully accepted this offer, and I was borne as tenderly as possible to my hut. There some of my own squad took me, undressed me, and put me to bed, and left the hut to Giulia and myself. Giulia managed to get me to drink some brandy and water, and I gradually felt better, but as my senses returned I became more and more conscious of the awful pain in every joint of my body. There was but one thing to set me right again--rest, absolute, complete rest, rest without stir of limb, for every time I ever so slightly moved a terrible stabbing pain ran right from the part I moved through all my body. That evening the canteen was kept open during the usual hours by the wife of the sergeant who had replaced me in military charge of it. Giulia would not leave me, and in some degree to make up for keeping the others out of their hut, she gave money to those of the squad who had not given evidence against me. The corporal got none, neither did the Austrian; as for two or three others who had been summoned as witnesses before the commandant, they got merely angry words, mixed with contemptuous epithets. They did not stand this long. They left the hut as quickly as possible and kept away until nightfall, when an unpleasant surprise awaited them and the other comrades of the squad. It seems that Giulia went away for a short time while I was sleeping and made certain preparations for spending the night in the hut. Consequently, when the corporal and the soldiers assembled outside and called to Giulia that all lights would soon have to be put out, she told them plainly that the lights would not be put out in that place, that she had candles enough to last until morning, and that she meant to allow no man to enter for the night. "I stay here," she told them, "for the sake of my lover. I will keep you out for the sake of my good name. I have three loaded revolvers and plenty of spare cartridges, if any one of you should attempt to enter, I will kill him." They tried to persuade her to go to her own quarters; they promised that they would take turn about to watch me; all was of no use. At last the corporal went and told the adjutant. The latter saw no way of settling the matter, knowing full well that he would receive a bullet rather than a word from Giulia, so he wisely resolved to tell the commandant of the affair. The commandant, in good humour by this time, only laughed and said that he would see about it. So he came across, and, rapping at the door, asked Giulia for the privilege of entering. Giulia opened the door, the commandant saluted her with his customary courtesy, and then inquired for me. I answered for myself, and with deliberate malice I told him that the four hours _en crapaudine_ would have been easily endured if I had undergone the punishment in the evening, as was usual, but that the heat of the sun had hurt me severely, especially as the adjutant had knocked my kepi off with his stick. The commandant was indignant; he was only like all officers, who don't care what men suffer so long as the sufferings are not intruded upon their notice, but who, on hearing a specific case of unfair play, will virtuously condemn somebody and then forget all about the affair. That's the way in every army in the world; Sergeant X speaks harshly to Private Y to-day, the captain overhears, and speaks still more harshly to the sergeant for his abuse of the private; next day Private A, who has been soundly rated by Corporal B, seeks redress, and is told at once that he did not get half enough and that if he can only carry foolish complaints to his captain, as a little girl to her mother, he has no right to wear a uniform--he should rather wear a petticoat. Yes; officers are inconsistent in their conduct to the soldiers, so are rich people in their conduct to the poor: one day in the week kindness; six days in the week ugly names and cutting words and, worst of all, unveiled contempt. Well, the commandant said that he would speak to the adjutant in the morning, and--I may as well finish with this now--he kept his word, and gave the brute as straightforward, pointed, and condensed a reproof as a superior officer ever gave to an inferior. He did it before witnesses of all ranks, and so the story was told through all the battalion, and even those who had no money were happy that day. When the commandant volunteered to escort Giulia to her abode she refused point-blank. "I will stay here," she said, "all the night, and I will fire on any man that tries to enter." The commandant, pretty experienced--as most officers are--in the ways of women, saw that she had quite made up her mind, and, shrugging his shoulders, said: "Very well; but let the men take their greatcoats and blankets away." "Yes; but you, monsieur le commandant, will wait till all have departed." "But yes, but yes." And he went to the door and told the men that they were to come in, take their coats and blankets, and leave the hut at once. Afterwards he would dispose of them for the night. He managed well enough by dividing them amongst the neighbouring huts, where the poor, evicted fellows made each man his bed as best he could upon the ground. Then he told the sergeant of the guard that the lights in my hut were not to be taken notice of by the sentries, and went home to bed, proudly happy in the consciousness of having acted kindly towards people, for all of whom--Giulia, of course, excepted--he felt the most supreme contempt when they were not on active service. You must know that in front of the enemy we legionaries were always addressed as "mes enfants," at all other times any ugly name was good enough for us. Giulia insisted on my staying in bed all next day, and no one said a word about it. In the early forenoon the lieutenant--with whom I got on so well in the march to the cantonment and who was now in charge of the company during the illness of the captain--came and spoke very sympathetically to us both. He said nothing about the lecture read by the commandant to the adjutant, rightly judging that there were many who would be very glad to give us all the news about that. As he was going away he said something to the corporal who was standing near the door. After the officer's departure the sub-officer told me that I might stay in bed another day if I liked. I thanked him, but declined. The fact is, I knew my comrades were anxious to get back to their quarters, as they were sure to be anything but comfortable divided amongst so many squads. Consequently, I told Giulia that evening that I was nearly myself again, and I asked her to bring across a couple of bottles of _eau-de-vie_, so that we might make some amends to the others for their eviction. Giulia brought more than I had asked for. She carried across from the canteen two bottles of brandy, three of wine, and a couple of pounds of tobacco. When the others saw the bottles and the packages they were more than satisfied; they drank her health that night, and swore often, and with vehemence, that they would all willingly die for her. What children soldiers are, and how easily they are pleased! After this I had a fairly easy time for a few weeks. But I had become rather reckless now, and all Giulia's powers of persuasion were needed to prevent me from breaking down into a careless, slovenly soldier. What is the good, I often thought, of cleaning equipments when I shall be abused just as much as if they were really dirty? Where is the use of springing smartly at the word of command when I shall be called a lazy rascal and a stupid fool? What matters it whether I am idle or hardworking when I get the same reward every time? Since I am to be abused and punished let me at least deserve the abuse and the punishment, then I shall be more content. But Giulia would not hear of this. She was determined that I should continue to be a clean, careful, active soldier. She had a wonderful fund of hope, and she had one argument that I could not withstand. "Yes, yes, it is hard," she would say; "but remember, when you begin to deserve trouble, I shall begin to deserve it too." Now, though I could easily be reckless on my own account, I could not find it in my heart to be reckless when Giulia was certain to share the consequences along with me. She was too good, too true, too loving to be drawn by me, who loved her so much, into any rashness which would end bitterly for us both--more bitterly, I fancied, for her, who would survive, than for me, whose troubles would soon be over. Nevertheless, I grew more and more morose every day. True, I was never morose in Giulia's society, but in the hut I was not a pleasant companion, and I am afraid that my comrades left me more and more to myself every day. The corporal did not seem to watch me any longer. I fancy he was getting to be a little afraid. He, as well as the rest, saw that it would take very little to make me lose my temper altogether. And when a desperate legionary, his mind full of real--as mine were--or fancied wrongs, does break out, he is more like the Malay who runs amok than the European who strikes a blow or two and then is carried--kicking, striking, biting, and cursing--to the guard-house. Another reason that the corporal had for not interfering with me was this, the other legionaries were not indignant with me for my moroseness and want of good-fellowship. Now, as a rule, the man who keeps aloof from the rest of his squad has a bad time. Men will not allow themselves and their society to be flouted by another not a bit better, not a bit higher, than themselves. In the Legion all are equal--the ex-prince and the ex-pauper, the man of good character and the man of bad. But when the men of a squad see that a comrade is in bad temper with his superiors and recognise that he has reason, then they will not mind aloofness or sharp answers or ugly words. On the contrary, they will sympathise, never knowing when their own turns may come for ill-treatment. So the corporal, seeing that the men were quite satisfied that I should live my life to myself and felt sympathy and not anger on account of my conduct, wisely left me alone. There were many ugly stories current in the Legion of what had been done by men driven to desperation, and, be it well understood, the sub-officer valued his chevrons a good deal less than he valued his life. I got myself into trouble more than once about this time, but I was never afterwards put _en crapaudine_. Twice I was buried up to the neck in the ground, or rather once to the waist and once to the neck. This was called putting a man _en silo_. It was a hard punishment, but not to be compared with the other. The worst of it was that one felt as if heavy weights were pressing him at all points, but this feeling of pressure was nothing compared to the straining and racking of the joints when one was _en crapaudine_. A good proof of this is that I was never gagged when _en silo_. I could easily enough stand it without a cry. It is of no account now why I was thus punished. I freely admit that the commandant was quite justified in making me suffer for my offences, but it must be remembered to my credit that there would have been no offences if I had been