24557	----	None 
21636	----	International Children's Digital Library (http://www.icdlbooks.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 21635-h.htm or 21635-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/3/21635/21635-h/21635-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/6/3/21635/21635-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the International Children's Digital Library. See http://www.childrenslibrary.org/icdl/BookPreview?bookid=cupbluf_00360203&summary=true&categories=false&route=advanced_0_0_cupples_English_0_all&lang=English&msg= BLUFF CRAG; Or, A Good Word Costs Nothing. A Tale for the Young. by MRS. GEORGE CUPPLES, Author of "The Story of Our Doll," "The Little Captain," Etc., Etc. London: T. Nelson and Sons, Paternoster Row; Edinburgh; and New York. 1872. [Illustration: A SCENE AT BLUFF CRAG.] BLUFF CRAG. "This is such a capital night for a story, papa," said Robert Lincoln to his father, who had laid away his newspaper and seemed inclined to take an extra forty winks. "Indeed, Robert," said Mr. Lincoln, smiling, "I wonder if you would ever tire of hearing stories. I don't think I have one left; you and Lily have managed to exhaust my store." "O papa, please don't say that," cried Lily, who was putting away her school-books on their proper shelf at the end of the room. "I am sure, if you shut your eyes and think very hard for a few minutes, you will be sure to find one." "Very well, then, I shall try," said Mr. Lincoln; "perhaps there may be one among the cobwebs in my brain." Covering his face over with his newspaper, Mr. Lincoln lay back in his chair, and the children, drawing their stools closer to the fire, waited in patience to see the result of his meditation. It soon became evident, however, by his breathing, which became louder and longer, that Mr. Lincoln was falling asleep, and when at last he gave a loud snore, Robert could stand it no longer, and springing up, pulled the newspaper away, exclaiming,-- "O papa, you were actually going to sleep! You'll never find the story if you do!" "I think, after all, I _must_ have dropped over," said Mr. Lincoln, rubbing his eyes; "but you are wrong in thinking I couldn't find a story in my sleep, for I was just in the middle of such a nice one, when you wakened me, and, lo and behold, I found it was a dream." "Oh, do tell us what you dreamed, papa," said Lily. "Your dreams are so funny sometimes. I think I like them better than the real stories." "But it was only a bit of a dream. Bob there in his impatience knocked off the end, and I think it was going to be a very entertaining one." "I'll tell you how you can manage, papa," said Lily earnestly, "you can make an end to it as you go along: you do tell us such nice stories out of your head." Mrs. Lincoln having come into the room with the two younger children, a chair was placed for her and baby beside Mr. Lincoln. Little Dick trotted off to Robert's knee, and the dog, Charley, hearing that a story was going to be told, laid himself down on the rug before the fire, at Lily's feet. [Illustration: WAITING FOR PAPA'S STORY.] "It's a very strange story, mamma," said Robert. "Papa fell asleep for two or three minutes, and dreamed the beginning of it. I am so sorry I wakened him; but he gave such a loud snore, I never thought he could be dreaming when he did that." "Ah, but you are wrong there," said Mr. Lincoln, laughing; "you will hear the reason of the snore very soon. Well, then, to begin--but how can I begin? Lily likes stories to set out with 'Once upon a time;' and you, Master Bob, like me to mention the hero's name, and tell you how old he is, and describe him particularly. Now, in this case, I can do neither." "You will require to say, Once upon a time, when I was taking 'forty winks,'" said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing. "I cannot see how you are to relate this strange story without a beginning." "Neither can I," said Mr. Lincoln. "You know everything depends upon a good beginning. Therefore I think I had better go to sleep again, and perhaps I shall dream one." "Oh, please, papa, don't; I am sure the one mamma suggested is first-rate," said Robert impatiently. "Very well, then, once upon a time I dreamed a dream--" "It's Joseph and his broders papa is going to tell us about," cried little Dick. "Oh, I like that." Every one laughed, while Robert explained that this was papa's dream, not Joseph's; which set the little fellow's mind wandering away still more into the favourite narrative, and it was only after a whispered threat from Robert that he would be taken up to the nursery if he did not sit quiet and listen, that he consented to leave Joseph and his brethren alone for the present. "It's no use," said Mr. Lincoln, laughing, "somehow the dream has fled. I'll tell you what we shall do,--we shall ask mamma to tell one of her stories about when she was a little girl." "I should like to have heard the dream, papa," said Lily, "but if it has fled away it won't be brought back. I know I never can get mine to do it till perhaps just when I am not thinking about it, then there, it is quite distinctly." "Well, that will be the way mine may do," said Mr. Lincoln. "Come, mamma, we are waiting for yours. A good story-teller should begin without delay, and we all know what a capital one you are." "Very well, then," said Mrs. Lincoln. "You must know that when I was a little girl I had been ill, and your grandmamma sent me to live with her brother, my Uncle John, who was the rector of the neighbouring parish. Uncle John had no children, and his wife had died just a few weeks before I went to pay him this visit. He had been very fond of my aunt, and he was still very sad about her death; so that it would have been rather a dull life but for Dolly, the housekeeper. Every morning after breakfast Dolly had to go for potatoes to a small field at a little distance from the rectory, and she usually took me with her if the day was fine. I ran about so much chasing butterflies and birds, that when the basket was filled I was quite tired out, and very glad to be placed upon the wheel-barrow and be taken home in this manner by the good-natured Dolly. "And had you no little girl to play with, mamma?" asked Robert. [Illustration: COMING FROM THE POTATO-FIELD.] "Not for some time," replied Mrs. Lincoln. "Every one knew how sad my uncle was, and did not intrude upon him; but I never wearied so long as I had Dolly beside me. She could not read herself, but she was very fond of hearing me read to her, and though I could not do it very well then, I managed to make out the stories. Then your grandmamma had taught me a number of hymns, and I used to repeat them, and sometimes to sing them, which pleased Dolly very much. I think it was overhearing me singing one of the hymns that made Uncle John take notice of me at last. He used to shut himself in his study, and I scarcely ever saw him from one week's end to the other; but one day as he was going up-stairs I had been singing, and he came into the parlour, and, taking me on his knee, asked me to sing the hymn over again. I was a little nervous at first, but grandmamma had always told me to do the best I could when asked to repeat or sing a hymn, and I did so now. I suppose the words of the hymn pleased him, for from that time he always had me to dine with him; and he had such a kind manner, that I soon recovered from my shyness, and used to sit on his knee and prattle away to him as if he had been your grandpapa, and I had known him all my life. It made Dolly so pleased, too, for she said her master was beginning to look quite like his old self; and she only hoped your grandmamma would allow me to stay ever so long with him. "One day Uncle John returned earlier than usual, and calling Dolly, said, 'Get Miss Lilian ready to go out. Mrs. Berkley wishes me to spend the afternoon there, and I think it will do the child good. I fear she has had but a dull time of it lately.' "'Oh, please don't say that, uncle!' I exclaimed. 'I would rather stay at home with Dolly;' for the thought of the grand Mrs. Berkley, who came into church with her powdered footman carrying her Bible behind her, frightened me. "'No, no, my child; you must go with me,' said Uncle John quietly. 'It isn't good for you to be so much alone. You will have a good romp with some young people who are staying with Mrs. Berkley at present.' "'But I shall be beside you, Uncle John, shall I not?' I asked, with trembling lip. "'Why! are you afraid, dear? Come, come, this will never do; what is there to make you afraid? I am quite sure you will be sorry to leave when the hour comes for returning here.' "Mrs. Berkley's house stood upon a rising ground having a beautiful view of the sea. The rectory was about a mile inland from it; but though I had been very anxious to go to the beach, Dolly had never been able to spare the time, and as for trusting Mary, the younger servant, to take me, that was quite out of the question. "'I wonder if you could walk to Mrs. Berkley's,' said Uncle John. 'If so, we could go by the field-path, and so have a fine view of the sea. Do you think she could manage it, Dolly?' "'Oh yes, sir,' said Dolly, catching a glimpse of my delighted expression. 'Miss Lily has been wishing to take that walk ever since she came; for she has never seen the sea, she tells me.' "'Has never seen the sea!' said Uncle John, smiling, 'then there is a great treat in store for you; so come away, my child, and we shall have a quiet half-hour before going to Mrs. Berkley's.' "I don't think I shall ever forget that walk with Uncle John. Seeing that I was interested in the birds and the butterflies, he told me all sorts of stories about them--how the former built their nests, and how the latter was first a caterpillar before changing into a bright butterfly. Then he pointed out many curious things about the flowers I plucked on the way. He seemed to my mind to know about everything; and, in consequence, my respect increased for him more and more, and I somehow became a little afraid of him. "But when, from the top of the hill, we caught the first glimpse of the blue sea lying below, with the fishing-boats in the distance, I quite forgot I was beginning to be shy of Uncle John, and screamed aloud, clapping my hands delightedly. He was so good to me, too. Fearing that in my rapture I might lose my footing and slip down the face of the rocks, Uncle John took me by the hand, and holding me fast, let me gaze upon the scene without interruption. [Illustration: THE FIRST WALK BY THE SEA-SIDE.] "'Now we must go, dear,' said Uncle John. 'Strange, that of all the works of creation none make such a wonderful impression as the first sight one gets of the sea.' "'Do you ever walk this way, uncle?' I inquired, as we turned into another path that led to Mrs. Berkley's mansion. "'Sometimes; indeed, it is a favourite walk of mine,' he replied. 'I like to come and sit just at that point where you stood. Your aunt used to be very fond of that walk also.' "'It will be such a nice place to see her in the clouds,' I said, but a little timidly, for this was the first time he had ever mentioned her name, and he had sighed heavily when he did so. "'Why, what do you mean, Lily?' he asked abruptly, and, as I fancied, a little sternly. "'When my sister Alice died, uncle, I was so sad and lonely without her,' I replied. 'Mamma was so busy nursing my brother William, that I had to amuse myself the best way I could; and so I used to sit by the window gazing up into the sky; and when the clouds came sailing past, I used to fancy I saw sister Alice in the very white ones. Nurse told me she is now clothed in white, and I knew Alice would weary to see me too; and I used to think God, who is so good and kind, would perhaps let her hide in the white clouds.' "Uncle John drew me closer to him, and instead of reproving me for my fancy, he kissed me, as he said, 'Poor child, poor little town-bred child, if you had had flowers, and birds, and butterflies to chase, it would have been better for you. I think we shall have to write and ask mamma to send us Willie here also.' "'Oh, that would be so nice!' I exclaimed. 'Willie would enjoy it so much! But see, uncle, there are some children with a donkey coming this way.' "'These are some of the young people I told you were living with Mrs. Berkley.--Hollo!' cried uncle, signalling to the children, who came running down the path as fast as they could the moment they heard the rector's voice. There was a little girl on the donkey's back, and two boys by the side of it, with a stable-lad to see that she did not tumble off. "'We were so glad when you called, sir,' said the oldest boy. 'Aunt Berkley said we might go and meet you, but we thought you would come by the highway.' "'Yes; but this little niece of mine had never seen the sea, and I wanted to let her have her first view from the Bluff Crag.' [Illustration: VEA ON HER DONKEY.] "'Then you have never been down to the beach?' said the little girl. 'We must get aunt to allow us to go there after dinner. It is such a delightful walk;--isn't it, sir? And you needn't be afraid to trust her with us, for we take Natilie when we go, and she is so careful.' "'And who is Natilie?' inquired Uncle John, lifting the little girl from the donkey at her request. "'Oh, Natilie is our French maid, and she is so nice; even the boys like Natilie.--But what is your name, please?' she continued, turning to me. 'Mine is Vivian Berkley, but the boys and all my friends call me Vea.' "'My name is Lilian, but I am called Lily at home--Lily Ashton,' I replied. "'Then I shall call you Lily too, may I not?' she said, looking up into my face with a kindly smile, and taking my hand, while her beautiful blue eyes sparkled. 'I am so glad you have come, dear Lily,' she continued. 'I do want a companion like you so much!' "'Do you find the boys unsocial, then, Miss Vea?' inquired Uncle John. "'Oh no, sir,' she replied; 'but they are boys, and you know girls are not allowed to do exactly what they do, so I am often alone.' "'And what do you do when you are alone?' said Uncle John, evidently amused with the precise though sweet tone of voice of little Vea. "'I play with my doll Edith, and I read my story-books, and I talk to Natilie. Do you know, sir,' she said, letting my hand loose and taking my uncle's as we mounted up the steep slope to the road above, while the donkey was led round by another way, followed by the boys, 'poor Natilie, when she came to stay with us, could not speak a word of English, and she was so sad. And the boys used to laugh at her, and so did I sometimes, till Aunt Mary, in whose house we were living, told us that if we only knew poor Natilie's sad story we would be so sorry for her, that, instead of laughing, we would be apt to cry.' "'And what was the story?' inquired the rector. "'Oh,' said Vea, laughing, 'Aunt Mary was so cunning about it, she wouldn't tell us a word, but said we must learn our French very fast, and that then Natilie would tell it for herself; and as Aunt Mary said it was far more interesting than any we could read in our story-books, we did try to understand what she said to us very hard indeed. But we haven't heard the story yet; only we never laugh at Natilie now, for we have made out little bits of it, and we know the chief reason why she is sad is this: her husband is a very bad man, and he ran away and left her, and carried off her two little children, and she cannot find them.--But will you please walk into the garden, sir?' she continued, opening a side gate. 'Aunt said we might show you the new rustic table as we came along.' [Illustration: THE NEW RUSTIC TABLE.] "Patrick, the eldest boy, who had run on before, joined us just as we came up to the arbour, where a neat round table stood, having curious feet made out of the rough branches of a tree; the top had been polished, and painted with varnish, and looked very splendid indeed. But the quick eyes of Vea soon detected an ugly scar on the bright surface, as if some boy had been attempting to cut out a letter upon it. "'Oh dear, who has done this?' cried little Vea, while Patrick turned away with blushing face. 'Patrick, this is a wicked action; do you know anything about it? Now be careful; think well before you answer.' "Uncle John could scarcely keep from smiling at the way Vea spoke, and the anxious manner shown towards her brother. 'O Patrick,' she exclaimed, 'if you did this, it is very wicked; you must go and tell aunt about it at once.' "Instead of answering, however, Patrick set off at a gallop, and disappeared behind some bushes, leaving Vea standing looking after him with glistening eyes. 'What is to be done now?' she said, as if to herself; 'it is so difficult to get Patrick to own a fault, and I fear he will lead Alfred into more mischief. O mamma, mamma, I wish you had never left us! I do try to keep the boys right, but they are so wild sometimes.' "'You cannot do more than your best, my child,' said my uncle, laying his hand tenderly on her bowed head. 'Would you like me to speak to your aunt for Patrick?' "'Oh no, sir, thank you very kindly,' she said, drying her eyes hastily; 'Patrick must confess the fault himself, if he has done it. Aunt Berkley is so good-natured, that I am sure she would excuse him if you asked; but that would not be safe for Patrick,--he forgets so soon, and will be at some other mischief directly. Aunt Mary warned me about this very sort of thing.' "'Well, I am sure he ought to be a good boy, having such a kind, good little sister to look after him.' "'Please, sir, don't say that,' said Vea, the tears coming to her eyes again; 'I don't deserve such praise; for the reason why Aunt Mary told me of Patrick's faults was, she wished to point out my own, and she knows I am so lazy, and don't like to check the boys, lest they should call me "Goody;" but Aunt Mary said I ought to look after them,--that a good word costs nothing; at anyrate, if I had only to bear being called a harmless name, it was but a very small cross, compared to the evil I might cause by allowing the boys to play mischievous tricks.' "'That is right, my dear child,' said Uncle John; 'we must do our duty, however hard it may be; and though a good word in one sense costs nothing, still we all know it sometimes costs a good deal, and is a difficult matter, to a great many people.' [Illustration: ON BOARD THE STEAMER.] "To Vea's astonishment, instead of her Aunt Berkley letting her brother off easily, when she found out about the mischief done to the table, she was so very angry that she would not allow him to join the party that afternoon in the excursion in the steamer. While she pointed out the various objects of interest to Vea and myself, seeing that poor Vea was depressed in spirits--her kind heart suffering extremely when her brothers fell into error--Aunt Berkley whispered, 'You are not vexed with me, dear child, for punishing Patrick? If he had owned the fault, I would have forgiven him; but he was so stubborn, and would not even speak when spoken to. Alfred is so different.' "'Oh no,' said Vea quickly; 'I am only sorry that he was so naughty and required the punishment;' but, as if afraid she was condemning her brother, she added, 'Patrick has a warm, affectionate nature, aunt; if he could only get over his love of mischief he would be a dear, good boy.' "'Well, my dear, we must try to help him to be good. Boys will be boys, however; though it is necessary to punish them sometimes, else they might get into serious disgrace. We must have another excursion soon, and perhaps the thought of it will keep Patrick from being naughty.' "On reaching home that afternoon they found the school-room empty; and though Patrick had been told he was to remain in the house till his aunt returned, he was nowhere to be found. Alfred sought for him in all their favourite haunts about the out-houses and garden, but without success. 'I'll tell you where he will be, Vea,' said Alfred, on his return to the school-room from a last hunt in the orchard,--'he has gone to the cave at the Bluff Crag.' "'Oh, surely not,' said Vea in distress. 'Aunt told us distinctly we were never to go there without leave from her, and then only with some person who knows the coast well. What makes you fancy such a thing, Alfred?' "'Because, I remember now, he muttered to himself about giving aunt something to be angry for; and he has often been wanting me to go there.' "'I hope this is not the case, Alfred,' said Vea. 'But perhaps aunt would allow us to go down to the beach with Natilie, to look for him.' "'I daresay she will,' said Alfred; 'but if you do ask her, don't mention Patrick's name; you needn't be getting him always into a scrape by your tale-telling.' "'O Alfred, how cruel you are,' said Vea, 'when you know I am always trying to get you boys out of scrapes!' and the tears rose to her eyes. "'Very well, then, I won't,' said Alfred; 'you are a dear, good little sister, and we do bother you tremendously sometimes. Stay you here, and I will ask aunt to let us go to the beach.' "Alfred soon returned, stating that his aunt had said Yes at once to his request; 'But,' he added, laughing, 'I think she did not know very well what she was saying, she was so busy talking to the rector.' "Natilie was quite willing to accompany us, and very soon we were down on the beach; but whichever way we looked we could not see any trace of the missing Patrick. All of a sudden Alfred gave a shout, and pointed in the direction of some great high rocks upon which stood a light-house. "'See, Vea, there is Wild Dick running upon the rocks!' cried Alfred excitedly. "'Where?' said Vea, standing on tip-toe, and straining her head forward towards the place Alfred was pointing out. "'I see von boy,' said Natilie, in her strange broken English. 'Him not be Master Patrick. I know him now for that same wicked boy Mrs. Berkley forbid you speak to.' "'But I tell you Patrick is with him,' said Alfred, showing he knew more about his brother's movements than he had owned at first. 'Dick offered to help him to find some sea-birds' eggs, and they have gone off to get them now.' "At this moment the boy called Dick observed us, and as soon as he did so he began to make signs in a most excited manner to us to hasten. [Illustration: WILD DICK.] "'There has been some accident to Master Patrick, I much fear,' said Natilie, beginning to run. 'Oh, when will that boy be good?' "On coming closer to Dick, it soon became evident that an accident had really happened; and in a few moments more they learned that the unfortunate Patrick, in climbing the rocks, had lost his footing, and had fallen down from a considerable height. "'I think he's broken his leg, miss,' said Dick to Vea. 'And how he is to be taken out of that 'ere hole he has fallen into, is what I'd like very much to know.' "'Do show us where he is, Dick,' said Vea. 'Oh, be quick; he may die if his leg is not attended to at once!' "It was no easy matter to scramble over the stony beach to the place where Patrick was lying; and rather a pitiable sight it was to see him with his leg doubled under him, and with a face so very pale that it was no wonder Vea cried out with pure horror, for she evidently thought he was going to faint, or die altogether, perhaps. "'Oh, what shall we do?' cried Vea. 'How are we to get him up? and how are we to get him carried home?' "'I would not have you distress yourself so, Miss Vea,' said Natilie. 'I think I can get him out of this difficulty, with very little patience, if we could get him carried home.' "'If you get him out of the hole he has fallen into,' said Dick, 'I will manage the rest.' "'But how can you carry him over such a rough beach?' asked Alfred. "'I will get the boat from my grandfather,' replied Dick, 'and we can row him round to the harbour, where the men can help us up to the house with him.' "'Oh yes, that will be the plan,' said Vea. 'Do run, like a good boy, and get the boat; I am sure your grandfather will be very glad to lend it to us, for Patrick was always a favourite with him.' "'And I know somebody who is a greater favourite than even Master Patrick,' replied Dick, smiling, before he hurried away towards his grandfather's house. "Very soon, though it seemed a long time to Vea, Dick was plainly seen shoving out the boat from the shore, with the assistance of two boys, who then jumped in and rowed it round as close to where Patrick lay as they possibly could. "Natilie had by this time managed to get Patrick up out of the sort of hole he had fallen into, and by our united efforts we at last succeeded in getting him into the boat, where we all helped to support him, as he had fainted away again. It was considered advisable to row to Dick's grandfather's house for the present; and accordingly the boat was steered for a cove, up which the tide carried us. [Illustration: FETCHING THE BOAT.] "The hut where Dick's grandfather lived was a very poor one, built mostly of turf, and thatched with rough bent or sea-grass. The chimney-can was made with an old barrel, which stood the blast and served better than an ordinary one would have done at such a stormy part of the coast. One or two fishing-boats lay at the rough pier or jetty old Dick had constructed, the men belonging to which were earnestly engaged preparing their nets for going to sea that evening; while a number of boys were busy sailing miniature boats in a small pool left by the last tide. No sooner, however, did they hear the shouts of their companions in our boat, than they left their sport, and hurried down to lend a hand in pulling in the boat to a place of security. "'Has grandfather come back from the town, Jack?' cried Dick to a rough-looking boy, the tallest of them all, and who had carried his model boat in his arms, instead of leaving it as the others had done theirs. "'No, he ha'n't,' replied Jack; 'and, what's more, it's likely he won't be for some time either; for I hears Tom Brown saying to Tim that my father would be late to-night, and I knows your grandfather is to keep him company.' "'Then what's to be done now, miss?' said Dick. 'I had been thinking grandfather, who knows all about sores, seeing as he was boatswain's mate aboard a man-o'-war, might have been able to put young master's leg to rights.' "'Oh no, Dick, that would never do,' said Vea; 'we must get him ashore and laid in your grandfather's bed, and somebody had better run up to tell aunt of the accident, and get her to send for the doctor at once.' [Illustration: WILD DICK'S HOME.] "While Natilie prepared the bed in the old fisherman's hut, Patrick was being carried by the men who had been summoned from the boats. The poor boy was still in a fainting state, and it was not till after he had been laid on the bed that he opened his eyes and showed signs of consciousness. 'Oh, where am I?' he uttered; but even this exertion was too much for him, and he became insensible once more. "'It's a bad break, this,' said one of the men to his fellow; 'I shouldn't wonder, now, if he had to lose his leg altogether!' "'Oh, please don't speak of it,' said Vea, her face becoming ghastly pale. 