left alone. Ill-treatment made me act foolishly, that is the first point; I paid for my folly, that is the second; the third is, when a punishment is over the offence that entailed it ought to be forgotten. I was now, to all intents and purposes, a man apart from his fellows. The other legionaries watched me curiously. They wondered, I fancy, how long I should stand the strain and how the certain result would actually come about. The adjutant was just as tyrannical as ever to the men of the battalion; he distributed his curses and abuse with perfect impartiality, but no one minded now. The officers were the only ones who did not understand, though they, doubtless, had heard of many tragedies in the Legion, yet they seemed to have forgotten all: officers really care only for their own pleasure and comfort, and every one of them, from commandant down to sub-lieutenant, felt quite satisfied so long as there was an appearance of good order and discipline. If I were an officer, I should remember that a troublesome, riotous battalion seldom furnishes materials for a tragedy; a quiet, well-behaved one, where the men speak in drawing-room tones and seem to be always looking out for something, has more elements of danger in it. In the Indian Mutiny it was the good soldier who gave the most trouble and took the biggest share of the beating; he mutinied because his conscience drove him to it, and his conscience would not allow him to surrender. When a bad soldier mutinies, any hound is good enough to bite him, and once bitten, he hands in his gun. To put the matter in a nutshell: the battalion was too good; it was so quiet and calm that any man of observation might see that there was something ugly underneath. CHAPTER XXI One day as I was crossing the parade-ground I saw the adjutant stop Giulia, who was coming to meet me, and speak, as I thought, earnestly to her. I knew that he admired her and that a good deal of my troubles arose from her avowed preference for me, but my mind was quite easy on that score. Dozens of men in the battalion would be very glad to replace me in her favour, but all were aware that she was true as steel, and though this knowledge probably made many more envious of my good fortune yet it certainly kept them from annoying Giulia with unavailing protestations of love. Indeed, Giulia and I often laughed together when a legionary after a second or third glass of _eau-de-vie_ looked longingly at her for a moment and then sighed with love and liquor. At first she used playfully to resent my allusions to her conquests, but as soon as she understood my absolute faith in her constancy she entered into the spirit of badinage quite as freely as I. I never jested about the adjutant. When we spoke of him we were both angry--I for my disgrace and punishment, Giulia because at the time she understood better than I did the reason of his severity. Many times she told me that he had spoken in a more than friendly manner to her, but she always added that her answers were not the answers he wished for, and I had often heard from my comrades of scenes at or near the canteen when she spoke her mind openly to him and made him feel that worst of all tortures to a man of sensitive mind--words of utter contempt from the woman he adores. What must have made things worse for the adjutant was that he knew, as the others did, that his repulses were deserved, and the officer was especially punished in this--that the whole battalion rejoiced in his discomfiture, and men repeated over and over again in hut and guard-house and canteen the very expressions with which Giulia had cut him to the heart. I had never questioned her closely about his behaviour and attempts at love-making--I thought of him as an enemy, not as a rival--but when I saw him so deliberately stop Giulia as she was approaching me I resolved to ask her, not out of jealousy, be it well understood, but out of curiosity, what he had to say so important that he laid his hand upon her arm to detain her. I could not speak to Giulia that day about this, as very soon after the adjutant had stopped her on the parade-ground I was sent on some duty or other that kept me busy until the canteen was opened, and then there was no chance of private conversation. Next day was Sunday, and I then could be with her for at least a couple of hours, so that I did not mind the delay. While I was in the canteen that Saturday evening, drinking a glass of wine with a couple of Alsatians, I asked Giulia to meet me at the main gate on the following day. She, of course, consented; my asking was only a matter of form, a compliment to the girl. She told me that she would bring a flask of wine and that she would also have a packet of cigarettes and a few cigars. "Why do you tell me that, Giulia?" I asked. "When you bring me any present I accept and thank you, but you know I want nothing but your comradeship and your love." "I know well," she replied; "but I want you to come out of the cantonment with me to-morrow. I want to tell you many things, and we shall be away for a long time. If I am not back in time to open the canteen the sergeant's wife will open it for the soldiers. But you and I, we must talk long and earnestly to-morrow. Confide in me as I confide in you. I am true--I shall always be so--and you, I know, will be true as well." To this I could answer nothing except that I loved her better than my life; that I trusted her more than any man had ever trusted woman; and that I was her own, her very own, for ever. When we met next day at the main-guard Giulia, as she had promised, had a little parcel that made the sergeant of the guard, the sentry on duty, and the other legionaries lounging about, consider me a happy man in spite of all my misfortunes. I could see that, and I own it gave me pleasure. The lowest, as well as the highest, desires to inspire envy in the hearts of others. So long as they think him especially favoured, the sorrows and troubles, which he alone knows of and feels, seem to diminish, even almost to disappear. But I had more than the envy of my comrades to console me; Giulia, happy and smiling, came towards me as I approached, and the sight of her happiness at meeting me was more than enough to make me forget all my disgrace, all my punishment, the hard words which came as regularly as the bugle went for parade, the extra toil that I was condemned to as the tyrant's enemy, and all the incidental annoyances that were sure to come to one whom his fellows had already named "Pas de chance." Yes; that, as I now remember it, was the last of the happy moments. It seemed as if the gods were giving us an overtaste of happiness before the time of anger, strife, and utter wretchedness opened on our lives. We passed out together through the gate, Giulia in her smartest dress, and I in the regulation Sunday attire, with belt and bayonet and gloves. In Europe people put on silk hats and frock coats on Sundays; we of the Legion merely wore gloves and bayonets, but even with these small additions to our usual costume we felt extra dressed. It was a warm day--that is, warm even for Algeria--and we walked rather slowly along. Once we passed through the gate I took the little parcel from Giulia, saying, with a happy smile: "I am robbing you ma belle." "You cannot rob me of anything," she replied, "since all I have is yours." Then I kissed her, forgetting all about the legionaries of the guard who were lounging about the gate. How they must have envied me, my good comrades. We did not go far from the cantonment, merely about a quarter of a mile, to a place where we had spent many a pleasant hour together on former Sundays. It was not an ideal resting-place. It was certainly not a meadow pied with daisies, with a murmuring rivulet at hand, but there really was a little shelter, for a fairly big rock overhung the spot, and in the lee of this one could somewhat escape the fierce heat of the sun. None of the other soldiers came near it on Sundays. They would, of course, have no hesitation in disturbing me, but Giulia the imperious, Giulia who could refuse the blessed liquor even to a rich man if she wished, was not to be offended. A couple of legionaries, a Spaniard and a Greek, had on one occasion posted themselves in a position whence they could watch our love-making, and had carried back a report to their comrades that Giulia and me were not so much in love as people thought, and it was only two days afterwards, when they entered the canteen together and were sternly ordered out of it, that they found out that we had discovered them and would not provide amusement for spies. The other soldiers had no sympathy with either Greek or Spaniard, and so the corps could boast, as I told them one day, of at least two men who did not drink. It is all very well to be a teetotaller from choice, but to be one from necessity is a very different thing, especially to a soldier. And the lesson Giulia taught by refusing even a glass of _vin ordinaire_ to the precious pair made all the rest desirous of leaving us our chosen resting-place to ourselves. When we arrived and sat down Giulia took the little parcel from me and opened it. There were three or four cigars, a couple of dozen cigarettes, and a pint bottle of wine. Some sweets were also there, but I left these for Giulia. "Very well," I said, "this is a real feast. We can live here for at least four hours with such supplies." "Is it not good?" she asked. "Very good," I told her; "you grow kinder every day; but I too have a little surprise for you, carissima." "What! a surprise for me? What is it?" And she laid her pretty little hand upon my arm. I bade her shut her eyes, and when she did so, I clasped a silver bracelet on her wrist--it had cost me more than two months' pay--and was amply rewarded for my gift by the childish joy she showed when she beheld it. How happy we were that Sunday! But this story has little to do with happiness now that it approaches the end. When we had taken a little of the wine and were quietly enjoying our cigarettes I asked Giulia what the adjutant had said to her on the previous day. "I will tell you all now," she said to me. "I can no longer keep it from you, though I do not wish to give you pain. You have always trusted me, as I have trusted you. Is it not so, dearest?" "But yes," I answered; "no one could doubt you; you are too good and too true. Why, even the worst man in the battalion knows and acknowledges that." "I am well content," Giulia said to me; "you have not erred. I have always been faithful, and I will be faithful for ever. But I cannot prevent anyone, not even the man I hate most, from loving me, and things have come to such a pass now that it is only right that you should know all." Thereupon, seeing that the poor girl was in great distress, I flung away my cigarette, and taking hers from between her fingers flung it away too. Then I kissed her, and keeping her very closely in my arms, said: "Tell me everything; but I must tell you one thing first: I am quite sure that, no matter what troubles we may have endured or may have to endure, neither will ever grieve the other by want of love or want of