'Do look out again, Lily dear, and see if Alfred is coming with the doctor.' "Yes; there he was at last, running at a break-neck speed down the steep and rocky bank to the beach, while the doctor was distinctly seen high overhead on the regular path, coming very quickly too. Indeed, though he had taken the longest road, and did not seem to hasten like Alfred, he was only a few minutes behind him, and showed no signs of heat and over-exertion. "'Heyday, this is a pretty business,' said Dr. Blyth cheerily. 'What's this you've been about, Miss Vea? breaking your brother's leg, eh?' All this time he had been unrolling a case of formidable-looking instruments, taking off his coat, and getting fresh water brought, and bandages prepared with the help of Natilie. When these were ready, he turned to look at his patient, and bidding every one leave the hut but the two fishermen and Natilie, he shut the door against them himself, and secured it firmly. "'Oh, please, doctor, let me stay,' Vea had said pitifully. 'I'm sure Patrick would like me to stay.' "'I'm sure of that too,' said the doctor kindly; 'but you shall have plenty of nursing by-and-by: don't be afraid, I mean to engage you as my chief assistant. Meanwhile, my dear, trust me for knowing what is best for you and for your brother, and take yourself off to the beach there. Come, Miss Lily,' he continued, turning to me, 'you take your friend down to the beach, and keep her there till I call you. Remember, you are not to leave the rock there till I call you, Miss Vea.' "'Oh dear, dear, it does seem hard,' said Vea, when we were seated under the rook, 'to leave Patrick in the hands of strangers. And yet, Dr. Blyth is such a good, kind man, I'm sure he won't give him unnecessary pain.' "'Would you like me to read a story to you, dear Vea?' I inquired, opening a book I had brought out with me. 'It might help to pass the time away.' [Illustration: DOWN ON THE BEACH.] "'Thank you, Lily,' said Vea; 'but I feel as if I couldn't listen to anything; and yet, if I sit here I shall go mad with the suspense.' "'Come, then, take a walk along the beach,' I replied; 'we will be within reach of the doctor's voice quite as well. I know he will take some time to set the leg; for when our stable-boy, Reuben, got his leg broken, the doctor took a long time to set it.' "'And did Reuben's leg get well again--quite well, I mean?' inquired Vea earnestly; 'was he able to walk with it as he did before?' "'Oh yes; he could use it quite as well as before,' I replied. 'Indeed, papa used to say Reuben was quicker at going a message after the accident than before.' "'Oh, I am so glad to hear that,' said Vea, sighing. 'I do hope it will be the same with Patrick. Poor Patrick! Aunt Mary has so often said he would need to get some severe lessons to make him think. She was always telling him that he would find out the path of transgressors is hard, instead of pleasant, as he seemed to fancy. I don't think there is such a miserable girl as I am in the world?' And here Vea began to cry. "After comforting her as well as I could, she was at last prevailed upon to take a short walk along the beach in the direction where some children were playing. As we walked along I told her that my mother often said, when we fancied ourselves ill-used and very unhappy, if we looked about us we would generally find that there was somebody even more miserable than we were ourselves. By this time we had come up to the children, and found three of them in earnest conversation. We were not long in discovering that the youngest was in evident distress, and her companions were listening to her words with deep interest. "'I wouldn't stand it, if I were you, Polly,' said the eldest girl, who was standing in front of the group. "'But what can I do, Martha?' replied the girl, rocking herself to and fro, and weeping afresh. "'Do? I would run away,' replied the other. 'I would go into service, or beg my bread from door to door, rather than bear what you have to bear.' "'But don't you think you had better speak to teacher, Polly?' said the other girl softly, looking from under her sun-bonnet with great dreamy-looking blue eyes; 'I wouldn't do anything rash before speaking to teacher. You remember what she said to us last Sunday, that all our trials were sent from our Father in heaven.' [Illustration: POOR POLLY.] "'Yes, Rachel, I heard her say that,' replied Polly; 'and I try to think about it; but oh! my step-mother would make anybody angry; and then my temper rises, and I speak out, and then I am beaten. I wouldn't mind that, however, if she would only beat me; but when I see her raise her hand to strike little Willie, who never was angry in his life, but was always gentle and good--always, always.' "'Is there anything I can do for you, little girl?' said Vea, stepping forward, forgetting for the time her own trouble while witnessing the distress of another. 'Why does your companion want you to run away?' "'It's to escape from her step-mother, miss,' replied the girl called Martha. 'She uses her shameful, she do, and all for what? Because Polly's father made so much of her afore he was lost.' "'And was your father lost at sea, Polly? Oh, how dreadful!' said Vea, seating herself on the stones beside her. 'And have you no mother of your own?' "'No, miss; mother died when Willie was a year old,' said Polly. "'And do you remember her quite well?' asked Vea. "'Oh yes, quite well, miss. It was a terrible night that, just before she died. Father was away to the town for some tackle, and I was left all alone with her and Willie. She hadn't been very well for some weeks, but nobody thought she was going to die. Even the very doctor had said that morning so cheerily to father she would weather through. She had been lying sleeping with Willie in her arms, but a sudden squall shook the door, and made it and the window-frame rattle, and that startled her, and she wakened. Then I couldn't help seeing she was much worse; and I tried to keep from crying, for she seemed wild-like, and the doctor had said she was to be kept quiet. Then she looked up in a moment, and said, "Polly, promise me you'll look after Willie when I die. Never let any harm come to Willie, mind that; and take care of father, but look well after Willie." She never spoke again, not even to father, who came in soon after, and cried like a baby over her. She just opened her eyes once, and looked at him with a smile, and tried to push Willie over to him, and then she died. How good father was to us then! He used to take Willie down to the beach with him while I made the house tidy and got the dinner; and he made Willie a fine boat, and dug out a place for him to sail it in; and oh! but we were happy then!' "'I don't think your father would have been lost if it hadn't been that step-mother of yours,' said Martha angrily. 'I can't a-bear her, I can't.' "'Oh, don't say that, Martha. It was God who took father,' said Polly, in a low whisper. 'Didn't you hear the rector saying it was God's will to send the storm that night?' [Illustration: LITTLE WILLIE AND HIS FATHER.] "'Yes,' said Martha; but if your step-mother had only bade your father stay at home, as all the other men did, he never would have been lost. Didn't old Joe Gafler warn them there was a squall a-coming! but no, she is so grasping, she wanted the money for the fish, and she let him go. It was a shame!' "'But father often says the boat may be found yet,' said Rachel; 'and you know even old Dick says the thing is likely.' "'Well, if so be's it should happen that Will Dampier comes to land again, I hope he'll know how his Polly has been treated when he was away,' said Martha. "'Oh, I wouldn't mind for myself not one bit,' said Polly. 'It's when she strikes Willie that I can't bear it; and I somehow think Willie is not so well this last week.' "'Then you mustn't think of running away, Polly,' said Vea. 'Wasn't that what Martha was urging you to do? If you went away, who would take care of Willie? Do you know, I have a brother I am very anxious about too, Polly?' said Vea. 'He is lying in Dick's cottage, with his leg broken, and the doctor is setting it while we are waiting out here.' "'Oh, I am very sorry indeed, miss,' said Polly, forgetting her own troubles in turn. 'Is that the young gentleman who is living with Mrs. Berkley?' "'Yes, Polly,' said Vea. 'Mrs. Berkley is my aunt.' "'He's a very kind young gentleman, miss. Is there anything I could do for him, miss? I should like to do something so much, for he helped me more than once.' "Vea naturally looked a little surprised, for Patrick was so often in trouble, that it was rather astonishing to hear any one praising him. "'I don't think it could be my brother Patrick,' said Vea. "'Oh yes, miss, that was his name,' said Polly. 'He told me his name was Patrick.' "'And what did Patrick do for you?' said Vea, looking much pleased. [Illustration: THE ANCHOR.] "'I was playing with Willie one day at the harbour, and young Dick was showing me a great anchor some of the men had left on shore for a new boat they were going to build, when my step-mother called from the cottage door, and bade me take the ropes and carry home the drift-wood she had been gathering all the morning. Dick said as how he was sorry he couldn't go to help me, as he had to go out in his grandfather's boat that afternoon; and so, after leaving Willie beside old Dick, I took the ropes and went down on the beach. My step-mother had called after me I was to drag them in three bundles, but they were so heavy that I had to separate the first one into two; and for doing this she beat me. I was going back to the next one, crying a good deal, for I was wishing I could go to my own mother and to father, when a boy jumped up from behind a stone, and asked me why I was crying; and so I told him. And when he heard it, he called my step-mother some hard names; and then says he, "Are you the little girl young Dick helps when he has any spare time?" And when I answered "Yes," he says, "Well, then, give me the ropes and I'll help you, for Dick is away to-day." I couldn't help saying that dragging drift-wood wasn't fit work for a gentleman; but he just laughed, and said there were lots of people would be glad to know Patrick Berkley was so usefully employed.' "'And did he drag the wood for you?' said Vea, the tears standing in her eyes. "'That he did, miss. And whenever he sees me carrying a heavy load along the beach, he just slips up to me, and, without saying a word, takes it out of my hand. And then if he sees any of the boys frightening me, he won't let them. I was so sorry, miss, for the cut he got on his eye; that was from wild Joe throwing a stone at him when he was carrying my basket for me round the Bluff Crag.' "'You have no idea how happy you have made me, Polly,' said Vea. 'Aunt Mary always says there is a great deal of good in Patrick, only his love of mischief sometimes chokes the good seed. It is very strange he never lets us see him doing a kind or a generous action.' [Illustration: BY THE BEACH.] "At this moment Natilie opened the cottage door and called to her young mistress to come up. I waited by the beach, and taking off my shoes and stockings, waded into the cool water. The girls were much amused at my delight, and I may say terror also, as, looking down into the clear blue water, I saw various small fishes darting in and out among the stones; and even Polly forgot her angry step-mother at home, and screamed with laughter at my sudden fright when a small crab seized hold of my great toe, and hung tenaciously to it, even when I was far up on the sandy beach. "Then Natilie came and called to me to come up also; and there I found Patrick lying very quiet and still on the bed, and Vea sitting by the side of it holding his hand. It was arranged that I should return to the house with Natilie and Alfred, while Vea remained with her brother till Natilie returned; but just as we were setting out, my Uncle John came down to see after the patient, and I was told I might amuse myself for an hour outside till the maid returned with the articles required by the doctor. I would have liked to have stayed with Vea, but both the doctor and my uncle thought that as the cottage was so small, the fewer there were in it the better for Patrick. "'I would like to get home,' said poor Patrick in a faint voice. 'Couldn't I be carried home, sir?' he pleaded, turning to the doctor. [Illustration: DOWN AT THE COVE.] "'Not for some days, my boy,' replied the doctor kindly. 'If you lie very still, and attend to orders, we shall see what can be done for you then.' "But when the doctor had gone, Vea came slipping out, and bidding me follow her, went round to where some boats lay moored. A ladder was placed against the side of one of these, and up this Vea mounted before I knew what she was going to do. 'I feel sure,' she said, looking over the side of the boat to me, as I stood on the beach below, 'if we could only get Patrick hoisted up here, we might get him taken home quite safely.' "'Ah, but I don't think the doctor will allow you to do that,' I replied; 'I fear he must remain here for some weeks.' "'He seems very anxious to get home, poor boy. I cannot make it out,' said Vea. 'He says he will tell me the reason once he finds himself in his own bed at Aunt Berkley's. I wonder who this boat belongs to.' "'Polly said it belonged to Martha's father,' I replied; 'she told me so just before they left me to go home.' "'Polly, I hope, has quite made up her mind not to run away,' said Vea. "'Oh yes, I think she has given up that idea; indeed, I heard her say to Rachel she would try to bear it a little longer.' "'There is Dick returned already,' said Vea; and she scrambled out of the boat, and ran down to the beach to meet Dick, who was coming from the doctor's house with a basket containing medicines for the sick boy. [Illustration: DICK RETURNING WITH THE MEDICINE.] "'Oh, you are a good boy, Dick,' said Vea. 'How fast you must have gone!' "'Well, yes, miss, I did go fast,' said Dick, pleased with Vea's speech apparently. 'I went by the beach, the tide being out, and it is nigher that way by a good mile. I would go faster than most folks for the young master.' "'Why, has Patrick been kind to you too, Dick!' said Vea, in much surprise. "'That he has, miss,' said Dick gratefully. 'When I lost grandfather's knife, didn't he buy me a new one with the new half-crown his aunt gave him to spend at the fair! And didn't he let grandfather think he had broken the glass in the window, when all the time it was me, and nobody else! And hasn't he often and often brought me a bit of his own dinner tied up in his handkerchief, or a pie he would find lying handy in the pantry, when he knowed I'd had nothing for my dinner that day at all!' "Vea said nothing, but she evidently thought her brother was a very curious boy, and that she had not understood him at all. "When Natilie had returned with the things required by the sick boy and his attendants, Uncle John and I set off home, he promising that we would return the next afternoon to inquire after Patrick. The sun was just shedding its last rays of golden light over the sea, lighting it up with a strange lurid light, which, with the stillness of the scene, and the great rocks on the coast, left a strange impression on my mind. "'And you say you have enjoyed yourself, my dear!' said Uncle John, after we had walked on in silence for some time. [Illustration: GOING HOME WITH UNCLE JOHN.] "'Oh, very much indeed, uncle,' I replied. 'I like Vea so much, and Alfred is such a funny boy. Isn't it a pity that Patrick is so fond of mischief, when he seems to have such a kind heart?' "'I've always liked that boy Patrick,' said my uncle; 'and, what is more,' he continued, as if to himself, 'I never liked Alfred.' "'That is very strange, uncle,' I replied; 'he is such a polite boy, and so quiet in the drawing-room. He is so funny too; he nearly set me off laughing at the funny faces he made behind his aunt's back; and he can speak just like her, in that queer low drawling tone.' "'Exactly,' said my uncle; 'that is the very thing I dislike about him. He has the power of mimicry, and is also able to keep a grave face when others are forced to laugh--a thing poor Patrick is not able to do, and the consequence is he gets into sad disgrace for laughing, and, to save his brother, won't tell what he is laughing at. Alfred is a mean boy, for twice I have seen him allow his brother to be punished, when, by simply telling he was the cause of it, the punishment might have been avoided. Now, who do you think was the actual culprit who cut that nice table in the summer-house?' "'It must have been Patrick, uncle; he never denied it,' I replied. "'That is the strange thing, dear. Patrick is greatly to blame in this, that he will not tell upon his brother, but is so easy-minded, that, rather than exert himself to make his friends think well of him, he allows every one to suppose that he is the offender; and, as I said before, Alfred is so mean, that, knowing this, he plays the tricks and lets his brother take the blame. A tale-teller is to be despised; but a boy who is so lazy that he cannot say a good word for himself when his character is concerned, is almost as bad.' "'But how did you find all this out, uncle?' I inquired. "'Well, I overheard the two boys speaking about it in the shrubbery; and what struck me most was, even when Patrick had an opportunity to reprove his younger brother he did not do so, though a good word costs nothing, and might save his brother much misery in the end. I am half glad he has met with this accident; it will give him time to think.' "At this moment a boat sailed past, filled with gay company, who waved their handkerchiefs to us, and cheered most lustily. One little girl held up her doll, and made it wave its hat to Uncle John's polite bow, which made them all laugh very much. "Dolly was very glad to see me again, and said so kindly that she had never spent such a long, dull day, and that she hoped I would not go junketting in a hurry, else she would require to go with me herself. There was no time to tell her all the story of our visit to Mrs. Berkley that night, because a woman came in asking her to go down to the village to see a sick man who had wandered there that day, and had been found lying under a hedge by a field-worker. Then, as it was close to my bed-hour, and I was very tired, Dolly carried me off to my room at once, and when she had seen me safely in bed, went away. The next morning while at breakfast she told me the sick man was apparently a fisherman, but he was so weak he could not give an account of himself. Once or twice he had suddenly become uneasy in his sleep, and had moaned out a name some of the women thought was Polly, but so faintly, that they could not be sure even of that. "'Oh, it must be Polly's father come to life again,' I cried, starting up and knocking over my basin of milk upon the clean white table-cover. 'Oh, do let me run and tell uncle about it, Dolly; he will know what ought to be done.' [Illustration: OVERTAKEN BY THE STORM.] "Uncle John did not like to be disturbed in the morning, but this was an extra case, and after Dolly had heard of the sufferings poor Polly had to endure from her cruel step-mother, she allowed me to go to the study door and tap gently. Uncle John listened very attentively to the story about us meeting the three little girls on the beach, and at once agreed to set out to inquire for the sick man; and proposed, if he was still too weak to answer questions, to go on to the Bluff Crag, and get one of the fishermen from there to come up to look at him. Fortunately, when my uncle arrived the sick man was much better, and though only able to speak a word at a time, understood all the questions that were put to him. It soon became evident that this was indeed Polly's long-lost father. When he was a little stronger he told how the boat that fearful night had drifted away along the coast, and how it at last was dashed up on the rocky beach, and how he had been thrown out into a sort of cave, where there was barely standing room when the tide was full, and how he had lived for days on the shell-fish that he found sticking to the side of the cave, or the eggs he found on the shelves of rock; and at last, when even this scanty supply failed him, and he was nearly mad from the want of water, how he had dashed himself into the sea, determined to be done with his misery. Then he told how, when he came to himself, he found he was lying in a cottage, with a woman bending over him, and a man sitting smoking by the fire, stirring some stuff in a pan. It seemed that this man was a collector of birds' eggs, and, knowing about this cave, he had come down, with the help of a great strong rope tied round his waist, to gather eggs. Great was his surprise when he saw the body of a man floating in the water; but he lost no time in seizing him by the belt, and, with the help of his comrades up at the top, brought him safely to land. [Illustration: RESCUED.] "You can understand how glad Polly was when, that same evening, Uncle John took me with him to tell her of her father's safety. I kept fancying all the way that when she heard the news she would dance and shriek with joy, and clap her hands; but, instead of that, she just sat quietly down on a stool by the fire. What a white face she had, and how her lips trembled! Even Uncle John was struck by her appearance, and must have been afraid the sudden news had been too much for her. 'Come, come, Polly, this will never do,' he said kindly; 'you must set about getting some clothes put up in a bundle, and come away back with me. Father is very impatient to see his little Polly, I can tell you!' "'Polly again! it's always Polly!" said her step-mother. 'I don't believe he cares a pin about me and my children so long as these two are all right.' "Uncle John spoke to her very sensibly, as I thought, telling her that her husband's children ought to be as dear to her as her own, for his sake, and that a jealous disposition often led to much misery; but I don't think it made much impression upon her: and I was very glad when Polly appeared ready to start, with her clothes and some for her father also, tied up in a little bundle. "Some days after, uncle kindly took me to spend the day with Vea. I was delighted to find that Patrick had been removed to Mrs. Berkley's, and had stood the journey very well. He had been carried on a stretcher by some of the fishermen; and they had borne him along so gently that Patrick declared he had never felt the least motion, and thought he had been lying on his bed all the time. "'I should like to get some flowers so much,' said Vea, after I had arrived. 'Patrick is so fond of flowers; but he likes the wild ones best. He says the hot-house ones smell oppressively, but the wild ones make him comfortable.' "'Then why can't we get him some?' I inquired. "'Aunt doesn't like us to go to the wood by ourselves; and Natilie is engaged to-day,' replied Vea. "'I'll tell you how we will manage it,' I replied, laughing. 'We will ask uncle to go with us.' "'But do you think he will go with us?' said Vea eagerly. "'Oh yes, I think he will--I am sure of it, almost,' I said; 'because I heard your aunt telling him she had some important letters to write, and he said he would take a walk in the garden till she was done.' "Uncle John was very kind, and consented to go with us; and not only so, but took us to the best places, and while we filled our baskets sat reading beside us. Then, when we had picked enough, he told us stories while we rested; and we were very happy. Something he said about a boy he once knew made Vea think of Patrick, for she exclaimed, quite suddenly,--'Oh! do you know, sir, we have found Patrick out at last! When he was lying at the cottage, there were so many poor people came to ask for him, that even aunt became interested; and she made inquiries, and we found that Patrick was in the habit of helping them in some way or other. One old woman told us he actually drew all the stock of drift-wood she has at her cottage, and piled it up there for her.' "'But how did he manage to do it without you finding him out?' said Uncle John. "'Oh, he rose and went out very early in the morning,' replied Vea. 'The servants were often complaining of the state of his boots; so, in case they would find him out, he used to leave them in the garden and go without his stockings. And do you know, sir, he was telling me such a sad story about that poor woman, and the reason why he helped her. She has lost her husband and three sons; and then her only child, a little girl, was drowned one day looking for drift-wood on the sea-shore.' [Illustration: GATHERING WILD FLOWERS.] "'That will be Widow Martin then, I suppose!' said my uncle. 'Her story was indeed a sad one.--I am very glad to hear such good accounts of my young friend Patrick.' "'And I am glad about it too, sir,' said Vea. 'Aunt Mary will be so pleased; but do you know, I am afraid Alfred has been the bad boy all the time, for since Patrick has been ill he is never done falling into disgrace. Aunt was seriously angry with him; and I overheard Patrick saying, "You see, Alfred, I often told you, you would be found out in the end; I couldn't always take the blame to screen you, so you had better give it up." Isn't Patrick a strange boy, sir?' "It was a happy day for little Vea when her brother Patrick was able to be wheeled out, by his faithful friend Dick, in the chair his aunt got for the purpose; and I need not say that Patrick enjoyed it very much. I was invited to spend a week with them then, and as the weather was indeed beautiful, we were constantly in the open air. Patrick had always been fond of gardening, and it vexed him to see how his flowers had been neglected during his illness. 'Never mind,' said Dick; 'I bean't much of a gardener, but I'll do my best to set it all to rights, and I'm sure the young ladies there will lend a hand.' [Illustration: DICK TRYING HIS HAND AT GARDENING.] "While Dick dug the ground, Vea and Alfred and I arranged the flowers, much to the satisfaction of every one; and even Alfred, who was not very fond of work, said these busy days were the happiest he had ever spent. "The day before I left my kind friends, Uncle John came over with a letter from home, saying that I was to return there immediately. "'Oh dear; I am so sorry,' said Vea. 'I was hoping, sir, she might be allowed to stay for ever so long--at anyrate till all our gardens were finished.' "'Ah! but there is a pleasant surprise awaiting Miss Lily there,' said my uncle, laughing. 'I am almost certain that even the lovely gardens will be quite forgotten when she sees what it is.' "'A pleasant surprise, uncle!' I exclaimed. 'What is it?--do tell me, please!' "'You can't be told till you reach home,' said my uncle, laughing; 'I am bound over to secrecy.' And though I over and over again tried to get him to tell me, he only laughed, as he replied, 'All in good time, Lily; you wouldn't have me break my promise, surely.' "Dolly was so sorry to part with me, and I was so sorry to leave her, that while we were packing my clothes we cried over the trunk. "'I wouldn't mind your going, miss,' said Dolly, 'if I thought you would remember me sometimes; but I'm thinking, now that there is a new---- Oh dear, dear,' she cried; 'I was just about to let the cat out of the bag, and what would your uncle have said to that, I wonder!' "It was plain now that Dolly knew of the pleasant surprise that was waiting for me at home, and the thought of it helped me to be less sorry to part with her and kind Uncle John and all the pleasant things at the rectory. All the way home I kept thinking what it could be. A new doll, perhaps, that grandmamma was to send for my birth-day present; but then my birth-day did not come for weeks yet. A work-box lined with rose-pink, perhaps; but that was to arrive when my sampler was finished--and oh, what a large piece was still to be sewed. I tired myself trying to think, and at last gave it up in despair. "Of all the things I had thought of, it never came into my head to expect a new baby-sister; but so it was. When I entered the parlour, and was rushing up to fling myself into my mother's arms, what was my surprise to find a lovely baby--the very thing I had been wishing for--yes, actually a baby-sister. [Illustration: MY BABY-SISTER.] "I don't think I was ever so happy in my life as at that moment, when I was allowed to take the baby in my lap and examine her tiny fingers and toes; and when she smiled in my face, and seemed to be pleased with her big sister, I actually cried, I was so happy. While I was sitting holding baby in this way, my father returned home with Willie, my brother, and such fun and laughing we had, to be sure! But I must own I did feel a little vexed when papa one day said to me, a few weeks after I had returned home, 'Well, Lily, now that you have got such a fat baby sister to carry about, you will have to lay aside your dolls.' "I was very sorry, for I loved my dolls exceedingly; they had been my dear companions and friends for so long. But I knew papa scarcely approved of me playing so much with them, and fancied I might be more usefully employed. I took out my last new doll, Eva, for a walk that afternoon, feeling somehow that she must be laid away in a drawer till baby grew up, when she should have her to be her faithful companion. Stepping out at the side gate into the lane to look for Willie, who had gone to the post, I found an old woman sitting down to rest. After speaking to her for a minute or two, I discovered, to my great delight, that she was the mother of Will Dampier, and the grandmother of Polly. She had just come from the Bluff Crag that very day, where she had been to see her son; and she told me that the last thing she saw, in looking back from the bank above, before turning into the main road, was her son with his crab-basket on his back, and Master Patrick Berkley alongside of him. "'Oh, I am so glad to hear this,' I replied; 'that shows Patrick's leg must be quite well and strong again. And how are Miss Vea and Alfred? did you see them also?" [Illustration: MEETING POLLY'S GRANDMOTHER.] "'No, miss,' said the old woman, 'I didn't see them. The young lady and her brother have gone to stay with another aunt at some distance off; but Master Patrick is to remain with Mrs. Berkley all the winter. I'm sure there's more than my son and Polly were glad indeed to hear this, for he is a good friend to the poor, and does many a good action to help them when he thinks as they are frail.' "After resting for some time by the kitchen-fire, Polly's grandmother went away, not without promising to come in again if ever she was passing that way when going to see her son. * * * * * "That visit was the beginning of many, and very many pleasant days I afterwards spent at the Bluff Crag Rectory. But it is near your bedtime, my dears, and I must stop for the present, and send you to bed," said Mrs. Lincoln. "Oh! do tell us some more, mamma," pleaded Robert. "I want you to tell us again of those cousins of Vea Berkley's who came from India, and you haven't even mentioned their names." "All in good time, my dears," said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing; "that is only the beginning of the Bluff Crag stories. It would never do, you know, to have them all told at once. We shall have the story of Vea and her cousins another time, never fear;" and with this promise the children had to be content, and say "Good-night." [Illustration: THE END.] 
43918	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. [Illustration: See page 11.] THE PENITENT BOY: OR, SIN BRINGS SORROW. REVISED BY D. P. KIDDER. New-York. PUBLISHED BY LANE & SCOTT, FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, 200 MULBERRY-ST. Joseph Longking, Printer. 1851. THE PENITENT BOY. "Do lend me your new knife, which mamma gave you," asked Samuel; "I want to cut notches in my stick, and play Robinson Crusoe: do, will you, Alfred?" "No, I cannot Sam; so do not ask any more. I wish you would not tease me for my knife; you cannot have it; I do not want it hurt." "Well, but you lent it to cousin James, on Monday, and he did not spoil it, did he?" "Now do be quiet, Samuel; I cannot lend it to you, so that is all I shall say." "Why I never saw you so cross, Alfred." "Yes, I am cross, I know. I feel very cross and uncomfortable, so do not ask any more about the knife." Just then an aunt of the little boys entered the room, and Samuel turned to her in his trouble. "Now do not you think, aunt, Alfred ought to lend me his knife, just for a minute, to cut a Robinson Crusoe stick?" "No doubt he will," replied Miss Woodford; "I never knew Alfred cross or unkind: he does not mean that he will not lend it; he is only joking, I am sure." "Yes, aunt, I do mean it; I have made up my mind that nobody shall use my knife." "Well, then," urged the anxious Samuel, "do you cut my stick yourself; I only want seven notches in it, to make believe the days of the week: of course, you will not refuse this, will you?" "Where is your knife, my boy?" asked his aunt; "is it in your pocket?" "No, aunt." "Well, get it then, my dear, and do this little kindness for your brother, who looks so imploringly there, with his stick in his hand." Alfred left the room, looking very thoughtful; and Samuel took a seat on a stool, keeping his eye on the door, resolved to wait quietly for Alfred's return, as he was not an impatient boy. After a considerable time, Alfred came back, with a face very much flushed, and no knife could be seen. "Have you got it, Alfred?" asked Samuel, jumping up; "come, do cut my notches, because I cannot get on the island and begin to play until it is done." "I cannot do it, Samuel; I have not got my knife." "Where is your pretty new knife, then, my dear? I saw you put it carefully away in a box one day." "Yes, I did, aunt; but I have just dropped it into a crack in the hall, and it is gone out of sight." "O dear! let us try to get it," said the kind aunt; and away they all three ran to the crack in the passage. "Show me exactly the place where it went in, Alfred." "Just here, aunt," said he, pointing to a very small crevice between the boards. "O no; this cannot be the spot, the crack is too small to admit a knife: it must be somewhere else. But I see no crack in any other part. My dear boy," continued Miss Woodford, looking into Alfred's face, "you did not let it down here." Her gentle words, accompanied as they were with a sorrowful look, melted him at once, for Alfred was not a hardened boy, and he ran off to his room, weeping all the way. "Well," said Samuel, as he returned to the parlor, "I suppose I must mark some make-believe notches on my stick with my pencil." Miss Woodford left him to his play, and went in search of her sister, the mother of the boys. Taking a seat by her side in the dining-room, she asked Mrs. Sinclair if she knew anything of the knife she had given to Alfred. "No," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "I have not seen it for some time: but I think I heard James admiring it, on Monday." "I am afraid it is lost, sister," continued Miss Woodford: "but this is not the worst part of it; I greatly fear Alfred has told an untruth about the affair." "I hope not," replied Mrs. Sinclair, with a troubled countenance; "I never knew either of my boys to be guilty of anything so shocking. Where is he?" Miss Woodford then related the whole of the circumstances, adding, "I believe Alfred has gone to his room." Mrs. Sinclair considered, for a moment, what course to pursue, and then resolved to allow her little son to remain in the retirement he had chosen, at least for some time. Samuel could not enjoy his game alone, for he saw very plainly that his brother had been guilty of a great sin; so he went into the garden, and walked up and down, feeling very melancholy. He knew that God had said that liars have their portion with those who are shut up in eternal darkness; and he felt very sorry that he had asked for the loan of the knife. After an hour or two, Mrs. Sinclair went up to converse with the guilty boy; but as she was drawing near his room she heard the sound of his voice, as if conversing with some one, and, supposing that Samuel had joined him, she stopped for a moment to ascertain from whence the voice came, when she distinctly heard Alfred saying, "Forgive my sin, heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ's sake." This was a confirmation to her of the sad fact that he was really guilty of the crime laid to his charge; at the same time it was a comfort to her to hear that he was penitent. She stepped gently back into the parlor, thankful, amid her sorrow, to find that her little boy was confessing his sin to the holy God. She could not, however, remain long absent from her erring child, but again ascending the stairs, and finding all silent, she entered the room. Alfred was sitting, bathed in tears, with two books by his side, a Bible and a prayer-book. "O, mamma!" he exclaimed, "I am ashamed to see you--I am--I am; but I will tell you all about it. O, I am so unhappy! I am afraid you will not forgive me, and I feel sure the Saviour will not." When he saw the tears falling over his mother's cheeks, he felt more distressed than ever, and covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly. At length he went on to confess the whole matter. "You know, mamma, my cousin James liked my knife, and asked me to give it to him for some sweetmeats he had in his pocket; so I consented to part with the knife you gave me, without thinking. I wish I had asked you about it. I have been very wicked. I told a lie to try to hide it. What shall I do?" "Are you really sorry for your sin, Alfred? this is the question; or are you only mortified that your guilt is discovered?" "O yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and I have been trying to tell God about it. I asked him to forgive me, but I am afraid he will not. How dreadful it is to think that God will remember that I have told a lie! What would become of me, if I were to die to-night?" Mrs. Sinclair took a chair by the side of her son, and told him if he really felt sorry, there was hope he might be forgiven; "for although," said she, "God is a God of truth, and has said that whosoever loveth or maketh a lie shall be shut out of heaven, yet he has also said, if we repent of our sins, resolving to forsake them, and come to him in the name of the Saviour, that he will pardon us for his sake." "O, I hope he will forgive me! Do pray for me, mamma. What a dreadful thing it would be if I should be driven away from heaven at last, and go with liars away from God!" Then bursting into tears, Alfred hid his face on his mother's neck, and they wept together. Mrs. Sinclair then prayed with her penitent boy, and he became more calm. "Now, my son," she said, "we will go down to the parlor." "O no, mamma; do let me go to bed: I would rather go to bed, if you will only kiss me, and forgive me. I should like to go to bed." Mrs. Sinclair consented to Alfred's proposal, and after reading a chapter in the Bible, and praying to be forgiven all his sins, for the sake of Jesus Christ, he retired to rest; but he passed a very uncomfortable night, and awoke in the morning with a very sorrowful heart. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had resolved that nothing should be said to their son, the next morning, on the subject of the evening's transgression, as they believed that he felt truly sorry that he had offended God. When the bell rung for family worship, Alfred appeared, with Samuel by his side; but he looked pale and unhappy, and his eyes were downcast as he took his usual seat by his father. The family sung some verses from that beautiful hymn beginning,-- "There is a fountain fill'd with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners plunged beneath that flood Lose all their guilty stains." Alfred was in the habit of pitching the tunes on those occasions, but this morning Samuel took his place, and began the moment the verse was given out. When they came to the third line Alfred's tears flowed so fast he was obliged to stop; and if you had been sitting near his mamma you might have seen her cheek wet too, for she felt deeply for her little son. After breakfast, the two boys went to their studies as usual, and Samuel was very kind and attentive to his brother, watching him in all his movements, and trying, by all the means within his power, to win a smile from him, for his affectionate heart longed to see his brother as happy as usual. But all his efforts were unavailing; no one could see a gleam of cheerfulness on Alfred's countenance all the day. Just before dinner, as he was standing by the parlor fire, with his back to the door, Rose, a kind Irish servant, came in to prepare the table. "O, then, is it you it is, Master Alfred? I wanted to have a word with ye. What's the matter? sure your cheek's pale; it's sick entirely ye'll be soon," said the kind-hearted girl, "if you vex any more about that bit of a knife; and it's a good half hour I spent too, looking for it: but never mind, I am sure the mistress, good creature, will soon give ye another, or may be you will soon find the same." Alfred looked at Rose very thoughtfully, and asked, "Do you not know what I have done, Rose?" "Sure and I never knew ye do anything bad since the day I came with ye from Belfast; think of that now, and ye'll do bravely yet, my darlint." "Ah, Rose! I see very plainly how it is; you do not know what I am. Did you ever read the fifth chapter of the Acts, and the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, Rose?" "Why yes, Master Alfred, to be sure, I've read the Bible through entirely, but I don't just remember those particular parts by chapter and verse. But what has that to do with the loss, Master Alfred? I want to say a word of comfort to you. Think of Miss Mary when she lost her handkerchief; the mistress never said a word about it after: and it's the flower of the country she is for kindness, when we tell her our faults." "Yes, yes, Rose, I know all that very well; but do you remember hearing about Ananias and Sapphira in the Bible?" "O, if it's I don't remember that! I'll forget kith and kin afore I'll forget how afraid I was to tell a lie in the Sunday school, for fear of being struck dead; and it's a fine scrape entirely I got into, and lost a pretty new frock into the bargain." "Did you, Rose, indeed? O, I wish I had been you!" and the tears fell fast again over the penitent boy's cheeks. "Ah now, Master Alfred, do not take on so. What can be the matter? Sure this story has nothing to do with you, has it?" "I see how it is, Rose; the dreadful tale has been kept a secret. You do not know what I am." "Is it I do not know what you are, Master Alfred? why sure it's your reason entirely ye'll lose by the heart-trouble, whatever it is. Not know what ye are? Sure your're a fine young gentleman, and it's the son of the mistress ye're for kindness; and the likes o' ye I never saw, barrin' your brother, the darlint." "O, do not talk to me so, Rose; it only makes me more ashamed! I am an ungrateful and a sinful boy, and I am afraid I shall never go to heaven." "And is it you that is afraid of that? O dear! what then is come to ye, my dear?" Alfred was out of hearing before Rose had finished her kind speech. He could bear his sorrow no longer without talking to his mother. Mrs. Sinclair was coming out of a little back parlor, with Samuel, as Alfred crossed the hall; and, taking his mother's hand, he said, "I want to talk to you, mamma." Mrs. Sinclair led him to her room, and closing the door, she drew a chair for him by her side, still holding his hand in hers. Alfred was weeping too much to utter a syllable for some minutes; but when a little recovered, he exclaimed, "O, my dear mamma, I am so miserable, I cannot bear to think nor stay by myself. I was afraid to go to sleep last night, for I thought perhaps I should awake in that dreadful place where liars go; I never was so unhappy before in all my life." "I can easily imagine this, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "you were never guilty of the same sin before, I believe." "You only _believe_, mamma: are you not sure I never told a lie before?" "I hope you never did, my boy." "Ah! I see it is as you told us one day, a liar can neither convince nor persuade others, and is not believed even when he tells the truth. Indeed, mamma, I never did tell a lie before; but I was afraid you would think me an ungrateful boy for not taking more care of the present you gave me. O, I wish I had told the truth, and been more afraid of offending God than even you." "I wish so too, my son. I have avoided saying much to you on the subject, because I hope and believe that you are truly sorry, and that you have confessed your sin to the great and glorious Being who calls himself the God of truth; and you remember after the apostle John had been describing the beautiful city, where holy and redeemed people shall live when earth is passed away, he says that no one shall enter there who maketh a lie. Indeed, a liar could not live in heaven, if he were permitted to enter, for everything there is pure and holy." "Yes, mamma; I have been reading the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, this morning." "Well, my son, then in the fifteenth Psalm, when the question is asked, Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? the answer is, He that speaketh the truth in his heart. Then again, we are told by the wise man that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord. The holy God, who requireth truth in the inward parts, must look upon a child polluted with falsehood with just indignation, and as belonging to that fallen spirit who is called the father of lies, and who dwells where truth is unknown, and where all liars have their part. There truth is never spoken, except to deceive, and there repentance and prayer are of no avail." "O yes, mamma," said the sorrowful Alfred, "I remember the hymn you taught me when I was a very little boy-- 'The Lord delights in them that speak The words of truth; but every liar Must have his portion in the lake That burns with brimstone and with fire.' I never thought I should tell a lie when I used to say that hymn to you. O, I wish I could be a little good boy again!" said Alfred, wiping away the tears. "I trust you will yet be a good and holy boy, my son; and the suffering you have caused yourself and your family will prove a warning to you: but you must not trust to your own deceitful heart, but look to God for assistance to make you sincere and truthful. You find your conscience does not like a lie, but that it solemnly and dreadfully reproaches the liar; and you find too, my son, that to be holy is the only way to be happy." "Yes, mamma, I do; but do you think the Saviour will forgive me, and make me happy again?" "Yes, I have no doubt he will pardon your sin, if you are really sorry, and resolve to be watchful in future." "Yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and very sorry, that I should offend God, and make you unhappy, and make myself in danger of having my portion in the lake that burns with brimstone and with fire." "Well then the Bible says, if you repent and forsake your sin, God will have mercy, and pardon your guilt. He will so forget it, that it will never appear against you at the last great day. You know I have often told you that the blood of Jesus Christ can wash away all sin, and _all_ must of course include yours. You can read this for yourself in the First Epistle of John, the first chapter, and the seventh verse." Just then the dinner-bell rung, and Mrs. Sinclair and Alfred went down to dinner. As they were entering the parlor, they met Rose, who had been greatly concerned about her favorite; and she whispered in his ear, "Come down to me, darlint, after the dinner: I want to say a word to ye." Everybody tried to be cheerful at dinner; but Alfred could not forget his "heart-trouble," as Rose called it, nor had he much inclination for food. When the repast was over, and Rose had cleared the room, he went down to hear what she had to say to him. The kind-hearted girl slipped a small parcel into his hand, wrapped in silver paper, saying, "There, then, darlint; now sure ye'll dry your poor red eyes up entirely, and think no more about it and the loss." On opening the parcel, Alfred looked upon a pretty knife, very like the one his mamma had given him, and putting it on the table, he ran up to Rose, saying, "I cannot allow you to think me so much better than I am, Rose. I have been guilty of the same sin as Ananias and Sapphira; and it is a wonder the great God has not driven me away from earth too." Poor Rose was so greatly surprised that she looked at him some time in silence, while he continued,-- "Rose, you thought me a good boy, but I am very wicked. I gave away my knife, and then told a lie to try to hide it; but I hope I shall be forgiven, and mamma says the blood of Christ can wash all my guilt away." "Sure then, dear, the mistress is right entirely; and I hope you will be happy, as you used to be. Your poor eyes have done nothing but blink since the time the aunt searched in the hall for the knife; and it was sighing I heard ye when sleep gave them a little rest, that sure I didn't close mine very comfortably. So I just got the boy to run for his life, and get ye a pretty white knife at the shop, for it's a strong pet ye are of all of us entirely." "This is very kind of you, Rose: and may I do what I like with the knife, Rose?" "Sure you may, and it's yours entirely; only don't vex any more: let us see ye as merry as the kitten, as the likes o' ye ought to be." The next morning Alfred and Samuel walked to their cousin's; and as soon as James saw them, he ran up, presenting the unfortunate knife to Alfred, saying, "Ma does not wish me to keep it; so take it back." Alfred then told his aunt the whole of the affair, as quietly as his feelings would allow; and then desired that James might be allowed to have the knife Rose had given him, in exchange. As all the sweetmeats were eaten, it would not be fair to have back the knife without some return. Alfred soon ran home with his own knife, and placed it in its own box, intending to keep it as a warning to him in future. It is believed that Alfred was really and truly sorry for his sin; and he grew up a truthful and pious boy, dreading the very appearance of anything approaching to a lie. Dear children, see that you always speak the truth. Remember anything you say INTENDING TO DECEIVE is a lie in the sight of God; and remember too that for all such words you will be called to give an account in the day of judgment. He who made the eye can see, and he who made the ear can hear. Yes! and he will remember all you say and do; and if you should be suddenly called away, without repenting of your sin, and without being washed in the blood of the Saviour, by believing in him, you must have your portion where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. Now the dear Redeemer is ready to receive you, but to-morrow it may be too late: to-morrow may never come to you; for death may take you away this night. THE END. 