trust." She sobbed for a moment quietly on my breast, and then began: "It is all because of that adjutant--that devil who will not allow anyone to be happy. He has always, since he came to the cantonment, desired to take me for himself, and whenever he came with his unwished-for proposals I insulted him and drove him away. Then he threatened that he would take vengeance on you, and I warned you to be on your guard. In spite of all he injured you and nearly broke my heart, but I constantly hoped that he might leave the battalion with the next draft. The draft has gone and he remains; there will be no new draft for months, and what hope is left now? When he stopped me on the parade yesterday it was to renew his unwelcome proposals, but this time he asked me to be his wife. I was angry, and told him that, were he even President of the Republic, I would neither let him kiss me as lover nor wed me as husband, and that, no matter what rank he might win, he would always remain the same--a tyrant to those beneath him, and a tyrant, I believed, was only slightly better than a slave. Then he swore with vehemence that he would have you shot before a month was over, and that is why I tell you." At this point she wept, and could not be comforted for a long time. When she became somewhat calm, I told her that now we knew the adjutant's intentions we could do at least something to prevent their realisation, and that, in any case, if the affair should come to the worst it would be easy enough to have a little satisfaction before being punished. This did not seem very comforting, but it was the best I could say. My mind was at the time even more full of hate of the adjutant than love of Giulia, and I think she must have noticed this, for she tried to turn my thoughts in a pleasanter direction. Almost in a moment she, who had but a moment before been hopeless and comfortless, dried her tears, smiled bravely into my eyes, and told me I thought more of my anger than of her love. I put aside at once all emotions save those of tenderness and affection, I petted and caressed her, I told her over and over again what women never tire of hearing: _Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime_. If you can say "I love you" to a woman, and she feels that you say it with truth, you have made the most eloquent speech in the world to her ears--that is, be it well understood, if she is inclined to say the same words to you. If she cannot respond, why! say good-bye and forget her. He is only a fool who cannot, even though it hurts, give up a love that meets with no response. But there was no danger of lack of response on Giulia's part. In a pretty mixture of Italian, French, and English that we had taught each other she gave me assurances that were not the less valued because they were repetitions of ones that I had received from her many times before, and that fell upon my ears all the more pleasantly that I well knew them to be absolutely true. There can be no mistaking the love or the hate of an Italian girl; the Southern warmth shows itself in both. As I had experience of one, so the adjutant had sorely felt the other. While we were thus creating happiness for each other, a harsh voice fell upon our ears. It was the adjutant's. I stood up and faced round to meet him, all thoughts of love had now disappeared, only hatred of the tyrant filled my heart. I remembered the many insults, the unfair surprises, the more than devilish ingenuity with which he had hounded me down. I thought of my former rank and contrasted it in my mind with my then lowly condition; I remembered my lost chevrons, my lost pay, my lost position, my lost chance of promotion, my lost friends, for what sergeant could associate with the reduced sub-officer in the ranks! I thought of Giulia's sorrows, her wakeful nights when she knew that I was tossing uneasily on a plank bed, her anxiety as the hour approached for my trial, her fear of some terrible result, the insulting proposals that she was compelled to hear and of which she dared not speak, and as all these thoughts surged through my brain I saw no adjutant, no superior officer of mine, but a man-wolf, a demon incarnate hot from hell. Yet I was outwardly calm; I said no word, nor for some moments did he speak, but I felt that the crisis had come at last. I was glad that we three were quite alone; the thought flashed upon my mind that it was Sunday, and that day I wore my bayonet. At last he spoke: "Will mademoiselle kindly go away and permit me to speak alone to the soldier?" "No," Giulia replied; "I will stay. Why have you come here?" "I came," said the adjutant, speaking very slowly and impressively, all the while looking hard at me, "to make a proposition to this man." "I can guess your proposition," I replied, stopping Giulia with a gesture, "and I give you the same answer as Mademoiselle Julie has already given. She does not give me up; I do not give up her. Did you think," and I spoke with deliberation equal to his, "that I would allow my darling to purchase an easy life and also promotion for me by giving you even one kiss, even one glance of favour! No," I went on, "Giulia's kisses and caresses and words of love are for me and for me alone; get some woman of the camp--she will be good enough for you." The adjutant controlled himself with an effort. After a short delay, in which, I presume, he determined to make one attempt more to gain his object, for his desire was greater than his hate, he said: "I have offered to marry her; you are not in a position to do so. When we are married I will get leave of absence and we will go away, and while away from the battalion I can arrange a transfer; then we shall never meet again. If she comes away with me as my wife, I will take care that she has a happy and comfortable life; if she does not marry me, and I ask her now for the last time, she cannot be happy here, for I will see that you at least will not be long her lover." Then, turning to Giulia, he went on: "If you really love him, save him now." He held out his hands appealingly to her. As he stood so exposed I struck his cheek fair and full with the back of my right hand. "Your answer, dog," I cried. With an angry indrawing of his breath he turned to me, and his right hand felt for his sword. It was half out of the scabbard when I plucked my bayonet from its sheath, and driving it straight forward I pierced his right arm as it lay across his body. He did not let go his hold of the sword hilt in spite of the wound, but drew the sword and raised it to cut me down. As his right arm went up I pushed it back with my left hand and, coming to close quarters, plunged my bayonet into his body. He reeled, and again I drove my weapon home. He staggered away from me, and before I could get close enough to repeat the thrust fell heavily upon his back. He lay quite still. I mechanically wiped my bayonet clean, and then said to Giulia: "I could not help it; he would have killed me if he could." Giulia said nothing, but when I had put up my side-arm she came to me and, putting her dear arms round my neck, wept bitter tears of anticipation upon my breast. There was nothing to be done except to go back to camp and wait for what might happen. Neither of us spoke of the result that each felt was certain. Though we were resolved to say nothing about the affair yet we made no attempt to divert suspicion from ourselves. The half-smoked cigarettes, the half-empty bottle, the paper and twine of the parcel, all were left behind in close proximity to the body of the adjutant. As we walked slowly back Giulia suddenly halted and faced me. "They will kill you," she said. "I think so," I answered. "And I, I will not live when you are gone." I pleaded with her for her own life. I used all the arguments I could think of about the wickedness of self-destruction; nought was of avail. "But, carissima mia, your father was killed in battle, and your mother, who loved him fondly, did not kill herself." "Ah, mon Jean, I was born at the time. Her baby made her live." "And Giulia,"--I took her in my arms and kissed her,--"do you not understand? Is it not so?" She broke down into a flood of tears. "O Jean, Jean, I must live, I must live, even though one half of my life goes out with you." I caressed and comforted her--we were in full view of the gate, but we minded not. She grew calm at last, and looked at me with a new look in her eyes--a look that I had seen but once before, when the English corporal had called her madame, but then it meant rather bashful hope and half-afraid longing, now it showed knowledge and certainty and free confession. "I am very happy now," I told her as we approached the gate where the men relieved from duty as sentinels were standing. "I care not now what may happen to myself, and for you half, and more than half, of my anxiety has left me. There is only, one thing that I must do now, I must look for Père Michel at once. You will go to your quarters; he will come with me there. Tell the sergeant and his wife to expect us. Do not be afraid, they will not be surprised." Giulia said nothing in reply; a closer clinging to my arm, one quick glance, a sudden heaving of the breast, these told me more than any words could tell. We separated just inside the gate, Giulia going at once to her quarters, while I went towards the officers' building to find the chaplain. I saw him at once, and told him the more important facts on the spot; he shook his head, and told me that there was but one way to make reparation. He said that Giulia and I should both confess our sins, but I said: "No; marry us now or marry us never." Anxious to do his best, and knowing full well that many in the battalion were worse than I--he did not know about the adjutant's fate at the time, as I took care to keep that to myself--he yielded to my entreaties and went with me to the canteen. There we were married, the sergeant and his wife acting as witnesses. The good priest, he was a good and brave man, gave us some advice; he told us that he would always remember us in his prayers, and went away. Then the sergeant said: "I suppose there will be great rejoicing in the camp this evening," and looked astonished when Giulia utterly broke down. His wife drew him away, and we were alone together, the most utterly wretched bride and bridegroom that the world has ever seen. Giulia said to me: "You are mine, all mine now; when they seek you they must find you here." I dreaded the effect of my arrest in her presence, but she insisted. "I will show good courage, I will not give way to grief," she answered. "You shall see, and you shall not be ashamed." After that we sat together on the side of the little bed. We said little, but our hearts were bursting; there had never been so perfect, so complete, so unutterable a sympathy between us. We knew then, as we never did, and never could, know before, the intense sweetness of love, which only exquisite anguish can bring forth. After some time--I know not, nor shall ever know, how long--we heard the dull sound of a rifle butt upon the door below. It was quickly opened, and through the raised window we heard the words: "Is