2572	----	ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING by Mark Twain [Sameul Clemens] ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL AND ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.[*] [*] Did not take the prize. Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the _custom_ of lying has suffered any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, A Principle, is eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in time of need, the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest friend, is immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this club remains. My complaint simply concerns the decay of the _art_ of lying. No high-minded man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see a noble art so prostituted. In this veteran presence I naturally enter upon this theme with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach nursery matters to the mothers in Israel. It would not become to me to criticise you, gentlemen--who are nearly all my elders--and my superiors, in this thing--if I should here and there _seem_ to do it, I trust it will in most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than fault-finding; indeed if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere received the attention, the encouragement, and conscientious practice and development which this club has devoted to it, I should not need to utter this lament, or shed a single tear. I do not say this to flatter: I say it in a spirit of just and appreciative recognition. [It had been my intention, at this point, to mention names and to give illustrative specimens, but indications observable about me admonished me to beware of the particulars and confine myself to generalities.] No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without saying. No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one ought to be taught in the public schools--even in the newspapers. What chance has the ignorant uncultivated liar against the educated expert? What chance have I against Mr. Per--against a lawyer? _Judicious_ lying is what the world needs. I sometimes think it were even better and safer not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously. An awkward, unscientific lie is often as ineffectual as the truth. Now let us see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable proverb: Children and fools _always_ speak the truth. The deduction is plain --adults and wise persons _never_ speak it. Parkman, the historian, says, "The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In another place in the same chapters he says, "The saying is old that truth should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick conscience worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles and nuisances." It is strong language, but true. None of us could _live_ with an habitual truth-teller; but thank goodness none of us has to. An habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not exist; he never has existed. Of course there are people who _think_ they never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very things that shame our so-called civilization. Everybody lies--every day; every hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning; if he keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his attitude, will convey deception--and purposely. Even in sermons--but that is a platitude. In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying calls, under the humane and kindly pretence of wanting to see each other; and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad voice, saying, "We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them out" --not meaning that they found out anything important against the fourteen--no, that was only a colloquial phrase to signify that they were not at home--and their manner of saying it expressed their lively satisfaction in that fact. Now their pretence of wanting to see the fourteen--and the other two whom they had been less lucky with--was that commonest and mildest form of lying which is sufficiently described as a deflection from the truth. Is it justifiable? Most certainly. It is beautiful, it is noble; for its object is, _not_ to reap profit, but to convey a pleasure to the sixteen. The iron-souled truth-monger would plainly manifest, or even utter the fact that he didn't want to see those people--and he would be an ass, and inflict totally unnecessary pain. And next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they had a thousand pleasant ways of lying, that grew out of gentle impulses, and were a credit to their intelligence and an honor to their hearts. Let the particulars go. The men in that far country were liars, every one. Their mere howdy-do was a lie, because _they_ didn't care how you did, except they were undertakers. To the ordinary inquirer you lied in return; for you made no conscientious diagnostic of your case, but answered at random, and usually missed it considerably. You lied to the undertaker, and said your health was failing--a wholly commendable lie, since it cost you nothing and pleased the other man. If a stranger called and interrupted you, you said with your hearty tongue, "I'm glad to see you," and said with your heartier soul, "I wish you were with the cannibals and it was dinner-time." When he went, you said regretfully, "_Must_ you go?" and followed it with a "Call again;" but you did no harm, for you did not deceive anybody nor inflict any hurt, whereas the truth would have made you both unhappy. I think that all this courteous lying is a sweet and loving art, and should be cultivated. The highest perfection of politeness is only a beautiful edifice, built, from the base to the dome, of graceful and gilded forms of charitable and unselfish lying. What I bemoan is the growing prevalence of the brutal truth. Let us do what we can to eradicate it. An injurious truth has no merit over an injurious lie. Neither should ever be uttered. The man who speaks an injurious truth lest his soul be not saved if he do otherwise, should reflect that that sort of a soul is not strictly worth saving. The man who tells a lie to help a poor devil out of trouble, is one of whom the angels doubtless say, "Lo, here is an heroic soul who casts his own welfare in jeopardy to succor his neighbor's; let us exalt this magnanimous liar." An injurious lie is an uncommendable thing; and so, also, and in the same degree, is an injurious truth--a fact that is recognized by the law of libel. Among other common lies, we have the _silent_ lie--the deception which one conveys by simply keeping still and concealing the truth. Many obstinate truth-mongers indulge in this dissipation, imagining that if they _speak_ no lie, they lie not at all. In that far country where I once lived, there was a lovely spirit, a lady whose impulses were always high and pure, and whose character answered to them. One day I was there at dinner, and remarked, in a general way, that we are all liars. She was amazed, and said, "Not _all_?" It was before "Pinafore's" time so I did not make the response which would naturally follow in our day, but frankly said, "Yes, _all_--we are all liars. There are no exceptions." She looked almost offended, "Why, do you include _me_?" "Certainly," I said. "I think you even rank as an expert." She said "Sh-'sh! the children!" So the subject was changed in deference to the children's presence, and we went on talking about other things. But as soon as the young people were out of the way, the lady came warmly back to the matter and said, "I have made a rule of my life to never tell a lie; and I have never departed from it in a single instance." I said, "I don't mean the least harm or disrespect, but really you have been lying like smoke ever since I've been sitting here. It has caused me a good deal of pain, because I'm not used to it." She required of me an instance--just a single instance. So I said-- "Well, here is the unfilled duplicate of the blank, which the Oakland hospital people sent to you by the hand of the sick-nurse when she came here to nurse your little nephew through his dangerous illness. This blank asks all manners of questions as to the conduct of that sick-nurse: 'Did she ever sleep on her watch? Did she ever forget to give the medicine?' and so forth and so on. You are warned to be very careful and explicit in your answers, for the welfare of the service requires that the nurses be promptly fined or otherwise punished for derelictions. You told me you were perfectly delighted with this nurse --that she had a thousand perfections and only one fault: you found you never could depend on her wrapping Johnny up half sufficiently while he waited in a chilly chair for her to rearrange the warm bed. You filled up the duplicate of this paper, and sent it back to the hospital by the hand of the nurse. How did you answer this question--'Was the nurse at any time guilty of a negligence which was likely to result in the patient's taking cold?' Come--everything is decided by a bet here in California: ten dollars to ten cents you lied when you answered that question." She said, "I didn't; _I left it blank!_" "Just so--you have told a _silent_ lie; you have left it to be inferred that you had no fault to find in that matter." She said, "Oh, was that a lie? And _how_ could I mention her one single fault, and she is so good?--It would have been cruel." I said, "One ought always to lie, when one can do good by it; your impulse was right, but your judgment was crude; this comes of unintelligent practice. Now observe the results of this inexpert deflection of yours. You know Mr. Jones's Willie is lying very low with scarlet-fever; well, your recommendation was so enthusiastic that that girl is there nursing him, and the worn-out family have all been trustingly sound asleep for the last fourteen hours, leaving their darling with full confidence in those fatal hands, because you, like young George Washington, have a reputa--However, if you are not going to have anything to do, I will come around to-morrow and we'll attend the funeral together, for, of course, you'll naturally feel a peculiar interest in Willie's case--as personal a one, in fact, as the undertaker." But that was not all lost. Before I was half-way through she was in a carriage and making thirty miles an hour toward the Jones mansion to save what was left of Willie and tell all she knew about the deadly nurse. All of which was unnecessary, as Willie wasn't sick; I had been lying myself. But that same day, all the same, she sent a line to the hospital which filled up the neglected blank, and stated the _facts,_ too, in the squarest possible manner. Now, you see, this lady's fault was _not_ in lying, but in lying injudiciously. She should have told the truth, _there,_ and made it up to the nurse with a fraudulent compliment further along in the paper. She could have said, "In one respect this sick-nurse is perfection--when she is on the watch, she never snores." Almost any little pleasant lie would have taken the sting out of that troublesome but necessary expression of the truth. Lying is universal--we _all_ do it. Therefore, the wise thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully, judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for others' advantage, and not our own; to lie healingly, charitably, humanely, not cruelly, hurtfully, maliciously; to lie gracefully and graciously, not awkwardly and clumsily; to lie firmly, frankly, squarely, with head erect, not haltingly, tortuously, with pusillanimous mien, as being ashamed of our high calling. Then shall we be rid of the rank and pestilent truth that is rotting the land; then shall we be great and good and beautiful, and worthy dwellers in a world where even benign Nature habitually lies, except when she promises execrable weather. Then--But I am but a new and feeble student in this gracious art; I cannot instruct _this_ club. Joking aside, I think there is much need of wise examination into what sorts of lies are best and wholesomest to be indulged, seeing we _must_ all lie and we _do_ all lie, and what sorts it may be best to avoid--and this is a thing which I feel I can confidently put into the hands of this experienced Club--a ripe body, who may be termed, in this regard, and without undue flattery, Old Masters. 
10591	----	A LIE NEVER JUSTIFIABLE A Study in Ethics BY H. CLAY TRUMBULL 1856 PREFACE. That there was need of a book on the subject of which this treats, will be evidenced to those who examine its contents. Whether this book meets the need, it is for those to decide who are its readers. The circumstances of its writing are recited in its opening chapter. I was urged to the undertaking by valued friends. At every step in its progress I have been helped by those friends, and others. For much of that which is valuable in it, they deserve credit. For its imperfections and lack, I alone am at fault. Although I make no claim to exhaustiveness of treatment in this work, I do claim to have attempted a treatment that is exceptionally comprehensive and thorough. My researches have included extensive and varied fields of fact and of thought, even though very much in those fields has been left ungathered. What is here presented is at least suggestive of the abundance and richness of the matter available in this line. While not presuming to think that I have said the last word on this question of the ages, I do venture to hope that I have furnished fresh material for its more intelligent consideration. It may be that, in view of the data here presented, some will settle the question finally for themselves--by settling it right. If the work tends to bring any considerable number to this practical issue, I shall be more than repaid for the labor expended on it; for I have a profound conviction that it is the question of questions in ethics, now as always. H. CLAY TRUMBULL. PHILADELPHIA, August 14,1893 CONTENTS. I. A QUESTION OF THE AGES. Is a Lie Ever Justifiable?--Two Proffered Answers.--Inducements and Temptations Influencing a Decision.--Incident in Army Prison Life.--Difference in Opinion.--Killing Enemy, or Lying to Him.--Killing, but not Lying, Possibility with God.--Beginning of this Discussion.--Its Continuance.--Origin of this Book. II. ETHNIC CONCEPTIONS. Standards and Practices of Primitive Peoples.--Sayings and Doings of Hindoos.--Teachings of the Mahabharata.--Harischandra and Viswamitra, the Job and Satan of Hindoo Passion-Play.--Scandinavian Legends.--Fridthjof and Ingeborg.--Persian Ideals.--Zoroastrian Heaven and Hell.--"Home of Song," and "Home of the Lie."--Truth the Main Cardinal Virtue with Egyptians.--No Hope for the Liar.--Ptah, "Lord of Truth."--Truth Fundamental to Deity.--Relatively Low Standard of Greeks.--Incidental Testimony of Herodotus.--Truthfulness of Achilles.--Plato.--Aristotle.--Theognis.--Pindar.--Tragedy of Philoctetes.--Roman Standard.--Cicero.--Marcus Aurelius.--German Ideal.--Veracity a Primitive Conception.--Lie Abhorrent among Hill Tribes of India.--Khonds.--Sonthals.--Todas.--Bheels.--Sowrahs.-- Tipperahs.--Arabs.--American Indians.--Patagonians.--Hottentots.-- East Africans.--Mandingoes.--Dyaks of Borneo,--"Lying Heaps."--Veddahs of Ceylon.--Javanese.--Lying Incident of Civilization.--Influence of Spirit of Barter.--"Punic Faith."--False Philosophy of Morals. III. BIBLE TEACHINGS. Principles, not Rules, the Bible Standard.--Two Pictures of Paradise.--Place of Liars.--God True, though Men Lie.--Hebrew Midwives.--Jacob and Esau.--Rahab the Lying Harlot.--Samuel at Bethlehem.--Micaiah before Jehoshaphat and Ahab.--Character and Conduct.--Abraham.--Isaac.--Jacob.--David.--Ananias and Sapphira.--Bible Injunctions and Warnings. IV. DEFINITIONS. Importance of a Definition.--Lie Positive, and Lie Negative.--Speech and Act.--Element of Intention.--Concealment Justifiable, and Concealment Unjustifiable.--Witness in Court.--Concealment that is Right.--Concealment that is Sinful.--First Duty of Fallen Man.--Brutal Frankness.--Indecent Exposure of Personal Opinion.--Lie Never Tolerable as Means of Concealing.--False Leg or Eye.--Duty of Disclosure Conditioned on Relations to Others.--Deception Purposed, and Resultant Deception.--Limits of Responsibility for Results of Action.--Surgeon Refusing to Leave Patient.--Father with Drowning Child.--Mother and Wife Choosing.--Others Self-Deceived concerning Us.--Facial Expression.--"A Blind Patch."--Broken Vase.--Closed Shutters in Midsummer.--Opened Shutters.--Absent Man's Hat in Front Hall.--When Concealment is Proper.--When Concealment is Wrong.--Contagious Diseases.--Selling a Horse or Cow.--Covering Pit.--Wearing Wig.--God's Method with Man.--Delicate Distinction.-- Truthful Statements Resulting in False Impressions.--Concealing Family Trouble.--Physician and Inquiring Patient.--Illustrations Explain Principle, not Define it. V. THE PLEA OF "NECESSITY." Quaker and Dry-goods Salesman.--Supposed Profitableness of Lying.--Plea for "Lies of Necessity."--Lying not Justifiable between Enemies in War-time.--Rightfulness of Concealing Movements and Plans from Enemy.--Responsibility with Flag of Truce.--Difference between Scout and Spy.--Ethical Distinctions Recognized by Belligerents.--Illustration: Federal Prisoner Questioned by Confederate Captors.--Libby Prison Experiences.--Physicians and Patients.--Concealment not Necessarily Deception.--Loss of Reputation for Truthfulness by Lying Physicians.--Loss of Power Thereby.--Impolicy of Lying to Insane.--Dr. Kirkbride's Testimony.--Life not Worth Saving by Lie.--Concealing One's Condition from Robber in Bedroom.--Questions of Would-be Murderer.--"Do Right though the Heavens Fall."--Duty to God not to be Counted out of Problem.--Deserting God's Service by Lying.--Parting Prayer. VI. CENTURIES OF DISCUSSION. Wide Differences of Opinion.--Views of Talmudists.--Hamburger's Testimony.--Strictness in Principle.--Exceptions in Practice.--Isaac Abohab's Testimony.--Christian Fathers not Agreed.--Martyrdom Price of Truthtelling.--Justin Martyr's Testimony.--Temptations of Early Christians.--Words of Shepherd of Hermas.--Tertullian's Estimate.--Origen on False Speaking.--Peter and Paul at Antioch.-- Gregory of Nyssa and Basil the Great.--Deceit in Interests of Harmony.--Chrysostom's Deception of Basil.--Chrysostom's Defense of Deceit.--Augustine's Firmness of Position.--Condemnation of Lying.--Examination of Excuses.--Jerome's Weakness and Error.--Final Agreement with Augustine.--Repetition of Arguments of Augustine and Chrysostom.--Representative Disputants.--Thomas Aquinas.--Masterly Discussion.--Errors of Duns Scotus.--John Calvin.--Martin Luther.-- Ignatius Loyola.--Position of Jesuits.--Protestants Defending Lying. --Jeremy Taylor.--Errors and Inconsistencies.--Wrong Definitions.-- Misapplication of Scripture.--Richard Rothe.--Character, Ability, and Influence. in Definition of Lie.--Failure to Recognize.--Error Love to God as Only Basis of Love to Man.--Exceptions in Favor of Lying.--Nitzsch's Claim of Wiser and Nobler Methods than Lying in Love.--Rothe's Claim of Responsibility of Loving Guardianship--No Countenance of Deception in Example of Jesus.--Prime Error of Rothe. --Opinions of Contemporary Critics.--Isaac Augustus Dorner.-- Character and Principles.--Keen Definitions.--High Standards.-- Clearness and Consistency.--Hans Lassen Martensen.--Logic Swayed by Feeling.--Right Premises and Wavering Reasonings.--Lofty Ideals.-- Story of Jeanie Deans.--Correct Conclusions.--Influence of Personal Peculiarities on Ethical Convictions.--Contrast of Charles Hodge and James H. Thornwell.--Dr. Hodge's Correct Premises and Amiable Inconsistencies.--Truth the Substratum of Deity.--Misconceptions of Bible Teachings.--Suggestion of Deception by Jesus Christ.--Error as to General Opinion of Christians.--Dr. Hodge's Conclusions Crushed by his Premises.--Dr. Thornwell's Thorough Treatment of Subject.-- Right Basis.--Sound Argument.--Correct Definitions.--Firmness for Truth.--Newman Smyth's Manual.--Good Beginning and Bad Ending.-- Confusion of Terms.--Inconsistencies in Argument.--Loose Reasoning. --Dangerous Teachings.--James Martineau.--Fine Moral Sense.--Conflict between Feeling and Conviction.--Safe Instincts.--Thomas Fowler.-- Higher Expediency of Veracity.--Importance to General Good.--Leslie Stephen.--Duty of Veracity Result of Moral Progress.--Kant and Fichte.--Jacobi Misrepresented.--False Assumptions by Advocates of Lie of Necessity.--Enemies in Warfare not Justified in Lying.--Testimony of Cicero.--Macaulay on Lord Clive's Treachery.--Woolsey on International Law.--No Place for Lying in Medical Ethics.--Opinions and Experiences of Physicians.--Pliny's Story of Roman Matron.--Victor Hugo's Sister Simplice.--Words of Abbé Sicard.--Tact and Principle.--Legal Ethics.--Whewell's View.--Opinion of Chief-Justice Sharswood.--Mistakes of Dr. Hodge.--Lord Brougham's Claim.--False Charge against Charles Phillips.--Chancellor Kent on Moral Obligations in Law and in Equity.--Clerical Profession Chiefly Involved.--Clergymen for and against Lying.--Temptation to Lies of Love.--Supreme Importance of Sound Principle.--Duty of Veracity to Lower Animals.--Dr. Dabney's View.--Views of Dr. Newman Smyth.--Duty of Truthfulness an Obligation toward God.--Lower Animals not Exempt from Principle of Universal Application.--Fishing.--Hunting.--Catching Horse.--Professor Bowne's Psychological View.--No Place for Lying in God's Universe.--Small Improvement on Chrysostom's Argument for Lying.--Limits of Consistency in Logical Plea.--God, or Satan. VII. THE GIST OF THE MATTER. One All-Dividing Line.--Primal and Eternal Difference.--Lie Inevitably Hostile to God.--Lying Separates from God.--Sin _per se_.--Perjury Justifiable if Lying be Justifiable.--Lying--Lying Defiles Liar, apart from Questions of Gain in Lying.--Social Evils Resultant from Lying.--Confidence Essential to Society.--Lying Destructive of Confidence.--Lie Never Harmless. INDEXES. TOPICAL INDEX. SCRIPTURAL INDEX. I. A QUESTION OF THE AGES. Whether a lie is ever justifiable, is a question that has been in discussion, not only in all the Christian centuries, but ever since questions concerning human conduct were first a possibility. On the one hand, it has been claimed that a lie is by its very nature irreconcilable with the eternal principles of justice and right; and, on the other hand, it has been asserted that great emergencies may necessitate a departure from all ordinary rules of human conduct, and that therefore there may be, in an emergency, such a thing as the "lie of necessity." It is not so easy to consider fairly a question like this in the hour when vital personal interests pivot on the decision, as it is in a season of rest and safety; yet, if in a time of extremest peril the unvarying duty of truthfulness shines clearly through an atmosphere of sore temptation, that light may be accepted as diviner because of its very power to penetrate clouds and to dispel darkness. Being forced to consider, in an emergency, the possible justification of the so-called "lie of necessity," I was brought to a settlement of that question in my own mind, and have since been led to an honest endeavor to bring others to a like settlement of it. Hence this monograph. In the summer of 1863 I was a prisoner of war in Columbia, South Carolina. The Federal prisoners were confined in the common jail, under military guard, and with no parole binding them not to attempt an escape. They were subject to the ordinary laws of war. Their captors were responsible for their detention in imprisonment, and it was their duty to escape from captivity, and to return to the army of the government to which they owed allegiance, if they could do so by any right means. No obligations were on them toward their captors, save those which are binding at all times, even when a state of war suspends such social duties as are merely conventional. Only he who has been a prisoner of war in a Southern prison in midsummer, or in a Northern prison in the dead of winter, in time of active hostilities outside, can fully realize the heart-longings of a soldier prisoner to find release from his sufferings in confinement, and to be again at his post of duty at the front, or can understand how gladly such a man would find a way, consistent with the right, to escape, at any involved risk. But all can believe that plans of escape were in frequent discussion among the restless Federal prisoners in Columbia, of whom I was one. A plan proposed to me by a fellow-officer seemed to offer peculiar chances of success, and I gladly joined in it. But as its fuller details were considered, I found that a probable contingency would involve the telling of a lie to an enemy, or a failure of the whole plan. At this my moral sense recoiled; and I expressed my unwillingness to tell a lie, even to regain my personal liberty or to advantage my government by a return to its army. This opened an earnest discussion of the question whether there is such a thing as a "lie of necessity," or a justifiable lie. My friend was a pure-minded man of principle, ready to die for his convictions; and he looked at this question with a sincere desire to know the right, and to conform to it. He argued that a condition of war suspended ordinary social relations between the combatants, and that the obligation of truth-speaking was one of the duties thus suspended. I, on the other hand, felt that a lie was necessarily a sin against God, and therefore was never justifiable. My friend asked me whether I would hesitate to kill an enemy who was on guard over me, or whom I met outside, if it were essential to our escape. I replied that I would not hesitate to do so, any more than I would hesitate at it if we were over against each other in battle. In time of war the soldiers of both sides take the risks of a life-and-death struggle; and now that we were unparoled prisoners it was our duty to escape if we could do so, even at the risk of our lives or of the lives of our captors, and it was their duty to prevent our escape at a similar risk. My friend then asked me on what principle I could justify the taking of a man's life as an enemy, and yet not feel justified in telling him a lie in order to save his life and secure our liberty. How could it be claimed that it was more of a sin to tell a lie to a man who had forfeited his social rights, than to kill him. I confessed that I could not at that time see the reason for the distinction, which my moral sense assured me was a real one, and I asked time to think of it. Thus it was that I came first to face a question of the ages, Is a lie ever justifiable? under circumstances that involved more than life to me, and when I had a strong inducement to see the force of reasons in favor of a "lie of necessity." In my careful study, at that time, of the principles involved in this question, I came upon what seemed to me the conclusion of the whole matter. God is the author of life. He who gives life has the right to take it again. What God can do by himself, God can authorize another to do. Human governments derive their just powers from God. The powers that be are ordained of God. A human government acts for God in the administering of justice, even to the extent of taking life. If a war waged by a human government be righteous, the officers of that government take life, in the prosecution of the war, as God's agents. In the case then in question, we who were in prison as Federal officers were representatives of our government, and would be justified in taking the lives of enemies of our government who hindered us as God's agents in the doing of our duty to God and to our government. On the other hand, God, who can justly take life, cannot lie. A lie is contrary to the very nature of God. "It is impossible for God to lie."[1] And if God cannot lie, God cannot authorize another to lie. What is unjustifiable in God's sight, is without a possibility of justification in the universe. No personal or social emergency can justify a lie, whatever may be its apparent gain, or whatever harm may seem to be involved in a refusal to speak it. Therefore we who were Federal prisoners in war-time could not be justified in doing what was a sin _per se_, and what God was by his very nature debarred from authorizing or approving. I could see no way of evading this conclusion, and I determinedly refused to seek release from imprisonment at the cost of a sin against God. [Footnote 1: Heb. 6: 18] At this time I had no special familiarity with ethics as a study, and I was unacquainted with the prominence of the question of the "lie of necessity" in that realm of thought. But on my return from army service, with my newly awakened interest in the subject, I came to know how vigorous had been its discussion, and how varied had been the opinions with reference to it, among philosophic thinkers in all the centuries; and I sought to learn for myself what could be known concerning the principles involved in this question, and their practical application to the affairs of human life. And now, after all these years of study and thought, I venture to make my contribution to this phase of Christian ethics, in an exhibit of the facts and principles which have gone to confirm the conviction of my own moral sense, when first I was called to consider this question as a question. II. ETHNIC CONCEPTIONS. The habit of lying is more or less common among primitive peoples, as it is among those of higher cultivation; but it is of interest to note that widely, even among them, the standard of truthfulness as a duty is recognized as the correct standard, and lying is, in theory at least, a sin. The highest conception of right observable among primitive peoples, and not the average conformity to that standard in practice, is the true measure of right in the minds of such peoples. If we were to look at the practices of such men in times of temptation, we might be ready to say sweepingly with the Psalmist, in his impulsiveness, "I said in my haste, All men are liars!"