Mademoiselle Julie within?" "No; but Madame Julie is," replied the sergeant, with a laugh. "Is she alone?" "No; her husband is with her." "Ah, we want him; we must enter." Giulia pressed more closely to my side. In a moment the rifle butt sounded on our door. "Entrez," I called out. The door was flung open and a sergeant appeared, two soldiers peering curiously over his shoulders. "You are my prisoner." "Very well, my sergeant; pardon me for a moment." Then to Giulia: "My darling, I must obey orders." Giulia said nothing. I kissed her, said: "Be of good courage," and walked to the door. As the soldiers placed themselves one at each side I heard a loud cry. I would have turned back, but I was pushed headlong down the stairs. There was no use in resisting, so I went quietly to the guard-house, with an awful fear at my heart for my poor love in her agony and loneliness. As I entered the prison I heard a legionary of the guard say to his comrades: "I knew how it would be; yes, long ago." That night I slept little. The hard plank was nothing, I was used to that; the death of the adjutant was nothing in itself, for had he not deserved it? Its consequences, as far as they affected me, I could take without flinching, but the thought of Giulia, of her future, in which nought was certain save hopelessness and the sense of utter loss, made me wakeful and anxious through the silent hours. Three legionaries confined for some offence were my companions in the cell. They knew nothing of the affair, and when I was suddenly pushed through the door by the sergeant of the guard, these men eagerly asked what new misfortune was mine. "Can you not guess?" I answered. They looked at one another, the same thought was in the minds of all. The Sicilian said: "You have done it! Yes, I knew you would. I am glad that he is gone, yet I am sorry for you, and still more sorry--" He stopped and shook his head. "Yes," said a Pole; "that is the way, it is the woman always that suffers most." The third, a Frenchman by birth, who found it better to be a Lorrainer in the Legion than to serve in his proper regiment in France, was the last to speak. "It is done now, and we shall all be grieved at the loss of a good comrade, but the battalion will be happy once more. I salute," he continued, taking off his kepi, "the hero who has freed us from slavery." We were silent for a time. Then the Frenchman asked me how it happened. "I struck him, he drew his sword, and then I gave him my bayonet, voilà tout!" "How often?" "Three times." "Very well," said the Sicilian; "then it must be all right. It is all right; the battalion must have a new adjutant now." I refused my soup when it came and the Frenchman offered me his. "If I cannot take my own, why yours?" I asked angrily. "Mine is not soup, it is something better." It was, and I gladly took it. He had wine instead of soup. This was wrong, but a good comrade who has money can do a kindness to a prisoner. But he must be a very good comrade, and he must have more than enough to buy the wine. They saw that I was disinclined for much speaking, and they went away to the other end of the cell. There they spoke and gesticulated freely. Yet very seldom did a word reach me; their voices were low, their heads close together, but I noted, half abstractedly as it were, the quick action of the shoulders, the eager motion of the hands. After some time they stopped the conversation and sat or lay down on the rough planks that served for beds. No other prisoners came in that night; sergeants and corporals were not thinking of making arrests, and the soldiers were too busy talking about the affair to quarrel. Yet there were many besides Giulia and me who were sorry for what would surely happen: the quick court-martial, and then the volley at the open grave. CHAPTER XXII Next morning the preliminary investigation was held by the commandant. He finished with all other work first, and then directed that I should be brought before him. I knew this, because the others were taken away to stand their trial, and I was left behind. When I was in his presence I saluted, and the commandant said with soldierly directness: "The adjutant is dead; you are charged with killing him; have you anything to say?" "Only this, sir," I replied, "he insulted me, then he insulted Mademoiselle Julie, who is now my wife; I struck him, he drew his sword, and I my bayonet. I was the quicker of the two, and wounded him; then he raised his sword to cut me down, and I repeated the blow." "But there were three wounds; is it not so?" he said to the surgeon. "Yes, monsieur le commandant." "How do you explain the third wound?" "Two," I answered, "were in self-defence, the third, sir, in passion." "Ah; and how in self-defence?" "The first, sir, on the arm as he drew his sword; the second on the body as he lifted it to strike; the third, sir, on the body in the anger of the moment." "That will do," said the officer; "as the general is arriving to-day I will lay the matter before him. But I warn you, prepare for a court-martial and its result." I saluted, and was led away. There is no need to go through the preliminaries. The general received the same information from me as the commandant had got, and at once ordered a board of officers to try me for the offence. "They will not have much difficulty in deciding, as the accused confesses his crime, so I will wait here to confirm the finding," he said to the commandant. I heard this as I was facing about with the escort to return to the guard-house, and the last vestige of hope disappeared. I gave no further evidence before the court-martial than I had already given to the commandant. I did not like to speak of the adjutant's animosity towards me, as that and its consequences would supply a motive for my act, and that I did not wish to impress upon their minds. Better let them think it was sudden, as, indeed, it was in one way, than deliberate and led up to by his own fault, as it was in another. One must understand that, but for my resentment and sense of wrong and oft-thought desire of his death, I should not have killed him; and one must also know that, were he passing quietly by, I should not have rushed upon him with my bayonet. My feelings were due to the injuries and insults he had heaped upon me; my sudden action to his threat about my life to Giulia, repeated, as it was, to me. The result of the court-martial was that I was acquitted of the killing, as that was done in self-defence, but found guilty of striking my superior officer, and for that sentenced to be shot. This was duly confirmed, read out on general parade, and the execution was set for the following morning at eight o'clock. As I heard the words read out, standing bareheaded, without a belt, between two soldiers with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets, I felt that my last sun would set that night. Little I guessed of what would be accomplished by the wit and courage of a loving woman, by the unselfish chivalry of two legionaries, who had gone separately to Giulia, neither knowing of the other's design, and offered to help her and her husband, even at the risk of their lives. And yet both these men made light of their action at the time, and, were they in the land of the living to-day, would surely only claim the credit of having stood by a comrade in trouble and a woman in distress. They were the English corporal, whom I have already mentioned, and an Irishman--a simple soldier--let us call him Mac. When Giulia thanked the corporal he told her that, as he had lost his honour long ago, it did not matter if he lost his life now. "Surely not your honour?" she queried. "Well, I think not, indeed, but the world, unfortunately, does not agree with me." Mac said he could not do less than try to rescue me,--"il est mon pays, n'est ce pas?"--and he, because he was an Irishman, could always get what he wished in the canteen. I did not know this. I found out, however, that Giulia often gave Mac, the only other Irishman in the battalion, brandy and wine and tobacco without payment, as he was my countryman, and I do not blame the poor devil for accepting, for he was always in trouble, his pay was constantly stopped, and a soldier can do easily without his dinner, but is ripe for mischief if he is deprived of his glass and of his pipe. Well, she did not lose in the end, as he said--but that must come in its own place. Now the Englishman was corporal of the guard that night. I did not know anything definite about the plan for my escape, for when Giulia visited me at about six o'clock in the evening all she could tell me was to hope, to watch, and to be ready. I needed little advice about the last two matters; as for hoping, that was almost impossible. About eight o'clock the corporal visited me, as a matter of duty, to see that all was right. He ordered me, in a loud, rough voice, to get up from where I lay. As I stood in front of him he whispered: "After midnight," and departed. At about twenty minutes past twelve I heard a low voice calling to me at the window. This I had left open, so that there might be a means of communication if anyone could get to the other side. I had not much expectation of this, as a sentry was posted just there, and no legionary, I thought, would be such a fool as to risk punishment by permitting even Giulia to speak to me. When I went to the window I found Mac outside. "Hurry, hurry," he said; "we must get these bars out quickly. We can lose no time if we are to succeed." Now there were two iron bars fixed vertically in the mud of which the wall was built, and Mac, giving me a bayonet, told me to clear the lower end of one, while he cleared the lower end of the other. We said nothing more. We worked with a will. In a short time the ends were free, and then Mac, a powerful man, pulled the bars out, so that I could just squeeze my body through. I had, however, to take off my tunic to do so, and I passed this out first. When I got out I saw a body on the ground. "You have his bayonet," said Mac, "take his rifle and belt as well." The man lay quite motionless. I took his belt and put it on and then possessed myself of the rifle. I felt happy enough now. Now they could not shoot me like a dog; I could at least die fighting. "Wait a moment," said Mac. In a few minutes we heard the door of the guard-house opening, and then the voice of the corporal telling the sentinel in front that he would return in a quarter of an hour. The corporal came round to where we stood. He had his rifle, bayonet, and ammunition. He said: "Is it all right?" "Yes." "Are you armed?" "Yes, both; he has the sentry's weapons." "Very good; let us go. When we are at a safe distance from the guard-house we shall pretend to be a visiting patrol." In this way we passed the sentries at a distance from the main-guard and marched boldly along till we came to where a native cavalryman was on duty near the horses. He challenged, and received a satisfactory reply. As we passed him the corporal halted us, and ordered me to hold his rifle for a moment. I took it, and before I or the cavalry-guard could understand the Englishman had the latter by the