[1] But if we fixed our minds on the loftiest conception of truthfulness as an invariable duty, recognized by races of men who are notorious as liars, we should see how much easier it is to have a right standard than to conform to it. [Footnote 1: Psa. 116: II.] A careful observer of the people of India, who was long a resident among them,[1] says: "More systematic, more determined, liars, than the people of the East, cannot, in my opinion, be found in the world. They often utter falsehoods without any apparent reason; and even when truth would be an advantage, they will not tell it.... Yet, strange to say, some of their works and sayings represent a falsehood as almost the unpardonable sin. Take the following for an example: 'The sin of killing a Brahman is as great as that of killing a hundred cows; and the sin of killing a hundred cows is as great as that of killing a woman; the sin of killing a hundred women is as great as that of killing a child in the womb; and the sin of killing a hundred [children] in the womb is as great as that of telling a lie.'" [Footnote 1: Joseph Roberts, in his _Oriental Illustrations_, p. 580.] The Mahabharata is one of the great epics of ancient India. It contains a history of a war between two rival families, or peoples, and its text includes teachings with reference to "everything that it concerned a cultivated Hindoo to know." The heroes in this recorded war, between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, are in the habit of lying without stint; yet there is evidence that they recognized the sin of lying even to an enemy in time of war, and when a decisive advantage might be gained by it. At a point in the combat when Yudhishthira, a leader of the Pandavas, was in extremity in his battling with Drona, a leader of the Kauravas, the divine Krishna told Yudhishthira that, if he would tell Drona (for in these mythical contests the combatants were usually within speaking distance of each other) that his loved "son Aswatthanea was dead, the old warrior would immediately lay down his arms and become an easy prey." But Yudhishthira "had never been known to tell a falsehood," and in this instance he "utterly refused to tell a lie, even to secure the death of so powerful an enemy." [1] Although it came about that Drona was, as a matter of fact, defeated by treachery, the sin of lying, even in time of war, and to an enemy, is clearly brought out as a recognized principle of both theory and action among the ancient Hindoos. [Footnote 1: See Wheeler's _History of India_, I., 321.] There is a famous passion-play popular in Southern India and Ceylon, which illustrates the Hindoo ideal of truthfulness at every risk or cost. Viswamitra, the tempter and accuser as represented in the Vedas, appears in the council of the gods, face to face with Indra. The question is raised by Indra, who is the most virtuous sovereign on earth. He asks, "What chief of mortals is there, who has never told a lie?" Harischandra, king of Ayodiah (Oude) is named as such a man. Viswamitra denies it. It is agreed (as in the testing of Job, according to the Bible story) that Viswamitra may employ any means whatsoever for the inducing of Harischandra to lie, unhindered by Indra or any other god. If he succeeds in his effort, he shall secure to himself all the merit of the good deeds of Harischandra; but if Harischandra cannot be induced to lie, Viswamitra must add half his merit to that of Harischandra.[1] [Footnote 1: Arichandra, the Martyr of Truth: A Tamil Drama translated into English by Muta Coomâra Swâmy; cited in Conway's _Demonology and Devil Lore_, II., 35-43.] First, Viswamitra induces Harischandra to become the custodian of a fabulous treasure, with a promise to deliver it up when called for. Then he brings him into such a strait that he must give up to Viswamitra all his possessions, including that treasure and his kingdom, in order to retain his personal virtue. After this, Viswamitra demands the return by Harischandra of the gold which has been already surrendered, claiming that its surrender was not according to the contract. In this emergency Viswamitra suggests, that if Harischandra will only deny that he owes this amount to his enemy the debt shall at once be canceled. "Such a declaration I can never make," says Harischandra. "I owe thee the gold, and pay it I will." From this time forward the efforts of Viswamitra are directed to the inducing of Harischandra to say that he is not in debt to his adversary; but in every trial Harischandra refuses to tell a lie. His only son dies in the desert. He and his wife are in poverty and sorrow; while all the time he is told that his kingdom and his treasures shall be restored to him, if he will tell only one lie. At last his wife is condemned to death on a false accusation, and he is appointed, by the sovereign of the land where she and he have been sold as slaves, to be her executioner. She calls on him to do his duty, and strike off her head. Just then Viswamitra appears to him, saying: "Wicked man, spare her! Tell a lie even now, and be restored to your former state!" Harischandra's answer is: "Even though thou didst offer to me the throne of Indra, I would not tell a lie." And to his wife, Chandravati, he says encouragingly: "This keen saber will do its duty. Thou dead, thy husband dies too--this selfsame sword shall pierce my breast.... Yes, let all men perish, let all gods cease to exist, let the stars that shine above grow dim, let all seas be dried up, let all mountains be leveled to the ground, let wars rage, blood flow in streams, let millions of millions of Harischandras be thus persecuted; yet let truth be maintained, let truth ride victorious over all, let truth be the light,--truth alone the lasting solace of mortals and immortals." As Harischandra strikes at the neck of Chandravati, "the sword, instead of harming her, is transformed into a necklace of pearls, which winds itself around her. The gods of heaven, all sages, and all kings, appear suddenly to the view of Harischandra," and Siva, the first of the gods, commends him for his fidelity to truth, and tells him that his dead son shall be brought again to life, and his kingdom and treasures and honors shall be restored to him. And thus the story of Harischandra stands as a rebuke to the Christian philosopher who could suppose that God, or the gods, would co-work with a man who acted on the supposition that there is such an anomaly in the universe as "a lie of necessity." The old Scandinavian heroes were valiant in war, but they held that a lie was not justifiable under any pressure of an emergency. Their Valhalla heaven was the home of those who had fought bravely; but there was no place for liars in it. A fine illustration of their conception of the unvarying duty of truthfulness is given in the saga of Fridthjof. Fridthjof, heroic son of Thorstein, loved Ingeborg, daughter of his father's friend, King Bele. Ingeborg's brother Helge, successor to his father's throne, opposed the match, and shut her up within the sacred enclosure of the god Balder. Fridthjof ventured within the forbidden ground, in order to pledge to her his manly troth. The lovers were pure in purpose and in act, but, if their interview were known, they would both be permanently harmed in reputation and in standing. A rumor of their secret meeting was circulated, and Fridthjof was summoned before the council of heroes to answer to the charge. If ever a lie were justifiable, it would seem to be when a pure woman's honor was at stake, and when a hero's happiness and power for good pivoted on it. Fridthjof tells to Ingeborg the story of his sore temptation when, in the presence of the council, Helge challenges his course. "'Say, Fridthjof, Balder's peace hast thou not broken, Not seen my sister in his house while Day Concealed himself, abashed, before your meeting? Speak! yea or nay!' Then echoed from the ring Of crowded warriors, 'Say but nay, say nay! Thy simple word we'll trust; we'll court for thee,--Thou, Thorstein's son, art good as any king's. Say nay! say nay! and thine is Ingeborg!' 'The happiness,' I answered, 'of my life On one word hangs; but fear not therefore, Helge! I would not lie to gain the joys of Valhal, Much less this earth's delights. I've seen thy sister, Have spoken with her in the temple's night, But have not therefore broken Balder's peace!' More none would hear. A murmur of deep horror The diet traversed; they who nearest stood Drew back, as I had with the plague been smitten."[1] [Footnote 1: Anderson's _Viking Tales of the North_, p. 223.] And so, because Fridthjof would not lie, he lost his bride and became a wanderer from his land, and Ingeborg became the wife of another; and this record is to this day told to the honor of Fridthjof, in accordance with the standard of the North in the matter of truth-telling. In ancient Persia, the same high standard prevailed. Herodotus says of the Persians: "The most disgraceful thing in the world, they think, is to tell a lie; the next worse, to owe a debt; because, among other reasons, the debtor is obliged to tell lies."[1] "Their sons are carefully instructed, from their fifth to their twentieth year, in three things alone,--to ride, to draw the bow, and to speak the truth."[2] Here the one duty in the realm of morals is truth-telling. In the famous inscription of Darius, the son of Hystaspes, on the Rock of Behistun,[3] there are repeated references to lying as the chief of sins, and to the evil time when lying was introduced into Persia, and "the lie grew in the provinces, in Persia as well as in Media and in the other provinces." Darius claims to have had the help of "Ormuzd and the other gods that may exist," because he "was not wicked, nor a liar;" and he enjoins it on his successor to "punish severely him who is a liar or a rebel." [Footnote 1: Rawlinson's _Herodotus_, Bk. I., § 139.] [Footnote 2: _Ibid_., Bk. I., § 136.] [Footnote 3: Sayce's _Introduction to Ezra, Nehemiah, and Esther_, pp. 120-137.] The Zoroastrian designation of heaven was the "Home of Song;" while hell was known as the "Home of the Lie."[1] There was in the Zoroastrian thought only two rival principles in the universe, represented by Ormuzd and Ahriman, as the God of truth, and the father of lies; and the lie was ever and always an offspring of Ahriman, the evil principle: it could not emanate from or be consistent with the God of truth. The same idea was manifest in the designation of the subordinate divinities of the Zoroastrian religion. Mithra was the god of light, and as there is no concealment in the light, Mithra was also god of truth. A liar was the enemy of righteousness.[2] [Footnote 1: Müller's _Sacred Books of the East_, XXXI., 184.] [Footnote 2: Müller's _Sacred Books of the East_, XXIII., 119 f., 124 f., 128, 139. See reference to Jackson's paper on "the ancient Persians' abhorrence of falsehood, illustrated from the Avesta," in _Journal of Am. Oriental Soc_., Vol. XIII., p. cii.] "Truth was the main cardinal virtue among the Egyptians," and "falsehood was considered disgraceful among them."[1] Ra and Ma were symbols of Light and Truth; and their representation was worn on the breastplate of priest and judge, like the Urim and Thummim of the Hebrews.[2] When the soul appeared in the Hall of Two Truths, for final judgment, it must be able to say, "I have not told a falsehood," or fail of acquittal.[3] Ptah, the creator, a chief god of the Egyptians, was called "Lord of Truth."[4] The Egyptian conception of Deity was: "God is the truth, he lives by truth, he lives upon the truth, he is the king of truth."[5] The Egyptians, like the Zoroastrians, seemed to count the one all-dividing line in the universe the line between truth and falsehood, between light and darkness. [Footnote 1: Wilkinson's _Ancient Egyptians_, I., 299; III., 183-185.] [Footnote 2: Exod. 39: 8-21; Lev. 8: 8.] [Footnote 3: Bunsen's _Egypt's Place in Universal History_, V., 254.] [Footnote 4: Wilkinson's _Anc. Egyp_., III., 15-17.] [Footnote 5: Budge's _The Dwellers on the Nile_, p. 131.] Among the ancient Greeks the practice of lying was very general, so general that writers on the social life of the Greeks have been accustomed to give a low place relatively to that people in its estimate of truthfulness as a virtue. Professor Mahaffy says on this point: "At no period did the nation ever attain that high standard which is the great feature in Germanic civilization. Even the Romans, with all their coarseness, stood higher in this respect. But neither in Iliad nor in Odyssey is there, except in phrases, any reprobation of deceit as such." He points to the testimony of Cicero, concerning the Greeks, who "concedes to them all the high qualities they choose to claim save one--that of truthfulness."[1] Yet the very way in which Herodotus tells to the credit of the Persians that they allowed no place for the lie in their ethics[2] seems to indicate his apprehension of a higher standard of veracity than that which was generally observed among his own people. Moreover, in the Iliad, Achilles is represented as saying: "Him I hate as I do the gates of Hades, who hides one thing in his heart and utters another;" and it is the straightforward Achilles, rather than "the wily and shiftful Ulysses," who is the admired hero of the Greeks.[3] Plato asserts, and argues in proof of his assertion, that "the veritable lie ... is hated by all gods and men." He includes in the term "veritable lie," or "genuine lie," a lie in the soul as back of the spoken lie, and he is sure that "the divine nature is incapable of a lie," and that in proportion as the soul of a man is conformed to the divine image, the man "will speak, act, and live in accordance with the truth."[4] Aristotle, also, while recognizing different degrees of veracity, insists that the man who is in his soul a lover of truth will be truthful even when he is tempted to swerve from the truth. "For the lover of truth, who is truthful where nothing is at stake [or where it makes no difference], will yet more surely be truthful where there is a stake [or where it does make a difference]; for he will [then] shun the lie as shameful, since he shuns it simply because it is a lie."[5] And, again, "Falsehood abstractly is bad and blamable, and truth honorable and praiseworthy; and thus the truthful man being in the mean is praiseworthy, while the false [in either extreme, of overstating or of understating] are both blamable, but the exaggerating man more so than the other."[6] [Footnote 1: Mahaffy's _Social Life in Greece_, pp. 27, 123. See also Fowler's _Principles of Morals_, II., 219-221.] [Footnote 2: _Hist_., Bk. I., §139.] [Footnote 3: Professor Fowler seems to be quite forgetful of this fact. He speaks of Ulysses as if he had precedence of Achilles in the esteem of the Greeks. See his _Principles of Morals_, II., 219.] [Footnote 4: Plato's _Republic_, II., 382, a, b.] [Footnote 5: Aristotle's _Eth. Nic_., IV., 13, 1127, a, b.] [Footnote 6: _Ibid_., IV.] Theognis recognizes this high ideal of the duty and the beauty of truthfulness, when he says: "At first there is a small attractiveness about a lie, but in the end the gain it brings is both shameful and harmful. That man has no fair glory, in whose heart dwells a lie, and from whose mouth it has once issued."[1] [Footnote 1: Theognis, 607.] Pindar looks toward the same standard when he says to Hiero, "Forge thy tongue on the anvil of truth;"[1] and when he declares emphatically, "I will not stain speech with a lie."[2] So, again, when his appeal to a divinity is: "Thou that art the beginning of lofty virtue, Lady Truth, forbid thou that my poem [or composition] should stumble against a lie, harsh rock of offense."[3] In his tragedy of the Philoctetes, Sophocles makes the whole play pivot on the remorse of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, over his having lied to Philoctetes (who is for the time being an enemy of the Greeks), in order to secure through him the killing of Paris and the overthrow of Troy. The lie was told at the instigation of Ulysses; but Neoptolemus repents its utterance, and refuses to take advantage of it, even though the fate of Troy and the triumph of Greek arms depend on the issue. The plain teaching of the tragedy is that "the purposes of heaven are not to be served by a lie; and that the simplicity of the young son of truth-loving Achilles is better in the sight of heaven, even when it seems to lead to failure, than all the cleverness of guileful Ulysses."[4] [Footnote 1: Pythian Ode, I, 86.] [Footnote 2: Olympian Ode, 4, 16.] [Footnote 3: Bergk's _Pindar_, 183 [221].] [Footnote 4: Professor Lamberton] It is admitted on all hands that the Romans and the Germans had a high ideal as to the duty of truthfulness and the sin of lying.[1] And so it was in fact with all peoples which had any considerable measure of civilization in former ages. It is a noteworthy fact that the duty of veracity is often more prominent among primitive peoples than among the more civilized, and that, correspondingly, lying is abhorred as a vice, or seems to be unknown as an expedient in social intercourse. This is not always admitted in the theories of writers on morals, but it would seem to be borne out by an examination into the facts of the case. Lecky, in his study of "the natural history of morals,"[2] claims that veracity "usually increases with civilization," and he seeks to show why it is so. But this view of Lecky's is an unfounded assumption, in support of which he proffers no evidence; while Herbert Spencer's exhibit of facts, in his "Cyclopaedia of Descriptive Sociology," seems to disprove the claim of Lecky; and he directly asserts that "surviving remnants of some primitive races in India have natures in which truthfulness seems to be organic; that not only to the surrounding Hindoos, higher intellectually and relatively advanced in culture, are they in this respect far superior, but they are superior to Europeans."[3] [Footnote 1: See Fowler's _Principles of Morals_, II., 220; also Mahaffy's _Social Life in Greece_, p. 27. Note, for instance, the high standard as to truthfulness indicated by Cicero, in his "Offices," III., 12-17, 32. "Pretense and dissimulation ought to be banished from the whole of life." "Reason ... requires that nothing be done insidiously, nothing dissemblingly, nothing falsely." Note, also, Juvenal, Satire XIII., as to the sin of a lie purposed, even if not spoken; and Marcus Aurelius in his "Thoughts," Book IX.: "He ... who lies is guilty of impiety to the same [highest] divinity." "He, then, who lies intentionally is guilty of impiety, inasmuch as he acts unjustly by deceiving; and he also who lies unintentionally, inasmuch as he is at variance with the universal nature, and inasmuch as he disturbs the order by fighting against the nature of the world; for he fights against it, who is moved of himself to that which is contrary to truth, for he had received powers from nature through the neglect of which he is not able now to distinguish falsehood from truth."] [Footnote 2: _History of European Morals_, I., 143.] [Footnote 3: See Spencer's _Principles of Sociology_, II., 234 ff.; also his _Inductions of Ethics_, p. 405 f.] Among those Hill Tribes of India which have been most secluded, and which have retained the largest measure of primitive life and customs, fidelity to truth in speech and act is still the standard, and a lie is abhorrent to the normal instincts of the race. Of the Khonds of Central India it is said that they, "in common with many other wild races, bear a singular character for truthfulness and honesty;"[1] and that especially "the aborigine is the most truthful of beings."[2] "The Khonds believe that truthfulness is one of the most sacred of duties imposed by the gods."[3] "They are men of one word."[4] "The truth is by a Sonthals held sacred." [5] The Todas "call falsehood one of the worst of vices."[6] Although it is said by one traveler that the Todas "practice dissimulation toward Europeans, yet he recognizes this as a trait consequent on their intercourse with Europeans."[7] The Bheels, which were said to be "a race of unmitigated savages, without any sense of natural religion." [8] and "which have preserved their rude habits and manners to the present day," are "yet imbued with a sense of truth and honor strangely at contrast with their external character."[9] Bishop Heber says that "their word is more to be depended on than that of their conquerors."[10] Of the Sowrahs it is said: "A pleasing feature in their character is their complete truthfulness. They do not know how to tell a lie."[11] Indeed, as Mr. Spencer sums up the case on this point, there are Hill Tribes in India "originally distinguished by their veracity, but who are rendered less veracious by contact with the whites. 'So rare is lying among these aboriginal races when unvitiated by the 'civilized,' that of those in Bengal, Hunter singles out the Tipperahs as 'the only Hill Tribe in which this vice is met with.'"[12] [Footnote 1: Glasfurd, cited in _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., V., 32.] [Footnote 2: Forsyth, _Ibid_.] [Footnote 3: Macpherson, cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 4: _Ibid_.] [Footnote 5: Sherwill, cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 6: Harkness, cited in _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., V., 31.] [Footnote 7: Spencer's _Principles of Sociology_, II., 234.] [Footnote 8: Marshman, cited in _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., V., 31.] [Footnote 9: Wheeler, cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 10: Cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 11: Shortt, cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 12: Spencer's _Principles of Sociology_, II., 234 ff.] The Arabs are more truthful in their more primitive state than where they are influenced by "civilization," or by dealings with those from civilized communities.[1] And the same would seem to be true of the American Indians.[2] Of the Patagonians it is said: "A lie with them is held in detestation." [3] "The word of a Hottentot is sacred;" and the good quality of "a rigid adherence to truth," "he is master of in an eminent degree."[4] Dr. Livingstone says that lying was known to be a sin by the East Africans "before they knew aught of Europeans or their teaching."[5] And Mungo Park says of the Mandingoes, among the inland Africans, that, while they seem to be thieves by nature," one of the first lessons in which the Mandingo women instruct their children is _the practice of truth_." The only consolation of a mother whose son had been murdered, "was the reflection that the poor boy, in the course of his blameless life, _had never told a lie_."[6] Richard Burton is alone among modern travelers in considering lying natural to all primitive or savage peoples. Carl Bock, like other travelers, testifies to the unvarying truthfulness of the Dyaks in Borneo,[7] and another observant traveler tells of the disgrace that attaches to a lie in that land, as shown by the "lying heaps" of sticks or stones along the roadside here and there. "Each heap is in remembrance of some man who has told a stupendous lie, or failed in carrying out an engagement; and every passer-by takes a stick or a stone to add to the accumulation, saying at the time he does it, 'For So-and-so's lying heap.' It goes on for generations, until they sometimes forget who it was that told the lie, but, notwithstanding that, they continue throwing the stones."[8] What a blocking of the paths of civilization there would be if a "lying heap" were piled up wherever a lie had been told, or a promise had been broken, by a child of civilization! [Footnote 1: Denham, and Palgrave, cited in _Cycl. of Des. Social_., V., 30,31.] [Footnote 2: See Morgan's _League of the Iroquois_, p. 335; also Schoolcraft, and Keating, on the Chippewas, cited in _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., VI., 30.] [Footnote 3: Snow, cited in _Ibid_.] [Footnote 4: Kolben, and Barrow, cited in _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., IV., 25.] [Footnote 5: _Cycl. of Descrip. Sociol_., IV., 26.] [Footnote 6: _Cycl. of Descrip. Social_., IV., 27.] [Footnote 7: _Head Hunters of Borneo_, p. 209. See also Boyle, cited in Spencer's _Cycl. of Descrip. Social_., III., 35.] [Footnote 8: St. John's _Life in the Forests of the Far East_, I., 88 f.] The Veddahs of Ceylon, one of the most primitive of peoples, "are proverbially truthful."[1] The natives of Java are peculiarly free from the vice of lying, except in those districts which have had most intercourse with Europeans.[2] [Footnote 1: Bailey, cited in Spencer's _Cycl. of Descrip. Social_., III., 32.] [Footnote 2: Earl, and Raffles, cited in _Ibid_., p. 35.] It is found, in fact, that in all the ages, the world over, primitive man's highest ideal conception of deity has been that of a God who could not tolerate a lie; and his loftiest standard of human action has included the readiness to refuse to tell a lie under any inducement, or in any peril, whether it be to a friend or to an enemy. This is the teaching of ethnic conceptions on the subject. The lie would seem to be a product of civilization, or an outgrowth of the spirit of trade and barter, rather than a natural impulse of primitive man. It appeared in full flower and fruitage in olden time among the commercial Phoenicians, so prominently that "Punic faith" became a synonym of falsehood in social dealings. Yet it is in the face of facts like these that a writer like Professor Fowler baldly claims, in support of the same presupposed theory as that of Lecky, that "it is probably owing mainly to the development of commerce, and to the consequent necessity, in many cases, of absolute truthfulness, that veracity has come to take the prominent position which it now occupies among the virtues; though the keen sense of honor, engendered by chivalry, may have had something to do in bringing about the same result."[1] [Footnote 1: _Principles of Morality_, II., 220.] III. BIBLE TEACHINGS. In looking at the Bible for light in such an investigation as this, it is important to bear in mind that the Bible is not a collection of specific rules of conduct, but rather a book of principles illustrated in historic facts, and in precepts based on those principles,--announced or presupposed. The question, therefore, is not, Does the Bible authoritatively draw a line separating the truth from a lie, and making the truth to be always right, and a lie to be always wrong? but it is, Does the Bible evidently recognize an unvarying and ever-existing distinction between a truth and a lie, and does the whole sweep of its teachings go to show that in God's sight a lie, as by its nature opposed to the truth and the right, is always wrong? The Bible opens with a picture of the first pair in Paradise, to whom God tells the simple truth, and to whom the enemy of man tells a lie; and it shows the ruin of mankind wrought by that lie, and the author of the lie punished because of its telling.[1] The Bible closes with a picture of Paradise, into which are gathered the lovers and doers of truth, and from which is excluded "every one that loveth and doeth a lie;"[2] while "all liars" are to have their part "in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone; which is the second death."[3] In the Old Testament and in the New, God is represented as himself the Truth, to whom, by his very nature, the doing or the speaking of a lie is impossible,[4] while Satan is represented as a liar and as the "father of lies."[5] [Footnote 1: Gen. 2, 3.] [Footnote 2: Rev. 22.] [Footnote 3: Rev. 21: 5-8.] [Footnote 4: Psa. 31:5; 146:6; John 14:6; Num. 23:19; 1 Sam. 15:29; Titus 1:2; Heb. 6:18; 1 John 5:7.] [Footnote 5: John 8:44.] While the human servants of God, as represented in the Bible narrative, are in many instances guilty of lying, their lies are clearly contrary to the great principle, in the light of which the Bible itself is written, that a lie is always wrong, and that it cannot have justification in God's sight. The idea of the Bible record is that God is true, though every man were a liar.[1] God is uniformly represented as opposed to lies and to liars, and a lie in his sight is spoken of as a lie unto him, or as a lie against him. In the few cases where the Bible narrative has been thought by some to indicate an approval by the Lord of a lie, that was told, as it were, in his interest, an examination of the facts will show that they offer no exception to the rule that, by the Bible standard, a lie is never justifiable. [Footnote 1: Rom. 3:4.] Take, for example, the case of the Hebrew midwives, who lied to the officials of Pharaoh, when they were commanded to kill every Hebrew male child;[1] and of whom it is said that "God dealt well with the midwives;... and ... because the midwives feared God,... he made them houses."[2] Here it is plain that God commended their fear of him, not their lying in behalf of his people, and that it was "because the midwives feared God" not because they lied, "that he made them houses." It was their choice of the Lord above the gods and rulers of Egypt that won them the approval of the Lord, even though they were sinners in being liars; as in an earlier day it was the approval of Jacob's high estimate of the birthright, and not the deceits practiced by him on Esau and his father Isaac, that the Lord showed in confirming a blessing to Jacob.[3] [Footnote 1: Exod. 1: 15-19.] [Footnote 2: Exod. I: 20, 21.] [Footnote 3: Gen. 25: 27-34; 27; 1-40; 28: 1-22] So, also, in the narrative of Rahab, the Canaanitish young woman, who concealed the Israelitish spies sent into her land by Joshua, and lied about them to her countrymen, and who was commended by the Lord for her faith in this transaction.[1] Rahab was a harlot by profession and a liar by practice. When the Hebrew spies entered Jericho, they went to her house as a place of common resort. Rahab, on learning who they were, expressed her readiness, sinner as she was, to trust the God of Israel rather than the gods of Canaan; and because of her trust she put herself, with all her heathen habits of mind and conduct, at the disposal of the God of Israel, and she lied, as she had been accustomed to lie, to her own people, as a means of securing safety to her Hebrew visitors. Because of her faith, which was shown in this way, but not necessarily because of her way of showing her faith, the Lord approved of her spirit in choosing his service rather than the service of the gods of her people. The record of her approval is, "By faith Rahab the harlot perished not with them that were disobedient, having received the spies with peace."[2] [Footnote 1: Josh. 2: 1-21.] [Footnote 2: Heb. II: 31.] It would be quite as fair to claim that God approved of Rahab's harlotry, in this case, as to claim that he approved of her lying. Rahab was a harlot and a liar, and she was ready to practice in both these lines in the service of the spies. She was not to be commended for either of those vices; but she was to be commended in that, with all her vices, she was yet ready to give herself just as she was, and with her ways as they were, to Jehovah's side, in the crisis hour of conflict between him and the gods of her people. It was the faith that prompted her to this decision that God commended; and "by faith" she was preserved from destruction when her people perished. Another case that has been thought to imply a divine approval of an untrue statement, is that of Samuel, when he went to Bethlehem to anoint David as Saul's successor on the throne of Israel, and, at the Lord's command, said he had come to offer a sacrifice to God.[1] But here clearly the narrative shows no lie, nor false statement, made or approved. Samuel, as judge and prophet, was God's representative in Israel. He was accustomed to go from place to place in the line of his official ministry, including the offering at times of sacrifices of communion.[2] When, on this occasion, the Lord told Samuel of his purpose of designating a son of Jesse to succeed Saul on the throne, and desired him to go to Bethlehem for further instructions, Samuel was unnecessarily alarmed, and said, in his fear, "How can I go? if Saul hear it, he will kill me." The Lord's simple answer was, "Take an heifer with thee, and say, I am come to sacrifice to the Lord. And call Jesse to the sacrifice, and I will shew thee what thou shalt do: and thou shalt anoint unto me him whom I name unto thee." [Footnote 1: 1 Sam. 16: 1-3.] [Footnote 2: 1 Sam. 7: 15-17; 9: 22-24; 11: 14,15; 20:29.] In other words, the Lord said to Samuel, I want you to go to Bethlehem as my representative, and offer a sacrifice there. Say this fearlessly. In due time I will give you other directions; but do not borrow trouble on account of them. Do your duty step by step. Speak out the plain truth as to all that the authorities of Bethlehem have any right to know; and do not fear any harm through my subsequent private revelations to you. In these directions of the Lord there is no countenance of the slightest swerving from the truth by Samuel; nor is there an authorized concealment of any fact that those to whom Samuel was sent had any claim to know. Still another Bible incident that has been a cause of confusion to those who did not see how God could approve lying, and a cause of rejoicing to those who wanted to find evidence of his justification of that practice, is the story of the prophet Micaiah, saying before Jehoshaphat and Ahab that the Lord had put a lying spirit into the mouths of all the false prophets who were at that time before those kings.[1] Herbert Spencer actually cites this incident as an illustration of the example set before the people of Israel, by their God, of lying as a means of accomplishing a desired end.[2] But just look at the story as it stands! [Footnote 1: 1 Kings 22: 1-23; 2 Chron. 18: 1-34.] [Footnote 2: _The Inductions of Ethics_, p. 158.] Four hundred of Ahab's prophets were ready to tell him that a campaign which he wanted to enter upon would be successful. Micaiah, an honest prophet of the Lord, was sent for at Jehoshaphat's request, and was urged by the messenger to prophesy to the same effect as Ahab's prophets. Micaiah replied that he should give the Lord's message, whether it was agreeable or not to Ahab. He came, and at first he spoke satirically as if he agreed with the other prophets in deeming the campaign a hopeful one. It was as though he said to the king, You want me to aid you in your plans, not to give you counsel from the Lord; therefore I will say, as your prophets have said, Go ahead, and have success. It was evident, however, to Ahab, that the prophet's words were not to be taken literally, but were a rebuke to him in Oriental style, and therefore he told the prophet to give him the Lord's message plainly. Then the prophet gave a parable, or a message in Oriental guise, showing that these four hundred prophets of Ahab were speaking falsely, as if inspired by a lying spirit, and that, if Ahab followed their counsel, he would go to his ruin. To cite this parable as a proof of Jehovah's commendation of lying is an absurdity. Jehovah's prophet Micaiah was there before the king, telling the simple truth to the king. And, in order to meet effectively the claim of the false prophets that they were inspired, he related, as it were, a vision, or a parable, in which he declared that he had seen preparations making in heaven for their inspiring by a lying spirit. This was, as every Oriental would understand it, a parliamentary way of calling the four hundred prophets a pack of liars; and the event proved that all of them were liars, and that Micaiah alone, as Jehovah's prophet, was a truth-teller. What folly could be greater than the attempt to count this public charge against the lying prophets as an item of evidence in proof of the Lord's responsibility for their lying--which the Lord's prophet took this method of exposing and rebuking! There are, indeed, various instances in the Bible story of lies told by men who were in favor with God, where there is no ground for claiming that those lies had approval with God. The men of the Bible story are shown as men, with the sins and follies and weaknesses of men. Their conduct is to be judged by the principles enunciated in the Bible, and their character is to be estimated by the relation which they sustained toward God in spite of their human infirmities. Abraham is called the father of the faithful,[1] and he was known as the friend of God.[2] But he indulged in the vice of concubinage,[3] in accordance with the loose morals of his day and of his surroundings; and when he was down in Egypt he lied through his distrust of God, apparently thinking that there was such a thing as a "lie of necessity," and he brought upon himself the rebuke of an Egyptian king because of his lying.[4] But it would be folly to claim that God approved of concubinage or of lying, because a man whom he was saving was guilty of either of these vices. Isaac also lied,[5] and so did Jacob;[6] but it was not because of their lies that these men had favor with God. David was a man after God's own heart[7] in his fidelity of spirit to God as the only true God, in contrast with the gods of the nations round about Israel; but David lied,[8] as David committed adultery.[9] It would hardly be claimed, however, that either his adultery or his lying in itself made David a man after God's own heart. So all along the Bible narrative, down to the time when Ananias and Sapphira, prominent among the early Christians, lied unto God concerning their very gifts into his treasury, and were struck dead as a rebuke of their lying.[10] [Footnote 1: Josh. 24:3; Isa. 51: 2; Matt. 3: 9; Rom. 4:12; Gal. 3:9] [Footnote 2: 2 Chron. 20: 7; Isa. 41: 8; Jas. 2: 23.] [Footnote 3: Gen. 16: 1-6.] [Footnote 4: Gen. 12: 10-19.] [Footnote 5: Gen. 26: 6-10.] [Footnote 6: Gen. 27: 6-29.] [Footnote 7: 1 Sam. 11: 1-27] [Footnote 8: 1 Sam. 21: 1,2.] [Footnote 9: 2 Sam. 11: 1-27.] [Footnote 10: Acts 5: 1-11.] The whole sweep of Bible teaching is opposed to lying; and the specific injunctions against that sin, as well as the calls to the duty of truth-speaking, are illustrative of that sweep. "Ye shall not steal; neither shall ye deal falsely, nor lie one to another,"[1] says the Lord, in holding up the right standard before his children. "A lying tongue" is said to be "an abomination" before the Lord.[2] "A faithful witness will not lie: but a false witness breatheth out lies,"[3] says Solomon, in marking the one all-dividing line of character; and as to the results of lying he says, "He that breatheth out lies shall not escape,"[4] and "he that breatheth out lies shall perish."[5] And he adds the conclusion of wisdom, in view of the supposed profit of lying, "A poor man is better than a liar;"[6] that is, a truth-telling poor man is better than a rich liar. [Footnote 1: Lev. 19:11.] [Footnote 2: Prov. 6:16, 17.] [Footnote 3: Prov. 14:5.] [Footnote 4: Prov. 19:5.] [Footnote 5: Prov. 19:9.] [Footnote 6: Prov. 19:22.] The inspired Psalms are full of such teachings: "The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies."[1] "They delight in lies."[2] "The mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped."[3] "He that speaketh falsehood shall not be established before mine [the Psalmist's] eyes."[4] And the Psalmist prays, "Deliver my soul, O Lord, from lying lips."[5] In the New Testament it is much the same as in the Old. "Lie not one to another; seeing that ye have put off the old man with his doings,"[6] is the apostolic injunction; and again, "Speak ye truth each one with his neighbor: for we are members one of another."[7] There is no place for a lie in Bible ethics, under the earlier dispensation or the later. [Footnote 1: Psa. 58:3.] [Footnote 2: Psa. 62:4.] [Footnote 3: Psa. 63:11.] [Footnote 4: Psa. 101: 7.] [Footnote 5: Psa. 120: 2.] [Footnote 6: Col. 3: 9.] [Footnote 7: Eph. 4: 25.] IV. DEFINITIONS. It would seem to be clear that the Bible, and also the other sacred books of the world, and the best moral sense of mankind everywhere, are united in deeming a lie incompatible with the idea of a holy God, and consistent only with the spirit of man's arch-enemy--the embodiment of all evil. Therefore he who, admitting this, would find a place in God's providential plan for a "lie of necessity" must begin with claiming that there are lies which are not lies. Hence it is of prime importance to define a lie clearly, and to distinguish it from allowable and proper concealments of truth. A lie, in its stricter sense, is the affirming, by word or by action, of that which is not true, with a purpose of deceiving; or the denying, by word or by action, of that which is true, with a purpose of deceiving. But the suppressing or concealing of essential facts, from one who is entitled to know them, with a purpose of deceiving, may practically amount to a lie. Obviously a lie may be by act, as really as by word; as when a man is asked to tell the right road, and he silently points in the wrong direction. Obviously, also, the intention or purpose of deceiving is in the essence of the lie; for if a man says that which is not true, supposing it to be true, he makes a misstatement, but he does not lie; or, again, if he speaks an untruth playfully where no deception is wrought or intended, as by saying, when the mercury is below zero, that it is "good summer weather," there is no lie in the patent untruth. So far all are likely to be agreed; but when it comes to the question of that concealment which is in the realm of the lie, as distinct from right and proper concealment, there is more difficulty in making the lines of distinction clear to all minds. Yet those lines can be defined, and it is important that they should be. A witness on the stand in a court of law is bound by his oath, or his affirmation, to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," in the testimony that he gives in response to the questions asked of him. If, therefore, in the course of his testimony, he declares that he received five dollars for his share in a certain transaction, when in reality he received five hundred dollars, his concealment of the fact that he received a hundred times as much as he admits having received, is practically a lie, and is culpable as such. Any intentional concealment of essential facts in the matter at issue, in his answers to questions asked of him as a witness, is a lie in essence. But a person who is not before a court of justice is not necessarily bound to tell all the facts involved to every person whom he addresses, or who desires to have him do so; and therefore, while a concealment of facts which ought to be disclosed may be equivalent to a lie, there is such a thing as the concealment of facts which is not only allowable, but which is an unmistakable duty. And to know when concealment is right, and when it is wrong, is to know when concealment partakes of the nature of a lie, and when it is a totally different matter. Concealment, so far from being in itself a sin, is in itself right; it is only in its misuse that it becomes reprehensible in a given case. Concealment is a prime duty of man; as truly a duty as truth-speaking, or chastity, or honesty. God, who cannot lie to his creatures, conceals much from his creatures. "The secret things belong unto the Lord our God: but the things that are revealed belong unto us and to our children for ever,"[1] says the author of Deuteronomy; and the whole course of God's revelation to man is in accordance with this announced principle of God's concealment of that which ought to be concealed. He who is himself the revelation of God says to his chosen disciples, even when he is speaking his latest words to them before his death: "I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now;"[2] and he conceals what, as yet, it is better for them should remain concealed. [Footnote 1: Deut. 29: 29.] [Footnote 2: John 16:12.] There is a profound meaning in the suggestion, in the Bible story of man's "fall," that, when man had come to the knowledge of good and evil, the first practical duty which he recognized as incumbent upon himself, was the duty of concealment;[1] and from that day to this that duty has been incumbent on him. Man has a duty to conceal his besetting impurities of thought and inclinations to sin; to conceal such of his doubts and fears as would dishearten others and weaken himself by their expression; to conceal his unkindnesses of spirit and his unjust prejudices of feeling; to conceal, in fact, whatever of his innermost personality is liable to work harm by its disclosure, and to a knowledge of which his fellows have no just claim. In the world as it is, there is more to be concealed than to be disclosed in every individual life; and concealment rather than disclosure is the rule of personal action. [Footnote 1: Gen. 3:6, 7.] Absolute and unrestricted frankness in social intercourse would be brutal. The speaking of the whole truth at all times and to everybody could have neither justification nor excuse between man and man. We have no right to tell our fellows all that we think of them, or fear for them, or suspect them of. We have no right to betray the confidences of those who trust us, or to disclose to all the fact that we have such confidences to conceal. We have no right to let it be generally known that there are such peculiar struggles within us as make our lives a ceaseless battle with temptations and fears and doubts. There is such a thing as an indecent exposure of personal opinions, and as a criminal disclosure of the treasures of the inner life.[1] How to conceal aright that which ought to be concealed, is one of the vital questions of upright living. [Footnote 1: See 2 Kings 20: 12-19.] The duty of right concealment stands over against the sin of lying. Whatever ought to be concealed, should be concealed, if concealment is a possibility without sinning. But the strongest desire for concealment can never justify a lie as a means of concealment; and concealment at the cost of a lie becomes a sin through the means employed for its securing. On the other hand, when disclosure is a duty, concealment is sinful, because it is made to stand in the way of the performance of a duty. Concealment is not in itself wrong, but it may become wrong through its misuse. Lying is in itself wrong, and it cannot be made right through any seeming advantage to be gained by it. Concealment which is right in one instance may be wrong in another instance, the difference being in the relations of the two parties in the case. A man who has lost a leg or an eye may properly conceal from others generally the fact of his loss by any legitimate means of concealment. His defect is a purely personal matter. The public has no claim upon him for all the facts in the premises. He may have an artificial limb or an artificial eye, so constructed as to conceal his loss from the ordinary observer. There is nothing wrong in this. It is in the line of man's primal duty of concealment. But if a man thus disabled were applying for a life-insurance policy, or were an applicant for re-enlistment in the army, or were seeking employment where bodily wholeness is a requisite, it would be his duty to make known his defect; and the concealment of it from the parties interested would be in the realm of the lie. So, again, if a man were proposing marriage, or were entering into confidential relations with a partner in business, or were seeking financial aid from a bank, he would have no right to conceal from the party interested many a fact which he could properly conceal from the public. A man who would be justified in concealing from the general public his mental troubles, or his business embarrassments, or his spiritual perplexities, could not properly conceal the essential facts in the case from his chosen adviser in medicine, or in law, or in matters of religion. It is a man's duty to disclose the whole truth to him who has a right to know the whole truth. It is a man's right, and it may become his duty, to conceal a measure of the truth from one who is not entitled to know that portion of the truth, so far as he can properly make concealment. But as a lie is never justifiable, it is never a proper means of concealment; and if concealment be, in any case, a mode of lying, it is as bad as any other form of lying. But concealment, even when it is of facts that others have no right to know, may cause others to be deceived, and deliberate deceit is one form of a lie. How, then, can concealment that is sure to result in deception be free from the sin that invariably attaches to a lie in any form, or of any nature whatsoever? Concealment which is for the _purpose_ of deception, is one thing; concealment which is only for the purpose of concealment, but which is sure to _result_ in deception, is quite another thing. The one is not justifiable, the other may be. In the one case it is a man's purpose to deceive his fellow-man; in the other case it is simply his purpose to conceal what his fellow-man has no right to know, and that fellow-man receives a false impression, or deceives himself, in consequence. We may, or we may not, be responsible for the obvious results of our action; and the moral measure of any action depends on the measure of our responsibility in the premises. A surgeon, who is engaged in an important and critical operation, is told that he is wanted elsewhere in a case of life and death. If he sees it to be his duty to continue where he is because he cannot safely leave this case at this time, he obviously is not responsible for results which come because of his absence from the side of the other sufferer. A man is by a river bank when a boy is sinking before his eyes. If the man were to reach out his arms to him, the boy might be saved. But the man makes no movement in the boy's behalf, and the boy drowns. It might seem as though that man were responsible for that boy's death; but when it is known that the man is at that moment occupied in saving the life of his own son, who is also struggling in the water, it will have to be admitted that the father is not responsible for the results of his inaction in another sphere than that which is for the moment the sphere of his imperative duty. If a wife and mother has to choose between her loving ministry to her sick husband and to her sick child, and she chooses that which she sees to be the more important duty of the hour, she is not responsible for any results that follow from her inability to be in two places at the same time. A man with a limited income may know that ten families are in need of money, while he can give help to only two of them. Even though others starve while he is supplying food to all whom he can aid, he is not responsible for results that flow from his decision to limit his ministry to his means. In all our daily life, our decision to do the one duty of the hour involves our refusal to do what is not our duty, and we have no responsibility for the results which come from such a refusal. So in the matter of the duty of concealment, if a man simply purposes the concealment from another of that which the other has no right to know, and does not specifically affirm by word or act that which is not true, nor deny by act or word that which is true, he is in no degree responsible for the self-deception by another concerning a point which is no proper concern of that other person. Others are self-deceived with reference to us in many things, beyond our responsibility or knowledge. We may be considered weaker or stronger, wiser or more simple, younger or older, gladder or sadder, than we are; but for the self-deception on that point by the average observer we are not responsible. We may not even be aware of it. It is really no concern of ours--or of our neighbor's. It is merely an incident of human life as it is. We may have an aching tooth or an aching heart, and yet refrain from disclosing this fact in the expression of our face. In such a case we merely conceal what is our own possession from those who have no claim to know it. Even though they deceive themselves as to our condition in consequence of our looks, we are not responsible for their self-deception, because they are not possessed of all the facts, nor have they any right to them, nor yet to a fixed opinion in the case. If a man were to have a patch put on his coat, he might properly have it put on the under side of the coat instead of the outer side, thus making what is called "a blind patch," for the purpose of concealing the defect in his garment. Even though this course might result in a false impression on the mind of the casual observer, the man would not be blameworthy, as he would be if he had pursued the same course with a purpose of deceiving a purchaser of the coat. So, again, in the case of a mender of bric-a-brac: it would be right for him to cement carefully the parts of a broken vase for the mere purpose of concealing its damaged condition from the ordinary eye, but not for the purpose of deceiving one who would be a purchaser. A man whose city house is closed from the public in the summer season, because of his absence in the country, has a perfect right to come to that house for a single night, without opening the shutters and lighting up the rooms in intimation of his presence. He may even keep those shutters closed while his room is lighted, for the express purpose of concealing the fact of his presence there, and yet not be responsible for any false impression on the minds of passers-by, who think that the proprietor is still in the country, and that the city house is vacant. On the other hand, if the house be left lighted up all through the night, with the shutters open, while the inmates are asleep, for the very purpose of concealing from those outside the fact that no one in the house is awake and on guard, the proprietor is not responsible for any self-deception which results to those who have no right to know the facts in the case. And so, again, in the matter of having a man's