throat. Mac laid down his rifle and seized the unfortunate fellow's arms, and in a few moments he was a corpse. "Now," said the corporal to me, "you get the woman, we will get ready the horses." "Where is she?" I asked. "Some place over there." And he pointed with his hand. I went in the direction pointed out and soon met Giulia. She had been easily able to follow us, for our steady tramp could be heard at some distance. We made no attempt to conceal our movements; we were to all appearance a visiting patrol. As I came to her side I whispered: "It goes very well, carissima. The others are getting out the horses." Giulia flung herself into my arms. I snatched a kiss and led her to where Mac and the Englishman were busy. They had two horses already out, and were saddling them with all despatch. One must understand that the saddles and bridles are always kept near the chargers, especially in a place where at any moment a raid from the desert may have to be repelled. Soon four horses were ready, and then we all mounted and rode slowly towards a gate at the rear of the camp, where a single sentinel was posted. This man, luckily for us, was a Turco. When the corporal replied to his challenge and told him that we were officers he believed the story. Then the Englishman and I dismounted, taking only our bayonets, and approached the gate. The sentry protested against our opening this, but I got behind him and flung my hands about his neck. At the same moment the corporal wrenched away the rifle and bayonet and buried his own steel in the Turco's heart. We opened the gate as quickly and quietly as possible and went out. For ten minutes we walked our horses slowly and almost noiselessly away from the camp. Then we headed due south after a short consultation--the corporal leading, Giulia and I following, Mac bringing up the rear. We were now going straight for the Great Desert, where alone there was hope of safety. Had we gone north towards the Mediterranean, our freedom would not be worth twenty-four hours' purchase. As it was, we had a good chance of getting safely away from French pursuit, for our post lay at the extreme south of French territory in that part. But in the desert what were we to do? We did not know--we did not think about that. All our energies and thoughts were directed to getting clear away from the French and native cavalry. We knew that the escape would be soon discovered, but we fancied that no pursuit would be attempted until dawn, and it was our business to travel as far as we could from the cantonment in the short time that we had at our disposal. Moreover, if we could only put a fair distance between ourselves and our pursuers there was every likelihood that they would never catch up with us, because the native horsemen would not care to go too far into the desert, for they would get little quarter from the Arabs who infest it. Why, they would be killed for the sake of their horses, equipments, and arms, and the wild Arab does not fear the native levies as he does the Frenchmen, for two reasons--in the first place, the Arab is quite as good a fighting man, and he knows it, as the other African; in the second, it is only the white soldiers whose weapons kill from afar. As for us, we had to venture into the desert, as I have already said. We wanted, to use another phrase of mine, to get from the fire to the frying-pan--_du feu à la poêle_. We kept steadily forward until the sun came up in the east with his usual suddenness. Then we halted, and began to consider our position. At best it was a bad one. We were four, with four horses; for ourselves, we had only a haversack of food and a flask of brandy that Giulia had been thoughtful enough to bring, for our horses we had nothing. As far as fighting power went we were better off, as we had three good rifles--_fusils Gras_ we called them--and eighty rounds of ball cartridge per man. We had bayonets as well, and Giulia had a pair of revolvers and a stiletto, so that, given a fair chance, we were good enough for a dozen enemies. One must remember that we were desperate; nothing could be gained by surrendering to Frenchmen, since our lives were now forfeit; with a woman in the party we could not surrender to Arabs. The English corporal, Mac and I, spoke in English. "I want you to promise one thing," I said to them: "if two go down, let the third kill my wife." "Oh, that's understood," said the Englishman. "I hope it may not be my lot," said Mac, "but I'll do it all the same." "Now," said the corporal, "we must go farther south and chance meeting with the Arabs. I don't know," he went on, "whether I am anxious to meet any or not. If we don't meet any we shall probably miss the wells; if we do meet them there will be a fight." "It is better to fight," said Mac, "than to die of thirst in the desert." "I think so too," I said. "Well," asked the corporal, "shall we go straight on at top speed or rest?" "Let us go on," I advised; "let us press on as far as we can, then if we meet any Arabs, or if the spahis ride up to us, we can halt and fight. Remember, without food or water for our horses we cannot run, we cannot make even a running fight; it must be a standing fight to a finish." The Englishman and Mac agreed with me, and before we started again I said to Giulia in their hearing: "N'aie pas peur, ma bien chère, tu ne seras pas prisonnière, plutôt tu seras tuée par le dernier protecteur." "Je suis bien content," she replied, and, bowing prettily to the others, she murmured a word of thanks. We rode on for about two hours, and then halted to rest our horses and to eat a little of Giulia's provisions. We did not drink, as brandy is not a good thing when one has nothing else. If we could only get our usual morning coffee we should have had a nip apiece, but we who had soldiered in Algeria and other hot climates were too sensible to touch fire-water without anything to qualify it and with the certainty of a hot day's march before us. After eating and smoking we got back into our saddles and rode on until the heat of the sun made us again halt for our own sakes as well as on account of our animals. In spite of our discomfort we felt fairly happy; we had made a good morning's march since the sun appeared, and though we had done very little in the darkness, yet we believed ourselves to be safe enough from pursuit. After a couple of hours' rest we resolved, in spite of the heat, to press on again, and, going rather slowly, we and our horses were not too hard pressed. About four o'clock in the afternoon we again halted, this time for about an hour, and then, as our horses did not seem to suffer overmuch from the want of food and water--they were desert horses, one must remember--we again mounted and continued our journey to the south. It was, I should say, a little past five o'clock in the afternoon when Mac, who had halted for a moment to look to the north, shouted to us that the spahis were coming. We turned, and saw, a long distance away, for the atmosphere was very clear, a party of mounted soldiers advancing on our tracks. There was no use in tiring our horses and ourselves by an attempted flight; we understood quite plainly that the native cavalrymen were certain to overtake us, and it was just as well to await them where we stood. We dismounted, hobbled our horses, and came together for consultation. The corporal said: "We must stand at least ten paces apart from one another, unless they charge; in that case we must stand back to back." "Give your orders, corporal," I said, "and we will obey." "Yes," assented Mac; "there must be a commanding officer in every battle." "Very good," said the corporal. "You, Mac, go ten paces to the right; you stay here, mademoiselle; you"--this to me--"go ten paces farther to the left; and I place myself at the extreme left, so we shall offer bad targets, especially for cavalry." When we had ranged ourselves as ordered our enemies were close enough for us to note their numbers; they were a dozen in all. "Why," shouted Mac, "it's only a corporal's squad; we're a corporal's squad ourselves, boys, and we're whites." "As soon as you think you can hit a man or horse fire," commanded the corporal. In a moment or two I heard a report on the right. Mac, one of the best shots in our old battalion, had fired, and the result was of good omen. A horse fell heavily in the advance, pitching his rider forward, a second stumbled over the first, staggered to the left, and brought down a third. We cheered as we saw this, and the rest of the little troop pulled up for a moment. As they did so the corporal and I fired. A man tumbled out of his saddle on their right; in the centre a horse, mad with the sudden shock and the pain of the bullet, suddenly ran away with its rider. They passed not more than fifty yards to our right, and Mac's rifle spoke again: the spahi flung up his hands and fell forward on his horse's neck. "Well done, Mac," I shouted out, "we can easily whip them now." As I spoke I dropped on one knee and levelled my rifle at the little knot of men and horses. The corporal and I fired almost together, and though no man or horse fell, yet we felt certain that some damage was done. We knew quite well, as every soldier knows, that a wounded horse will not always fall and that an Arab will sit in his saddle with more than one bullet in his body. One result our fire had, it caused the spahis to withdraw out of range, and this gave us a respite. One will ask: Why did not the cavalry return our fire? Well, it would do them no good. Our weapons killed at a much longer range than theirs; for two reasons--first, the rifle always carries farther than the carbine; and, second, our weapons were of later pattern and, therefore, better than theirs. We could now reckon up our successes. To Mac's first shot three horses and three men had fallen; of these two horses and one man remained on the ground. My first shot had sent a horse careering madly over the desert, and Mac's second had put his rider out of the fight. The corporal had also brought down a man, but this fellow had been carried away by his comrades. As for the last shots, there was no apparent result, but we believed that some damage had been done by them. Anyway three men and three horses were accounted for, and we who had driven back a dozen spahis had no fear of only nine, though we were not such fools as to imagine that these hot-blooded Arabs were more than temporarily discomfited by our success. Very soon the Arabs again advanced, but in a different fashion. Instead of now coming forward in a bunch they separated widely over the plain, so as to form a great half-circle in our front and our flanks. "Don't throw away a shot," commanded the corporal. And then, hesitating for a moment, he continued: "Let us draw closer together--this is the grand attack--if they don't come home now in their charge, they will never do it." We all closed in on Giulia; we formed a lozenge or diamond in array. I looked straight towards the north, the corporal to the west, Mac to the east, and Giulia was just at my back, but looking past me at the quickly-moving spahis. Our bayonets were fixed. Suddenly one of the