hat or coat on the rack in the front hall, while there are only women in the house, the sole purpose of the action may be the concealment of the real condition of affairs from those who have no claim to know the truth, and not the deliberate deception of any party in interest. In so far as the purpose is merely the concealment from others of the defenseless condition of the house the action is obviously a proper one, notwithstanding its liability to result in false impressions on the minds of those who have no right to an opinion in the case. While a man would be justified in concealing, without falsehood, the fact of a bodily lack or infirmity on his part which concerned himself alone, he would not be justified in concealing the fact that he was sick of a contagious disease, or that his house was infected by a disease that might be given to a caller there. Nor would he be justified in concealing a defect in a horse or a cow in order to deceive a man into the purchase of that animal as a sound one, any more than he would be justified in slightly covering an opening in the ground before his house, so as to deceive a disagreeable visitor into stumbling into that hole. It would be altogether proper for a man with a bald head to conceal his baldness from the general public by a well-constructed wig. It would likewise be proper for him to wear a wig in order to guard his shining pate against flies while at church in July, or against danger from pneumonia in January, even though wide-awake children in the neighboring pews deceived themselves into thinking that he had a fine head of natural hair. But if that man were to wear that wig for the purpose of deceiving a young woman, whom he wished to marry, as to his age and as to his freedom from bodily defects, it would be quite a different matter. Concealment for the mere purpose of concealment may be, not only justifiable, but a duty. Concealment for the purpose of deception is never justifiable. It would seem that this is the principle on which God acts with reference to both the material and the moral universe. He conceals facts, with the result that many a man is self-deceived, in his ignorance, as to the size of the stars, and the cause of eclipses, and the processes of nature, and the consequences of conduct, in many an important particular. But man, and not God, is responsible for man's self-deception concerning points at which man can make no claim to a right to know all the truth. It is true that this distinction is a delicate one, but it is a distinction none the less real on that account. A moral line, like a mathematical line, has length, but neither breadth nor thickness. And the line that separates a justifiable concealment which causes self-deception on the part of those who are not entitled to know the whole truth in the matter, and the deliberate concealment of truth for the specific purpose of deception, is a line that runs all the way up from the foundations to the summit of the universe. This line of distinction is vital to an understanding of the question of the duty of truth-speaking, and of the sin of lying. An effort at right concealment may include truthful statements which are likely, or even sure, to result in false impressions on the mind of the one to whom they are addressed, and who in consequence deceives himself as to the facts, when the purpose of those statements is not the deception of the hearer. A husband may have had a serious misunderstanding with his wife that causes him pain of heart, so that his face gives sign of it as he comes out of the house in the morning. The difficulty which has given him such mental anxiety is one which he ought to conceal. He has no right to disclose it to others. Yet he has no right to speak an untruth for the purpose of concealing that which he ought to conceal. It may be that the mental trouble has already deprived him of sleep, and has intensified his anxiety over a special business matter that awaits his attention down town, and that all this shows in his face. If so, these facts are secondary but very real causes of his troubled look, as he meets a neighbor on leaving his house, who says to him: "You look very much troubled this morning. What's the matter with you?" Now, if he were to say in reply, "Then my looks belie me; for I have no special trouble," he would say what was not true. But he might properly say, "I think it is very likely. I didn't sleep well last night, and I am very tired this morning. And I have work before me to-day that I am not easy about." Those statements being literally true, and being made for the purpose of concealing facts which his questioner has no right to know, their utterance is justifiable, regardless of the workings of the mind of the one who hears them. They are made in order to conceal what is back of them, not in order to deceive one who is entitled to know those primary facts. If, again, a physician in attendance on a patient sees that there is cause for grave anxiety in the patient's condition, and deems it important to conceal his fears, so far as he can without untruthfulness, he may, in answer to direct questions from his patient, give truthful answers that are designed to conceal what he has a right to conceal, without his desiring to deceive his patient, and without his being responsible for any self-deception on his patient's part that results from their conversation. The patient may ask, "Doctor, am I very sick?" The doctor may answer truthfully, "Not so sick as you might be, by a good deal." He may give this answer with a cheerful look and tone, and it may result in calming the patient's fears. If, however, the patient goes on to ask, "But, doctor, do you think I'm going to die?" the doctor may respond lightly, "Well, most of us will die sooner or later, and I suppose you are not to be exempt from the ordinary lot of mortals." "But," continues the patient, "do you think I am going to die of this disease?" Then the doctor can say, seriously and truthfully, "I'm sure I don't know. The future is concealed from me. You may live longer than I do. I certainly hope you are not going to die yet awhile, and I'm going to do all I can to prevent it." All this would be justifiable, and be within the limits of truthfulness. Concealment of the opinions of the physician as to the patient's chances of life, and not the specific deception of the patient, is the object of these answers. In no event, however, would the physician be justified in telling a lie, any more than he would be in committing any other sin, as a means of good. He is necessarily limited by the limits of right, in the exercise of his professional skill, and in the choice of available means. He is in no wise responsible for the consequences of his refusal to go beyond those limits. Concealment may be, or may not be, of the nature of deception. Concealment is not right when disclosure is a duty. Concealment of that which may properly be concealed is not in itself wrong. Efforts at concealment must, in order to be right, be kept within the limits of strict truthfulness of statement. Concealment for the purpose of deception is in the realm of the lie. Concealment for the mere purpose of concealment may be in the realm of positive duty--in the sight of God and for the sake of our fellows. It is to be borne in mind that the definitions here given do not pivot on the specific illustrations proffered for their explanation. If, in any instance, the illustration seems inapt or imperfect, it may be thrown aside, and reference made to the definition itself. The definition represents the principle involved; the illustration is only a suggestion of the principle. V. THE PLEA OF "NECESSITY." The story is told of an old Quaker, who, after listening for a time to the unstinted praises, by a dry-goods salesman, of the various articles he was trying to dispose of, said quietly: "Friend, it is a great pity that lying is a sin, since it seems so necessary in thy business." It has been generally supposed that this remark of the old Quaker was a satirical one, rather than a serious expression of regret over the clashing of the demands of God's nature with the practical necessities of men. Yet, as a matter of fact, there are moral philosophers, and writers on Christian ethics, who seem to take seriously the position assumed by this Quaker, and who argue deliberately that there are such material advantages to be secured by lying, in certain emergencies, that it would be a great pity to recognize any unvarying rule, with reference to lying, that would shut off all possibility of desired gain from this practice under conditions of greatest urgency. It is claimed that lying proffers such unmistakable advantages in time of war, and of sickness, and in dealings with would-be criminals and the insane, and other classes exempt from ordinary social consideration, that lying becomes a necessity when the gain from it is of sufficient magnitude. Looked at in this light, lying is not sinful _per se_, but simply becomes sinful by its misuse or untimeliness; for if it be sinful _per se_, no temporary or material advantage from its exercise could ever make it other than sinful. If, indeed, the rightfulness of lying is contingent on the results to be hoped for or to be feared from it, the prime question with reference to it, in a moral estimate of its propriety, is the limit of profit, or of gain, which will justify it as a necessity. But with all that has been written on this subject in the passing centuries, the advocates of the "lie of necessity" have had to contend with the moral sense of the world as to the sinfulness of lying, and with the fact that lying is not merely a violation of a social duty, but is contrary to the demands of the very nature of God, and of the nature of man as formed in the image of God. And it has been the practice of such advocates to ignore or to deny the testimony of this moral sense of the race, and to persist in looking at lying mainly in the light of its social aspects. That the moral sense of the race is against the admissibility of the rightfulness of lying, is shown by the estimate of this sin as a sin in the ethnic conceptions of it, even among peoples who indulge freely in its practice, as well as in the teachings of the sacred books of the ages. And, moreover, it is _not_ the fact, as is often claimed, that lying is generally admitted to be allowable between enemies in war time, or by a physician to his patient, or by a sane man to one who is insane, or in order to the prevention of crime, or for the purpose of securing some real or supposed advantage in any case. The right to conceal from the enemy one's weakness, or one's plans, by any exhibit of "quaker guns," or of mock fortifications, or of movements and counter-movements, or of feints of attack, or of surplus watchfires, in time of warfare, is recognized on all sides. But the right to lie to or to deceive the enemy by sending out a flag of truce, as if in desire for a peaceful conference, and following it up with an attack on his lines in an unsuspecting moment, is not admitted in any theory of "civilized warfare." And while a scout may creep within the enemy's lines, and make observations of the enemy's weakness and strength of position, without being open to any charge of dishonorable conduct,--if he comes disguised as a soldier of the other side than his own, or if he claims to be a mere civilian or non-combatant, he is held to be a "spy," and as such he is denied a soldier's death, and must yield his life on the gallows as a deceiver and a liar. The distinction between justifiable concealment for the mere purpose of concealment, and concealment for the express purpose of deceiving, is recognized as clearly in warfare as in peaceful civil life; and the writer on Christian ethics who appeals to the approved practices of warfare in support of the "lie of necessity" can have only the plea of ignorance as an excuse for his baseless argument. An enemy in warfare has no right to know the details of his opponent's plans for his overcoming; but his opponent has no right to lie to him, by word or action, as a means of concealment; for a lie is never justifiable, and therefore is never a necessity. And this is admitted in the customs of honorable warfare. Illustrations of this distinction are abundant. A Federal officer, taken prisoner in battle, was brought before a Confederate officer for examination. He was asked his name, his rank, his regiment, his brigade, his division, and his corps. To all these questions he gave truthful answers promptly; for the enemy had a right to information at these points concerning a prisoner of war. But when the question came, "What is the present strength of your corps?" he replied, "Two and a half millions." "That cannot be true," said the Confederate officer. "Do you expect me to tell you the truth, Colonel, in such a matter?" he responded, in reminder of the fact that it was proper for him to conceal facts which the other had no right to know; and his method of concealment was by an answer that was intended to conceal, but not to deceive. In Libby Prison, during war time, the attempt to prevent written messages being carried out by released prisoners was at first made by the careful examination of the clothing and persons of such prisoners; but this proved to be ineffectual. Then it was decided to put every outgoing prisoner on his word of honor as a soldier in this matter; and that was effectual. A true soldier would require something more than the average treatise on Christian ethics to convince him that a lie to an enemy in war time is justifiable as a "lie of necessity," on the ground of its profitableness. In dealing with the sick, however desirable it may be, in any instance, to conceal from a patient his critical condition, the difference must always be observed between truthful statements that conceal that which the physician, or other speaker, has a right to conceal, and statements that are not strictly true, or that are made for the explicit purpose of deceiving the patient. It is a physician's duty to conceal from a patient his sense of the grave dangers disclosed to his professional eye, and which he is endeavoring to meet successfully. And, in wellnigh every case, it is possible for him to give truthful answers that will conceal from his patient what he ought to conceal; for the best physician does not know the future, and his professional guesses are not to be put forward as if they were assured certitudes. If, indeed, it were generally understood, as many ethical writers are disposed to claim, that physicians are ready to lie as a help to their patients' recovery, physicians, as a class, would thereby be deprived of the power of encouraging their patients by words of sincere and hearty confidence. There are physicians whose most hopeful assurances are of little or no service to their patients, because those physicians are known to be willing to lie to a patient in an emergency; and how can a timid patient be sure that his case does not present such an emergency? Therefore it is that a physician's habit of lying to his patients as a means of cure would cause him to lose the power of aiding by truthful assurances those patients who most needed help of this sort. It is poor policy, as policy, to venture a lie in behalf of a single patient, at the cost of losing the power to make the truth beneficial to a hundred patients whose lives may be dependent on wise words of encouragement. And the policy is still poorer as policy, when it is in the line of an unmistakable sin. And many a good physician like many a good soldier, repudiates the idea of a "lie of necessity" in his profession. Since lying is sinful because a lie is always a lie unto God, the fact that a lie is spoken to an insane person or to a would-be criminal does not make it any the less a sin in God's sight. And it is held by some of the most eminent physicians to the insane that lying to the insane is as poor policy as it is bad morals, and that it is never justifiable, and therefore is never a "necessity" in that sphere.[1] [Footnote 1: See, for example, the views of Dr. Thomas S. Kirkbride, physician-in-chief and superintendent of the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane, in the Report of that institution for 1883, at pages 74-76. In speaking of the duty of avoiding deception in dealings with the insane, he said: "I never think it right to speak anything but the truth."] So also in dealing with the would-be criminal, a lie is not justifiable in order to save one's life, or one's possessions that are dearer than life, nor yet to prevent the commission of a crime or to guard the highest interests of those whom we love. Yet concealment of that which ought to be concealed is as truly a duty when disclosure would lead to crime, or would imperil the interests of ourselves or others, as it is in all the ordinary affairs of life; but lying as a means of concealment is not to be tolerated in such a case any more than in any other case. If a robber, with a pistol in his hand, were in a man's bedroom at night, it would not be wrong for the defenseless inmate to remain quiet in his bed, in concealment of the fact that he was awake, if thereby he could save his life, at the expense of his property. If a would-be murderer were seeking his victim, and a man who knew this fact were asked to tell of his whereabouts, it would be that man's duty to conceal his knowledge at this point by all legitimate means. He might refuse to speak, even though his own life were risked thereby; for it were better to die than to lie. And so in many another emergency. A lie being a sin _per se_, no price paid for it, nor any advantage to be gained from it, would make it other than a sin. The temptation to look at it as a "necessity" may, indeed, be increased by increasing the supposed cost of its refusal; but it is a temptation to wrong-doing to the last. It was a heathen maxim, "Do right though the heavens fall," and Christian ethics ought not to have a lower standard than that of the best heathen morality. Duty toward God cannot be counted out of this question. God himself cannot lie. God cannot justify or approve a lie. Hence it follows that he who deliberately lies in order to secure a gain to himself, or to one whom he loves, must by that very act leave the service of God, and put himself for the time being under the rule of the "father of lies." Thus in an emergency which seems to a man to justify a "lie of necessity" that man's attitude toward God might be indicated in this address to him: "Lord, I should prefer to continue in your service, and I would do so if you were able and willing to help me. But I find myself in an emergency where a lie is a 'necessity,' and so I must avail myself of the help of 'the father of lies.' If I am carried through this crisis by his help, I shall be glad to resume my position in your service." The man whose whole moral nature recoils from this position, will not be led into it by the best arguments of Christian philosophers in favor of the "lie of necessity." VI. CENTURIES OF DISCUSSION. Because of the obvious gain in lying in times of extremity, and because of the manifest peril or cost of truth-telling in an emergency, attempts have been made, by interested or prejudiced persons, all along the ages, to reconcile the general duty of adhering to an absolute standard of right, with the special inducements, or temptations, to depart from that standard for the time being. It has been claimed by many that the results of a lie would, under certain circumstances, justify the use of a lie,--the good end in this case justifying the bad means in this case. And the endeavor has also been made to show that what is called a lie is not always a lie. Yet there have ever been found stalwart champions of the right, ready to insist that a lie is a sin _per se_, and therefore not to be justified by any advantage or profit in its utterance. Prominent in the earlier recorded discussions of the centuries concerning the admissibility of the lie, are those of the Jewish Talmudists and of the Christian Fathers. As in the Bible story the standard of right is recognized as unvariable, even though such Bible characters as Abraham and Jacob and David, and Ananias and Sapphira, fail to conform to it in personal practice; so in the records of the Talmud and the Fathers there are not wanting instances of godly men who are ready to speak in favor of a departure from the strictest requirement of the law of truth, even while the great sweep of sentiment is seen to be in favor of the line that separates the lie from the truth eternally. Hamburger, a recognized Jewish authority in this sphere, represents the teachings of the Talmud as even more comprehensive and explicit than the Bible itself, in favor of the universal duty of truthfulness. He says: "Mosaism, with its fundamental law of holiness, has established the standard of truthfulness with incomparable definiteness and sharpness (see Lev. 19: 2, 12, 13, 34-37). Truthfulness is here presented as derived directly from the principle of holiness, and to be practiced without regard to resulting benefit or injury to foe or to friend, to foreigner or to countryman. In this moral loftiness these Mosaic teachings as to truthfulness pervade the whole Bible. In the Talmud they receive a profounder comprehension and a further development. Truthfulness toward men is represented as a duty toward God; and, on the other hand, any departure from it is a departure from God."[1] [Footnote 1: Hamburger's _Real-Encyclopadie für Bibel und Talmud_, I., art. "Truthfulness" (_Wahrhaftigkeit_).] As specimen illustrations of the teachings of the Talmud on this theme, Hamburger quotes these utterances from its pages: "He who alters his word, at the same time commits idolatry." "Three are hated of God: he who speaks with his mouth otherwise than as he feels with his heart; he who knows of evidence against any one, and does not disclose it," etc. "Four cannot appear before God: the scorner, the hypocrite, the liar, and the slanderer." "'A just measure thou shalt keep;' that is, we should not think one thing in our heart, and speak another with our mouth." "Seven commit the offense of theft: he who steals [sneaks into] the good will of another; he who invites his friend to visit him, and does not mean it in his heart; he who offers his neighbor presents, knowing beforehand that he will not receive them," etc. And Hamburger adds: "Every lie, therefore, however excellent the motive, is decidedly forbidden.... In the tract Jebamoth, 63, Raba blames his son for employing a 'lie of necessity' _(nothlüge)_ to restore peace between his father and his mother.... It is clear that the Talmud decidedly rejects the principle that 'the end justifies the means.'"[1] [Footnote 1: Compare also art. "Falseness" _(Falscheit)_.] On the other hand, Hamburger cites Rabbi Ishmael, one of the Talmudists, as teaching that a Jew might transgress even the prohibition of idolatry (and lying is, according to Talmudic teaching, equivalent to idolatry) in order to save his life, provided the act was not done in public. In support of his position, Rabbi Ishmael cited the declaration concerning the statutes of Moses in Leviticus 18: 5, "which if a man do he shall live in them," and added by way of explanation: "He [the Israelite] is to live through the law, but is not to die through it."[1] [Footnote 1: See Hamburger's _Real-Encyc_., II., art. "Ismael R."] And Isaac Abohab, an eminent Spanish rabbi, in his _Menorath Hammaor_[1] gives other illustrations from the Talmud of the advocacy of special exceptions to the strict law of truthfulness, with a good purpose in view, notwithstanding the sweeping claim to the contrary by Hamburger. He says: "Only when it is the intention to bring about peace between men, may anything be altered in discourse; as is taught in the tract Jebamoth. Rabbi Ilai says, in the name of Rabbi Jehuda, son of Rabbi Simeon: 'One may alter something in discourse for the sake of establishing harmony.'... Rabbi Nathan says: 'This indeed is a duty.'... Rabbi Ishmael taught: 'Peace is of such importance that for its sake God even alters facts.'" In each of these cases the rabbi cited misapplies a Bible passage in support of his position. [Footnote 1: See German translation by R.J. Fürstenthal, Discourse II., I.] Isaac Abohab adds: "In like manner the rabbis say that one may praise a bride in the presence of her bridegroom, and say that she is handsome and devout, when she is neither, if the intention predominates to make her attractive in the eyes of her bridegroom. Nevertheless a man is not to tell lies even in trifling matters, lest lying should come to be a habit with him, as is warned against in the tract Jebamoth." Thus it would appear that there were discussions on this subject among the rabbis of the Talmud, and that while there were those who advocated the "lie of necessity," as a matter of personal gain or as a means of good to others, there were those who stood firmly against any form of the lie, or any falsity, as in itself at variance with the very nature of God, and with the plain duty of God's children. Among the Christian Fathers it was much the same as among the Jewish rabbis, in discussions over this question. The one unvarying standard was recognized, by the clearest thinkers, as binding on all for always; yet there were individuals inclined to find a reason for exceptions in the practical application of this standard. The phase of the question that immediately presented itself to the early Christians was, whether it were allowable for a man to deny to a pagan enemy that he was a Christian, or that one whom he held dear was a Christian, when the speaking of the truth would cost him his life, or cost the life of one whom he loved. There were those who held that the duty to speak the truth was merely a social obligation, and that when a man showed himself as an enemy of God and of his fellows, he shut himself out from the pale of this social obligation; moreover, that when such a man could be deterred from crime, and at the same time a Christian's life could be preserved, by the telling of an untruth, a falsehood would be justifiable. If the lie were told in private under such circumstances, it was by such persons considered different from a public denial of one's faith. But, on the other hand, the great body of Christians, in the apostolic age, and in the age early following, acted on the conviction that a lie is a sin _per se_, and that no emergency could make a lie a necessity. And it was in fidelity to this conviction that the roll of Christian martyrs was so gloriously extended. Justin Martyr, whose Apologies in behalf of the Christians are the earliest extant, speaks for the best of the class he represents when he says: "It is in our power, when we are examined, to deny that we are Christians; but we would not live by telling a lie."[1] And again: "When we are examined, we make no denial, because we are not conscious of any evil, but count it impious not to speak the truth in all things, which also we know is pleasing to God."