spahis, the corporal, I suppose, uttered a loud cry and charged. All the rest followed his example, and in a moment the nine were within long range. We fired and loaded, fired again and loaded again. I cannot say how often this occurred, but I saw a horse fall in my front to my second bullet, and soon afterwards I knew that two men at least were charging home. As they came with levelled lances I heard the corporal say: "Mine are settled; I'm with you; Mac's all right; come out and meet them." We went out together; as we did the corporal commanded: "Go to the right; shoot your man if you can, if not, use your bayonet." I fired and missed. I met the lowered lance with my bayonet, and, like a fool, turned it up; the spahi let it go and swung the heavy butt downwards and to his right rear. I could not avoid the blow; it took me fairly on the breast, sending me to the ground. As he pulled at the reins to get his charger back I heard a sharp report, followed by another: my enemy collapsed and fell. As I rose painfully to my feet, feeling as if a ton weight were laid upon my chest, Giulia caught me in her arms and asked with anxiety if I were hurt. "Not much," I answered: "but where are the others?" I saw Mac a few paces away aiming at a retiring spahi; turning round I saw the English corporal wiping his bayonet; near him lay a dead soldier. On the plain at various distances lay men and horses; farther off than these the remains of the spahis had assembled--one mounted and three dismounted men. "What happened to you, mon camarade?" said the corporal. "Oh," I replied, "like a fool I turned the lance up instead of down; he then struck me with the butt, and Giulia shot him just in time to save me." "It seems to me," said the corporal, speaking in French, "that Madame Julie is always saving your life." "Yes," I replied, smiling; "and I would rather owe it to her than to anyone else." We were now quite satisfied. It was absolutely impossible for the four survivors to attack us with any hope of success owing to our weapons. They were quite aware of this; in fact, they were in difficulties now, for the question arose for them: How were they to get back to the cantonment? Their horses were dead or wounded, for all we knew the men might be wounded as well, and the spahis could not by any chance like the prospect of meeting in the desert any of their co-religionists who had remained unsubdued. One thing we had to do, and do quickly. This was to get away as far as possible from the remnants of the spahis. If we remained in their vicinity until darkness came we should lose all the advantage of our superior weapons, and we were well aware that the native troops are daring and skilful fighters with cold steel. Moreover, it is the Arab nature to lust for vengeance, especially on Christians, though our Christianity was of a rather shadowy nature, more than to love even his life, and these men had sufficient reason to hate us. Accordingly we mounted and turned our weary horses' heads again towards the south, going at an easy pace, and now and again looking back to see if there were new pursuers on our track. When we had gone some distance and had lost sight of the defeated spahis, the corporal said: "Let us turn to the right; if new men have come up to the others, they will go due south." The advice seemed good, so we went westwards for about two hours, and then halted to rest ourselves and our horses. We were very thirsty now, but Mac told us to our great delight that he had taken two water bottles from dead spahis. "Why did you not tell us before?" asked the corporal. "I thought it best to wait, and, besides," he answered, "I was thinking more about pursuit than about even the water." We very soon half emptied one, Giulia getting the first and largest drink, and then we poured into this bottle the contents of the spirit flask that Giulia had brought. "Now, madame," said the corporal, "you shall have the bottle of water for yourself, we will be satisfied with the other." This was a very good arrangement. Giulia did not like _eau-de-vie_ and we did; moreover, Giulia wanted more liquid in the desert than three veteran campaigners. At about two o'clock in the morning we set out again, and travelled very slowly in a south-westerly direction. Our horses were beginning to show signs of failing, and we eagerly scanned the desert all around us after the sun had risen to try to discover signs of an oasis or even of a caravan. Our steeds would soon give up the struggle, that we knew, and we could scarcely hope to keep it up on foot for more than twenty-four hours. Now one must not imagine that we were hopeless. On the contrary, we felt that fortune, having befriended us so long, would not now abandon us. We thought of the difficulties surmounted in the escape and of the good fight which we had made against our pursuers, and with such recent memories our spirits could not be cast down. We had a little food, a little drink, good weapons, and enough of ammunition. We knew that every man could trust his comrades, and so, while our horses lasted, and for at least a day afterwards, we could laugh at Fate. So we jogged along for some time after dawn, rested for an hour, and then pushed on again. About midway between sunrise and noon Mac, whose eyes were as keen as a vulture's, cried out: "At last, boys, at last; look yonder." We looked, and saw a slowly-moving object. There was no doubt about what it was, our path would soon intersect that of a caravan. When the parties met one of two things would be our portion--safety or death--for, if we could not get water and food in hospitable fashion, we had no resource but to fight for them, and desert fights are serious. CHAPTER XXIII I said to the Englishman: "Let us halt, eat, and drink; we shall then be better able to fight, if fighting should be necessary." "That is right," replied the corporal; "we will finish all our provisions and all the water, even madame's." "Yes," I said; "we shall soon have as much as we need, or we shall need nothing." We dismounted, divided the scanty remains of the food into four equal portions, and all ate slowly and enjoyingly. Then we drank all the water left in Giulia's bottle, sharing it as fairly as we could when we had no measure and had to guess at the total amount and then at each one's share. As for the little stock of brandy and water, that, on Mac's suggestion, was to be kept until we were nearer the caravan and, therefore, nearer the fight that might ensue. Giulia would take none, but we others were very glad we had it, not that we wanted brandy to nerve us for the fray, but a little does one no harm just before the beginning of an engagement. After the meal we filled our pipes and lit them with one of the few matches that Mac had in his pockets when we came away from the cantonment, then we mounted again, and rode slowly towards the point where we had resolved to strike the path of the caravan. As we went along we observed that it was not a large company, and this made us naturally glad. We only hoped now that there might be many women and children and slaves; if so, our chances of success either by fair means or by foul would be vastly increased. Very soon we saw a couple of camels with riders coming towards us, and we knew that we had been observed and that our friends of the caravan were curious to find out the meaning of our little party traversing the desert. The camelmen rode up to within easy range, but it was not our business to begin a fight. We did not even call out to them; it was better, as the corporal said, to let them go back and report, and then we should see what the main body would do. When the Arabs, for such they evidently were, had observed us closely for some minutes they turned and rode back upon their comrades. These had halted, and as we were now in full view we halted too. As we dismounted the corporal said: "Now for the last drink." "Not the last, I hope," said Mac. "Oh, who the devil knows and who the devil cares?" answered the Englishman. Then, as if ashamed of showing any emotion, he went on: "I beg your pardon, I could not help speaking so hastily just now; I am irritable, but I promise you I shall be cool enough in the fight." "Oh, it's all right," replied Mac; "I've often been a bit hasty myself." Giulia, scarcely understanding, looked at me with a puzzled air. When I smiled at her she smiled back at me, her confidence restored. When we had drunk the brandy and water I asked the corporal whether or not we should fight the desert Arabs as we had fought the spahis. "Certainly yes," he replied; "we did well in the rehearsal, may we not hope to do even better now?" "I think so," I answered; "you see it is no longer a plan; it is now, as it were, a piece of drill that we have learned." "Yes," said Mac; "we can go through it now as a soldier goes through the bayonet exercise; yes, let us fight as we fought before." "If the battle does not go well," said Giulia, "you must not forget me." "But no," I answered her, "but no; that is the one thing that we others are always thinking about. You must be saved, even though safety lay only in death." "But the work must be done thoroughly," she insisted. "Madame need not fear," said the corporal, speaking in a low voice; "even were I in my death agony, I should have strength enough left to kill." "So should I," said Mac, "but I'd be sorry all the same." I was about to speak, but Giulia put her finger on my lips, and said: "I am well content, I am almost happy." Very soon a number of men, some on camels, others on horses, rode out from the caravan towards us. Our horses were hobbled, as we preferred to fight on foot. We were infantrymen by training, and, even had we been of the cavalry, we could get no good from our chargers after the long journey without food or water. When we ranged ourselves in open order the oncoming Arabs halted, and evidently consulted together. After a few moments of deliberation they divided into two parties, each about half-a-dozen strong, and prepared to attack us on both flanks. When the party on the right came within long range Mac called out: "Am I to fire, corporal?" "Yes; when you think you can hit man or camel or horse," replied the Englishman. Almost immediately afterwards Mac fired, but no result seemed to follow the shot. He fired a second time, and brought down a man who was riding on a camel somewhat in advance of the others, brandishing a lance. A hurried volley came towards us now, but the range was too great for their guns, and we did not even hear the whistle of the bullets. The corporal and I had already begun to fire on the party approaching our left, and very soon a hot fusilade was going on. Luckily for us our opponents did not attempt to charge; they foolishly depended on their fire arms, with the result that we had emptied three saddles before their bullets began to hiss past our ears. When at last their bullets began to be unpleasantly perceptible the nearest Arab was full 300 yards away, and not one of us had been touched. We were now warming to the work, and at such a range in so clear an atmosphere it was easy for our rifles to tell. Not