[2] There was no thought in such a mind as Justin Martyr's, or in the minds of his fellow-martyrs, that any life was worth saving at the cost of a lie in God's sight. [Footnote 1: First Apology, Chapter 8.] [Footnote 2: Second Apology, Chapter 4.] There were many temptations, and great ones, to the early Christians, to evade the consequences of being known as refusers to worship the gods of the Romans; and it is not to be wondered at that many poor mortals yielded to those temptations. Exemption from punishment could be purchased by saying that one had offered sacrifices to the gods, or by accepting a certificate that such sacrifice had been made, even when such was not the fact; or, again, by professing a readiness to sacrifice, without the intention of such compliance, or by permitting a friend to testify falsely as to the facts; and there were those who thought a lie of this sort justifiable, for the saving of their lives, when they would not have openly renounced their Christian faith.[1] There was much discussion over these practices in the writings of the Fathers; but while there was recognized a difference between open apostasy and the tolerance of a falsehood in one's behalf, it was held by the church authorities that a lie was always sinful, even though there were degrees in modes of sinning. [Footnote 1: See Smith and Cheetham's _Dictionary of Christian Antiquities_, art. "Libelli." See also Bingham's _Antiquities of the Christian Church_, Book XVI., Chap. 13, Section 5; also Book XVI., Chap. 3, Section 14; with citations from Tertullian, Origen, and Cyprian.] Ringing words against all forms of lying were spoken by some of the Christian Fathers. Says the Shepherd of Hermas: "Love the truth, and let nothing but truth proceed from your mouth, that the spirit which God has placed in your flesh may be found truthful before all men; and the Lord, who dwelleth in you, will be glorified, because the Lord is truthful in every word, and in him is no falsehood. They, therefore, who lie, deny the Lord, and rob him, not giving back to him the deposit which they have received. For they received from him a spirit free from falsehood. If they give him back this spirit untruthful, they pollute the commandment of the Lord, and become robbers."[1] [Footnote 1: Book II., Commandment Third. _The Ante-Nicene Fathers_ (Am. ed.), II., 21.] Tertullian names among "sins of daily committal, to which we all are liable," the "sin" of "lying, from bashfulness [or modesty], or 'necessity.'"[1] Origen also speaks of the frequency of "lying, or of idle talking;"[2] as if possibly its frequency were in some sense an excuse for it. And Origen specifically claimed that the apostles Peter and Paul agreed together to deceive their hearers at Antioch by simulating a dissension between themselves, when in reality they were agreed.[3] Origen also seemed to approve of false speaking to those who were not entitled to know all the truth; as when he says of the cautious use of falsehood, "a man on whom necessity imposes the responsibility of lying is bound to use very great care, and to use falsehood as he would a stimulant or a medicine, and strictly to preserve its measure, and not go beyond the bounds observed by Judith in her dealings with Holofernes, whom she overcame by the wisdom with which she dissembled her words."[4] [Footnote 1: "On Modesty," Chap. 19. _The Ante-Nicene Fathers_, XIV., 97.] [Footnote 2: Origen's Commentaries on Matthew, Tract VI., p. 60; cited in Bingham's _Antiq. of Chr. Ch_., Book XVI., Chap. 3.] [Footnote 3: Gal. 2: 11-14. A concise statement of the influence of this teaching of Origen on the patristic interpretations of the passage in Galatians, is given by Lightfoot in his commentary on Galatians, sixth edition, pp. 128-132.] [Footnote 4: Quoted from the sixth book of Origen's Miscellanies by Jerome, in his Apology against Rufinus, Book I., § 18. See _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, second series (Am. ed.), III., 492. See, also, Neander's _Geschichte der Christlichen Ethik_, pp. 160, 167.] There were Christian Fathers who found it convenient to lie, in their own behalf or in behalf of others; and it was quite natural for such mortals to seek to find an excuse for lies that "seemed so necessary" for their purposes. When Gregory of Nyssa, in his laudable effort to bring about a reconciliation between his elder brother Basil and their uncle, was "induced to practice a deceit which was as irreconcilable with Christian principles as with common sense,"[1] he was ready to argue in defense of such a course. [Footnote 1: Moore's _Life of S. Gregory of Nyssa. The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, second series (Am. ed.), V., 5.] So again, when his brother Basil was charged with falsehood in a comparatively "trivial" matter, (where, in fact, he had merely been in error unintentionally,) Gregory falls back upon the comforting suggestion, that as to lying, in one way or another everybody is at fault; "accordingly, we accept that general statement which the Holy Spirit uttered by the Prophet, 'Every man is a liar.'"[1] Gregory protests against the "solemn reflections on falsehood" by Eunomius, in this connection, and his seeing equal heinousness in it whether in great or very trivial matters. "Cease," he says, "to bid us think it of no account to measure the guilt of a falsehood by the slightness or importance of the circumstances." Basil, on the contrary, asserts without qualification, as his conviction, that it never is permissible to employ a falsehood even for a good purpose. He appeals to the words of Christ that all lies are of the Devil.[2] [Footnote 1: _Ibid_., p. 46.] [Footnote 2: Neander's _Geschichte der Christlichen Ethik_, p. 219.] Chrysostom, as a young man, evaded ordination for himself and secured it to his dearest friend Basil (who should not be confounded with Basil the Great, the brother of Gregory of Nyssa) by a course of deception, which he afterwards labored to justify by the claim that there were lies of necessity, and that God approved of deception as a means of good to others.[1] In the course of his exculpatory argument, he said to his much aggrieved friend Basil: "Great is the value of deceit, provided it be not introduced with a mischievous intention. In fact, action of this sort ought not to be called deceit, but rather a kind of good management, cleverness, and skill, capable of finding out ways where resources fail, and making up for the defects of the mind.... That man would fairly deserve to be called a deceiver who made an unrighteous use of the practice, not one who did so with a salutary purpose. And often it is necessary to deceive, and to do the greatest benefits by means of this device, whereas he who has gone by a straight course has done great mischief to the person whom he has not deceived."[2] [Footnote 1: See Smith and Wace's _Dictionary of Christian Biography_, I., 519 f.; art. "Chrysostom, John."] [Footnote 2: See Chrysostom's "Treatise on the Priesthood," in _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, first series (Am. ed.), IX., 34-38.] In fact, Chrysostom seems, in this argument, to recognize no absolute and unvarying standard of truthfulness as binding on all at all times; but to judge lies and deceptions as wrong only when they are wrongly used, or when they result in evil to others. He appears to act on the anti-Christian theory[1] that "the end justifies the means." Indeed, Dr. Schaff, in reprobating this "pious fraud" of Chrysostom, as "conduct which every sound Christian conscience must condemn," says of the whole matter: "The Jesuitical maxim, 'the end justifies the means,' is much older than Jesuitism, and runs through the whole apocryphal, pseudo-prophetic, pseudo-apostolic, pseudo-Clementine, and pseudo-Isidorian literature of the early centuries. Several of the best Fathers show a surprising want of a strict sense of veracity. They introduce a sort of cheat even into their strange theory of redemption, by supposing that the Devil caused the crucifixion under the delusion [intentionally produced by God] that Christ was a mere man, and thus lost his claim upon the fallen race." [2] [Footnote 1: Rom. 3: 7, 8.] [Footnote 2: See Dr. Schaff's "Prologemena to The Life and Works of St. Chrysostom," in _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, first Series (Am. ed.), IX., 8.] Chrysostom, like Gregory of Nyssa, having done that which was wrong in itself, with a laudable end in view, naturally attempts its defense by the use of arguments based on a confusion in his own mind of things which are unjustifiable, with things which are allowable. He does not seem to distinguish between deliberate deception as a mode of lying, and concealment of that which one has a right to conceal. Like many another defender of the right to lie in behalf of a worthy cause, in all the centuries, Chrysostom essays no definition of the "lie," and indicates no distinction between culpable concealment, and concealment that is right and proper. Yet Chrysostom was a man of loving heart and of unwavering purpose of life. In an age of evil-doing, he stood firm for the right. And in spite of any lack of logical perceptions on his part in a matter like this, it can be said of him with truth that "perhaps few have ever exercised a more powerful influence over the hearts and affections of the most exalted natures."[1] [Footnote 1: Smith and Wace's _Dictionary of Christian Biography_, I., 532.] Augustine, on the other hand, looks at this question, in accordance with the qualities of his logical mind, in its relation to an absolute standard; and he is ready to accept the consequences of an adherence to that standard, whether they be in themselves desirable or deplorable. He is not afraid to define a lie, and to stand by his definition in his argument. He sees and notes the difference between justifiable concealment, and concealment that is for the purpose of deception. "It is lawful then," he says on this point, "to conceal at fitting time whatever seems fit to be concealed: but to tell a lie is never lawful, therefore neither to conceal by telling a lie."[1] In his treatise "On Lying" _(De Mendacid_),[2] and in his treatise "Against Lying" _(Contra Mendaciuni)[3]_ as well as in his treatise on "Faith, Hope, and Love" _(Enchiridion)_,[4] and again in his Letters to Jerome,[5] Augustine states the principle involved in this vexed question of the ages, and goes over all the arguments for and against the so-called "lie of necessity." He sees a lie to be a sin _per se_, and therefore never admissible for any purpose whatsoever. He sees truthfulness to be a duty growing out of man's primal relation to God, and therefore binding on man while man is in God's sight. He strikes through the specious arguments based on any temporary advantages to be secured through lying, and rejects utterly the suggestion that man may do evil that good may come. [Footnote 1: _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, first series (Am. ed.), IX., 466.] [Footnote 2: _Ibid_., III., 455-477.] [Footnote 3: _Ibid_., pp. 479-500.] [Footnote 4: _Ibid_., pp. 230-276.] [Footnote 5: _Ibid_., I., "Letters of St. Augustine."] The sound words of Augustine on this question, as based on his sound arguments, come down to us with strength and freshness through the intervening centuries; and they are worthy of being emphasized as the expressions of unchanging truth concerning the duty of truthfulness and the sin of lying. "There is a great question about lying," he says at the start, "which often arises in the midst of our everyday business, and gives us much trouble, that we may not either rashly call that a lie which is not such, or decide that it is sometimes right to tell a lie; that is, a kind of honest, well-meant, charitable lie." This question he discusses with fulness, and in view of all that can be said on both sides. Even though life or salvation were to pivot on the telling of a lie, he is sure that no good to be gained could compensate for the committal of a sin. Arguing that a lie is essentially opposed to God's truth--by which alone man can have eternal life--Augustine insists that to attempt to save another's life through lying, is to set off one's eternal life against the mere bodily life of another. "Since then by lying eternal life is lost, never for any man's temporal life must a lie be told. And as to those who take it ill, and are indignant that one should refuse to tell a lie, and thereby slay his own soul in order that another may grow old in the flesh, what if by our committing adultery a person might be delivered from death: are we therefore to steal, to commit whoredom.... To ask whether a man ought to tell a lie for the safety of another, is just the same as asking whether for another's safety a man ought to commit iniquity." "Good men," he says, "should never tell lies." "To tell a lie is never lawful, therefore neither to conceal [when concealment is desirable] by telling a lie." Referring to the fact that some seek to find a justification in the Bible teachings for lying in a good cause,--"even in the midst of the very words of the divine testimonies seeking place for a lie,"--he insists, after a full examination of this claim, "that those [cited] testimonies of Scripture have none other meaning than that we must never at all tell a lie." "A lie is not allowable, even to save another from injury." "Every lie must be called a sin." "Nor are we to suppose that there is any lie that is not a sin, because it is sometimes possible, by telling a lie, to do service to another." "It cannot be denied that they have attained a very high standard of goodness who never lie except to save a man from injury; but in the case of men who have reached this standard, it is not the deceit, but their good intention, that is justly praised, and sometimes even rewarded,"--as in the case of Rahab in the Bible story. "There is no lie that is not contrary to truth. For as light and darkness, piety and impiety, justice and injustice, sin and righteousness, health and sickness, life and death, so are truth and a lie contrary the one to the other. Whence by how much we love the former, by so much ought we to hate the latter." "It does indeed make very much difference for what cause, with what end, with what intention, a thing be done: but those things which are clearly sins, are upon no plea of a good cause, with no seeming good end, no alleged good intention, to be done. Those works, namely, of men, which are not in themselves sins, are now good, now evil, according as their causes are good or evil.... When, however, the works in themselves are evil,... who is there that will say, that upon good causes, they may be done, so as either to be no sins, or, what is more absurd, to be just sins?" "He who says that some lies are just, must be judged to say no other than that some sins are just, and that therefore some things are just which are unjust: than which what can be more absurd?" "Either then we are to eschew lies by right doing, or to confess them [when guilty of them] by repenting: but not, while they unhappily abound in our living, to make them more by teaching also." In replying to the argument that it would be better to lie concerning an innocent man whose life was sought by an enemy, or by an unjust accuser, than to betray him to his death, Augustine said courageously: "How much braver,... how much more excellent, to say, 'I will neither betray nor lie.'" "This," he said, "did a former bishop of the Church of Tagaste, Firmus by name, and even more firm in will. For when he was asked by command of the emperor, through officers sent by him, for a man who was taking refuge with him, and whom he kept in hiding with all possible care, he made answer to their questions, that he could neither tell a lie nor betray a man; and when he had suffered so many torments of body (for as yet emperors were not Christians), he stood firm in his purpose. Thereupon, being brought before the emperor, his conduct appeared so admirable that he without any difficulty obtained a pardon for the man whom he was trying to save. What conduct could be more brave and constant?"[1] [Footnote 1: See _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, first series (Am. ed.), III., 408.] The treatise "Against Lying" was written by Augustine with special reference to the practice and teaching of the sect of Priscillianists. These Christians "affirmed, with some other of the theosophic sects, that falsehood was allowable for a holy end. Absolute veracity was only binding between fellow-members of their sect."[1] Hence it was claimed by some other Christians that it would be fair to shut out Priscillianists from a right to have only truth spoken to them, since they would not admit that it is always binding between man and man. This view of truthfulness as merely a social obligation Augustine utterly repudiated; as, indeed, must be the case with every one who reckons lying a sin in and of itself. Augustine considered, in this treatise, various hypothetical cases, in which the telling of the truth might result in death to a sick man, while the telling of a falsehood might save his life. He said frankly: "And who can bear men casting up to him what a mischief it is to shun a lie that might save life, and to choose truth which might murder a man? I am moved by this objection exceedingly, but it were doubtful whether also wisely." Yet he sees that it were never safe to choose sin as a means to good, in preference to truth and right with all their consequences. [Footnote 1: See Smith and Wace's _Dict. of Chris. Biog_., IV., 478, art. "Priscillianus."] Jerome having, like many others, adopted Origen's explanation of the scene between Peter and Paul at Antioch, Augustine wrote to him in protest against such teaching, with its implied approval of deceit and falsehood.[1] A correspondence on this subject was continued between these two Fathers for years;[2] and finally Jerome was led to adopt Augustine's view of the matter,[3] and also to condemn Origen for his loose views as to the duty of veracity.[4] But however Jerome might vacillate in his theory, as in his practice, concerning the permanent obligations of truthfulness, Augustine stood firm from first to last in the position which is justified by the teachings of the Bible and by the moral sense of the human race as a whole,--that a lie is always a lie and always a sin, and that a lie can never be justified as a means to even the best of ends. [Footnote 1: See _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, first series (Am. ed.), I., Letters XXVIII., XL.] [Footnote 2: _Ibid_., Letters LXVII., LXVIII., LXXII., LXXIII., LXXIV., LXXV.] [Footnote 3: _Ibid_., Letter CLXXX.] [Footnote 4: _The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers_, second series (Am. ed.), III., 460 ff.; _Rufinus' Apology_, Book II.; _Jerome's Apology_, Book I., p. 492.] From the days of Chrysostom and Augustine to the present time, all discussions of this question have been but a repetition of the arguments and objections then brought forward and examined. There can be, in fact, only two positions maintained with any show of logical consistency. Either a lie is in its very nature antagonistic to the being of God, and therefore not to be used or approved by him, whatever immediate advantages might accrue from it, or whatever consequences might pivot on its rejection; or a lie is not in itself a sin, is not essentially at variance with the nature of God, but is good or evil according to the spirit of its use, and the end to be gained by it; and therefore on occasions God could lie, or could approve lying on the part of those who represent him. The first of these positions is that maintained by the Shepherd of Hermas, by Justin Martyr, by Basil the Great, and by Augustine; the second is practically that occupied by Gregory of Nyssa and Chrysostom, even though they do not explicitly define, or even seem to perceive, it as their position. There are, again, those like Origen and Jerome, who are now on one side of the dividing line, and now on the other; but they are not logically consistent with themselves in their opinions or practices. And those who are not consistent usually refrain from explicit definitions of the lie and of falsehood; they make no attempt at distinguishing between justifiable concealment, and concealment for the very purpose of deception. With all the arguments on this question, in all the centuries, comprised within these well-defined bounds, it were useless to name each prominent disputant, in order merely to classify him as on the one side or on the other, or as zigzagging along the line which he fails to perceive. It were sufficient to point out a few pre-eminent mountain peaks, in the centuries between the fifth and the nineteen of the Christian era, as indicative of the perspective history of this discussion. Towering above the greatest of the Schoolmen in the later middle ages stands Thomas Aquinas. As a man of massive intellect, of keenness of perception, of consistent logical instincts, and of unquestioned sincerity and great personal devoutness, we might expect him to be found, like Augustine, on the side of principle against policy, in unqualified condemnation of lying under any circumstances whatsoever, and in advocacy of truthfulness at all hazards. And that, as a matter of fact, is his position. In his _Summa Theologies_[1] Aquinas discusses this whole question with eminent fairness, and with great thoroughness. He first states the claims of those who, from the days of Chrysostom, had made excuses for lying with a good end in view, and then he meets those claims severally. He looks upon lies as evil in themselves, and as in no way to be deemed good and lawful, since a right concurrence of all elements is essential to a thing's being good. "Whence, every lie is a sin, as Augustine says in his book 'Against Lying.'" His conclusion, in view of all that is to be said on both sides of the question, is: "Lying is sinful not only as harmful to our neighbor, but because of its own disorderliness. It is no more permitted to do what is disorderly [that is, contrary to the divine order of the universe] in order to prevent harm, than it is to steal for the purpose of giving alms, except indeed in case of necessity when all things are common property [when, for instance, the taking of needful food in time of a great disaster, as on a wrecked ship, is not stealing]. And therefore it is not allowable to utter a lie with this view, that we may deliver one from some peril. It is allowable, however, to conceal the truth prudently, by a sort of dissimulation, as Augustine says." This recognizes the correctness of Augustine's position, that concealment of what one has a right to conceal may be right, provided no lie is involved in the concealment. As to the relative grades of sin in lying, Aquinas counts lying to another's hurt as a mortal sin, and lying to avert harm from another as a venial sin; but he sees that both are sins. [Footnote 1: _Secunda Secundae_, Quaestio CX., art. III.] It is natural to find Aquinas, as a representative of the keen-minded Dominicans, standing by truth as an eternal principle, regardless of consequences; as it is also natural to find, on the other side, Duns Scotus, as a representative of the easy-going Franciscans, with his denial of good absolute save as manifested in the arbitrary will of God. Duns Scotus accepted the "theory of a twofold truth," ascribed to Averroes, "that one and the same affirmation might be theologically true and philosophically false, and _vice versa_." In Duns Scotus's view, "God does not choose a thing because it is good, but the thing chosen is good because God chooses it;" "it is good simply and solely because God has willed it precisely so; but he might just as readily have willed the opposite thereof. Hence also God is not [eternally] bound by his commands, and he can in fact annul them."[1] According to this view, God could forbid lying to-day and justify it to-morrow. It is not surprising, therefore, that "falsehood and misrepresentation" are "under certain circumstances allowable," in the opinion of Duns Scotus. [Footnote 1: See Kurtz's _Church History_ (Macpherson's Translation), II., 101, 167-169; Ueberweg's _History of Philosophy_, I., 416, 456 f.; Wuttke's _Christian Ethics_ (Am. ed.), I., 218, Sec. 34.] So, all along the centuries, the religious teacher who holds to the line between truth and falsehood as an eternal line must, if logically consistent, refuse to admit any possible justification of lying. Only he who denies an eternally absolute line between the true and the false could admit with consistency the justification by God of an act that is essentially hostile to the divine nature. Any exception to this rule is likely to be where a sympathetic nature inclines a teacher to seek for an excuse for that which seems desirable even though it be theoretically wrong. When it comes to the days of the Protestant Reformation, we find John Calvin, like his prototype Augustine, and like Augustine's follower Aquinas, standing firmly against a lie as antagonistic to the very nature of God, and therefore never justifiable. Martin Luther, also, is a fearless lover of the truth; but he is disposed to find excuses for a lie told with a good end in view, although he refrains from asserting that even the best disposed lie lacks the element of sinfulness.[1] On the other hand, Ignatius Loyola, and his associates in the founding of the Society of Jesus as a means of checking the Protestant Reformation, acted on the idea that was involved in the theology of Duns Scotus, that the only standard of truth and right is in the absolute and arbitrary will of God; and that, therefore, if God, speaking through his representative in the newly formed Society, commands the telling of a lie, a lie is justifiable, and its telling is a duty. Moreover, these Jesuit leaders in defining, or in explaining away, the lie, include, under the head of justifiable concealment, equivocations and falsifications that the ordinary mind would see to be forms of the lie.[2] [Footnote 1: See Martensen's _Christian Ethics_, p. 216. Compare, for example, Luther's comments on Exodus I: 15-21, with Calvin's comments on Genesis 12: 14-20.] [Footnote 2: See Symonds's _Renaissance in Italy_, I., 263-267; Cartwright's _The Jesuits_; Meyrick's _Moral Theology of the Church of Rome_; Pascal's _Provincial Letters_. See, also, Kurtz's _Church History_, II., 430.] It is common to point to the arguments of the Jesuits in favor of lies of expediency, in their work for the Church and for souls, as though their position were exceptional, and they stood all by themselves in including falsehood as a means to be employed rightfully for a good end. But in this they are simply logically consistent followers of those Christian Fathers, and their successors in every branch of the Church, who have held that a lie for righteous purposes was admissible when the results to be secured by it were of vital importance