more than a dozen shots had whizzed past our heads when the Arabs were forced to retire, leaving five men on the plain, while two camels sprawling on the ground and two horses standing shivering with hanging heads told us that the animals had suffered as well as the men. As the Arabs galloped away we fired once or twice at their backs, but it is very hard for a soldier to hit a horse or a man going away from him. We came together for a council of war. We at length decided to give them half-an-hour to recommence the attack; if they did not assail us again within that time, or if they should continue their journey, we were then to assault the caravan. The plain fact was that we had to get possession of the caravan; if we did not, our horses would fail, and we, on foot in the desert, should have no chance of saving our lives. Moreover, we felt justified in acting as highway robbers, for the Arabs had deliberately halted, and then sallied forth to take our lives, so as to possess themselves of our horses and arms. For me there was another thought: if the fight had gone against us, as it might easily have done if the Arabs had had sense enough to scatter and then to come straight home in a charge, Giulia would have had to die. There was no other resource. We Europeans could not endure the thought that a woman of our own blood, of our own colour, of our own ideas, should become the slave of a Bedouin of the desert. We did not have to wait long. Ten men, five on camels, five on horseback, rode out from the caravan and started in a headlong charge against us. They began to gallop at a very long distance off, and this was lucky for us, for when the horses arrived at our position they were quite blown. Our rifles spoke quickly and well. There was no aiming at individuals, all we tried to do was to put as many bullets as we could into the moving mass before it could reach our bayonets. We were in close order now, with Giulia in the rear. In spite of all our efforts the Arabs reached the spot where we were, but neither horse nor camel would come upon the steel. All swerved aside, and the Arabs, firing from the backs of their animals, tried to shoot us down. But our rifles were better, far better, and we were steady as rocks upon the ground. Moreover, Giulia's revolvers were emptied, all save one chamber, and that was kept for herself. I cannot tell about my comrades, except that each did his duty, but I can tell what happened to myself. An Arab mounted on a camel tried to reach me with his spear; I lunged at his camel's snout, and got my bayonet well home. The terrified animal drew back, and as it did so I shot its rider dead. A second Arab, who had dismounted, or whose horse had been shot, came at me with a scimitar. But it was of no use; the long rifle and bayonet got in twice--once, as I had been taught long before, on the face, the second time full in the region of the heart. That ended my fighting for the day. The attack was over. One Arab was galloping away, but not so fast that a bullet from Mac's rifle could not reach him; two or three wounded who were trying to go off were soon settled by the English corporal and myself. We had no mercy in our hearts; they would not give us quarter, and we would give none to them. Not a man of the ten who attacked us escaped, and had a hundred others been in our power at the time we should have slain them all. It was now our turn to attack. We mounted our horses, having first freed them from their hobbles, and advanced as quickly as the poor brutes could move towards the place where the caravan lay. When we came within about 500 yards of it three or four Arabs opened fire. Mac and the English corporal dismounted and returned the fire with success. After a few shots two of the Arabs fell, and then the shooting ceased. An old man, evidently a sheik, came forward with his hands raised above his head and spoke to us in Arabic. The corporal knew a few words of the language, and told him that we wanted water and food. When the sheik heard this he offered us all that the caravan had of what we required, and begged us to spare the lives of all who surrendered. This we promised to do, and in a quarter of an hour we were furnished with four fresh saddle-horses and two others for burden, with enough of food to last a fortnight, and a fair supply of water. We left the horses that had hitherto borne us to the beaten party; they were worn out, and, besides, they bore the stamp of the French Government. We took clothing also from four of the dead men, and afterwards found an opportunity of changing our uniform--of course, only kepi, tunic, and trousers--for an attire more befitting the desert and, therefore, less noticeable in it. Even Giulia, the while we turned our backs, put on an Arab dress, and many merry compliments we paid her about it. When we left the caravan we pushed south at full speed for half-an-hour. Then turning to the west we went on at a fairly quick pace for more than two hours. As we might by that time consider that we had reached a place of comparative safety we halted for a rest. We had made a good meal of dates, bread and water after seizing the caravan, and so felt no hunger, but we soldiers--pretended Arabs I suppose we ought to call ourselves now--were glad to fill our pipes and talk over the two excellent fights we had made, for liberty first, and then for life. But we did not halt long; we had still to go farther west, and then to turn our horses' heads north for Morocco. This dangerous way through savage Sahara and almost as savage Morocco was for us the one way of escape, the one way of safety, the one way that would bring us back to civilisation and to happiness. Yet, dangerous as it was, we were filled with high hopes of success. All our undertakings had prospered, somehow or other; each one felt that there was no danger in the world that he and his good comrades could not overcome. And I am the sole survivor--but why should I anticipate? For three days we travelled due west, caring our horses and sparing our supplies. Then we came upon an oasis, at which we refilled our water bottles. Luckily, there was not a soul at it or in sight, for we had no desire, now that we were sufficiently well equipped with all that we wanted, to try conclusions again with the fighting men of the desert. Our only wish at the time was to travel without attracting the observation of any. Then we turned towards the north-west and went slowly and cautiously along. We knew that soon we should be in the land of the Moors, but we were not so foolish as to believe that we should find a settled government there. We were quite well aware that most of the tribes south of the Atlas Mountains yield obedience only to their own chiefs, but we had no fear of the agricultural people. The only ones likely to attack us were the nomadic Arabs, and most of these would be left behind by us along with the desert. One must remember that in the Sahara there is but one law, the law of force, the plunderer of to-day is often the plundered of to-morrow. Where all are robbers, robbery is no reproach. In Morocco, however, even south of the Atlas Mountains, people have settled down in villages, poor and dirty it is true, but still homes. Where men have houses, ploughs, and oxen they begin to be civilised, and one may generally pass along without molestation. One must pay his way, of course, and we had money enough to do that, as Giulia had taken all her savings with her. True, our money might excite their cupidity, but then we need never show much at a time, and we presented all the appearance of a party that could defend its possessions. The English corporal and Mac did look really formidable; their beards had not been shaved since we came away, and I in fun nicknamed Mac the "hirsute tiger" and the corporal the "shaggy lion." They laughed at the names and at one another, and when the jest was explained to Giulia she laughed too, but not, as I noticed, with the same heartiness as of old. Poor girl! she was not at all well. Her strength was reduced, and the troubles, the anxieties, the privations of her life in the desert, following upon her agony before and during my trial, were beginning to tell seriously upon her, and I could do nothing to spare her in the least! As we were riding along together one day the corporal said--in English, so that Giulia might not understand: "It is all very well for you, Jean--you ought to be happy because you have escaped death--but what are Mac and I to do if we ever escape from the desert?" I did not say anything in reply, but Mac spoke. "I am satisfied if I can get home to Ireland once more; once there I will think twice before again becoming an exile." "Very good," answered the corporal; "but I have no home to go to." "Can you not go to the United States," I asked, "and make a new home there?" "Yes, yes, I have thought of that; but----" He said no more, and we all rode silently on for a time. That night, when Mac called me for my turn of guard, he said: "Did you notice how queer the corporal was to-day?" "Oh yes; and so did Giulia. She asked me if there was anything wrong, and I knew not what to tell her." "Ma foi," said Mac, "I see trouble ahead. Believe me, there will be at least one more fight, and 'twill be for the corporal's satisfaction this time." "I can't help it," I replied; "he fought for me, and if he wants me I'll fight for him." "So will I," answered Mac. "Good night." About two days afterwards we came to a little village, and boldly demanded food, water and lodging. We promised to pay for all we got, but we took care to drive a hard bargain, so that they might think us poorer than we were. People will tell you about Arabian and Moorish and Turkish hospitality, but then these have never been with Arabs or Moors or Turks; if they had been, they would know that such hospitality has its price and that the price is limited by two things only--the wealth and the cunning of the purchaser. Of course, we kept the usual watches that night; we thought we were safe, but one can never be safe enough. Next morning we got ready to depart. Giulia, Mac, and I had gone slightly in advance, Mac and I leading the horses that carried our supplies. The corporal was last. Suddenly we heard a woman's cry, then a loud oath and a shriek, and, looking back, we saw the Englishman lifting an Arab, or rather a Berber, woman to his saddle. Just as he succeeded a native rushed at him with a spear and stabbed him twice in the side. The corporal let go his hold of the woman and tried to unsling his rifle, but was unable to do so before the Berber thrust at him again, and brought him heavily to the ground. I had meanwhile dropped the bridle of the horse that I was leading and turned back. My rifle was unslung in a moment, and I fired at almost point-blank range at the Berber, just as he was preparing to drive his weapon home again in the body of my prostrate comrade. He flung up his arms and stumbled forward, tripping over the corporal. I rode back to help the Englishman, but it was too late; he was dead. Meanwhile shots began to fly round us; all the villagers were aroused by the outcry and the report of my rifle. Mac shouted to me to come away; there was no hope save in instant flight. I turned again, and regained Giulia's side, only to find that the pack-horses had stampeded. Mac fired at the crowd of natives, with what success I know not, and then the three of us galloped away at top speed, followed as we went by a dropping fire. When we had got about half-a-mile from the village we looked back, and saw we were pursued. Six or eight Berbers were on our trail, and were evidently determined to take vengeance on us for the corporal's rashness. Our horses were quite fresh, and we pushed on, as it would not do to fight too near their village, for then they might be so reinforced that all hope of success on our part would disappear. If we could only get the half-dozen or so that followed us sufficiently far away we could enter into a fight with confidence. We had the European's usual contempt for savages, and our two previous fights had given us a wonderful amount of faith in ourselves and our weapons. True our fighting power had been much diminished by the death of the Englishman, for the loss of one rifle was serious in so small a band; but, even so, Mac and I were quite sure that we could first stall off the grand attack, and then inflict such damage on our opponents that they, or what was left of them, would be glad enough to retire. We had gone thus about five or six miles when Mac called to Giulia and me to pull up. "No," I shouted; "let us press on a little farther." Mac shook his head. I saw that he was very pale; the fear that another comrade was passing away took instant possession of my heart. When we halted the pursuing Berbers were not more than half-a-mile away; they were six in number, and kept close together. "What is wrong?" I asked. "I was hurt," Mac replied, "in the firing at the village, and I could not go farther at that pace." "Where did you get it?" "In the right side." And he held his hands pressed upon his body just above the right groin. "It is all right," he went on. "I can get through this fight, but after----" He stopped, smiled feebly, and shook his head. In a moment I had taken off his belt, opened his clothes, and looked for the wound. It was a small one, just a little hole in the side, with scarcely any outflow of blood. This made me serious. I had often seen similar ones, and I knew, as all soldiers do, that the wound that does not bleed outwardly bleeds inwardly, and is the most dangerous for the sufferer and the most difficult for the surgeon. "Never mind," said Mac; "you can do nothing--at least you cannot until we have beaten off these rascals. Do not weep, petite," he said to Giulia; "I now repay you for all your kindness to me when my pay was stopped." This only made Giulia weep all the more. Poor girl, it was for her a morning of tribulation. But the work had to be done. We all lay down close together, and as soon as the Berbers came within easy range Mac and I opened fire. The fight was like both the others, except that these Berbers, being village-bred agriculturists, did not try to charge us with so much resolution as either the spahis or the Bedouins. They fired upon us for some time, but Mac and I were too well armed to mind much the popping of their guns, and when we had shot three men and a couple of horses the survivors withdrew. Then Mac insisted that we should mount and go forward again, because, as he truly said, if others came up they might attack us in that place, but the sight of their dead comrades would scarcely impel them to pursue. Giulia and I could not deny this. It was apparent that the best chance of safety lay in leaving the field to the dead and making good our retreat before the Berbers learned that another man of ours had been placed _hors de combat_. Nevertheless, it was with heavy hearts that we remounted. It pained Giulia and myself to see the changed look in our good comrade's eyes; his forced smile made us sad, for the thought crossed our minds that soon we should be alone together in a savage land, without a friend, and almost without hope. CHAPTER XXIV We struggled on together for about half-an-hour. Then Mac said that he could go no farther, and Giulia and I lifted him out of the saddle and placed him tenderly on the ground. I asked him if he were in much pain; he said that he felt very little, but that his lower limbs were becoming numbed. "The end cannot be far off," he went on, "and, when I am gone, take my rifle and cartridges, and put as great a distance as possible between yourselves and the Berbers." "Do not think of us," I replied, "think of yourself; you have but a short time to make your peace with God." He said nothing to me, but I saw his lips moving in quiet prayer. After some time he said: "Good-bye, my good comrades; it is nearly over." Giulia was weeping, and there were tears also in my eyes. I pressed his hand, and Giulia, bending down, kissed him on the forehead. A moment after he ejaculated: "O Lord, have mercy." And at the words his gallant spirit passed away. We were now lonely indeed. In one morning Giulia and I had lost our two companions--the two men who did not hesitate to risk their lives, as they used to put it, for the comrade in trouble and the woman in distress. The outlook that had been so favourable the day before was now dark and gloomy. Two-thirds of our fighting strength had gone; but that was not the worst: we missed even more the ruined Englishman's stern manner and stout heart, the laughing Irishman's constant wit on the march and steady earnestness in the fight. Both were good friends, of totally different natures, yet equally sympathetic; each made up for what the other lacked. One never minded the gloom that too often sat upon the corporal's brow in listening to the ceaseless jesting and careless laughter of the simple soldier; and when the fight came one felt that Mac would care, and care well, for his share of it, but that the Englishman, while working as a fighting man, was planning as our chief. People will say: Oh, but you were once sergeant-major, and why did not you command rather than the corporal? Well, for two good reasons. First, if I had once been sergeant-major, he had once been captain. Second, somebody had to be close to Giulia in every fight, for reasons that may be guessed--and who had a better right to be at her side than I? There was no time for us to bury poor Mac, even had I pick and shovel for the work. Anyway, no soldier thinks much about where his body will lie after death: no grave at all is as good as a place in a trench where hundreds of others are pressing and crowding around. When you have once seen a battlefield grave, where three or four hundred lie like sardines in a tin, you will find little, if indeed any, poetry in the words "God's acre." Not that the burial party should be blamed, be it well understood. Oh no! they must think of the living, especially the wounded, and in a hot climate quick burial is the only thing to prevent a pestilence of the sun. Giulia and I managed to go about twelve kilometres farther on our road that day. I did not want to go so far, but she insisted. She knew, as I did, that she was not in a fit state to travel such a distance; but some fear of the Berbers who had killed our comrades had taken possession of her heart, and she would not, nay, she could not, rest until we were quite safe from further pursuit. But she could not hold out very long; at last even to sit her horse when going at a mere walking pace was too much for her strength, and she was compelled to yield to my entreaties and to dismount and rest. Poor girl! she was very nervous and excited. Even the struggles that ended in complete success had tried her too much, and now she felt with tenfold anxiety and apprehension the death of the two loyal, brave, and generous comrades who had been so suddenly lost. And a woman always feels the loss of a friend more than a man does, because a man can easily get another, but a women must be always suspicious of those who tender her friendship, lest there be poison in the gift. That night we could set no guard. Both of us were weary in spirit and in body. There was no one to relieve me if I watched, and Giulia could not rest unless I was so near that her hand could always touch me. I thought of a plan: it was to picket the horses so that there should be no danger of losing them, and then to withdraw about four hundred yards from the spot where they were placed. The horses might attract enemies in the night, but if we were some distance away, we ought to be in comparative safety. Giulia assented; and when I had settled the horses for the night I helped her to a spot a good distance from them, and after a little interval, during which Giulia wept and I comforted her as best I could, we lay down to rest in the desert side by side. As I was sleeping, as a soldier sleeps who has learned to rest with aching body or even with aching heart, Giulia clasped me by the shoulder, and brought me back to active thought and life. "What! is there an attack?" And I tried for my rifle in the dark. "No, no! oh no! it is not that. I am ill; oh, what shall I do!" But I will not tell the story. The night wore on, and when dawn came it was only to show me that the best of all my comrades, the comrade who made life happy and a thing of joy, the woman who had loved and trusted, ever true, ever unchanging, was about to pass out of my life for ever. The end came shortly after the dawn. It was quiet, for poor Giulia was worn out with all that she had gone through, and, when all was over, Arab or Berber or robber of the road might take my life, and I should not resist. What was the good of life since I had lost my love? All that day I stayed quietly by the dead body of my dear one. I forgot the horses; I forgot the danger of attack; I forgot all things save that I was at last alone, really alone, in the world. I thought of those whom I had loved and lost--Nicholas the Russian, the English corporal, Mac; but every moment my thoughts reverted to the greatest loss of all--the loss of her whose corpse, pale and bloodless, it is true, but with an indefinable beauty of feature and expression, lay quiet and still upon the sand. In the evening I dug a grave with my bayonet, and gently, tenderly, laid there to rest the remains of her who had loved me with so great a love. * * * * * There is little more to be said. I had no difficulty in making my way to Tangier. I was not molested, nor did I molest anyone. The only thought in my mind was to get as far away as possible from Africa--the land for me of so many chances and changes, of exquisite love and still more exquisite sorrow. I was hopeless, heartless, not in the sense that I was heartless to others--I was heartless only for myself. From Tangier I crossed to Spain, and there found a relation at Salamanca--one of those men who, studying for the priesthood, choose the foreign colleges rather than Maynooth. He helped me with money to reach Ireland, but from him, as from all others, I kept the true story, the story, I may now say, of "twenty golden years ago." THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH.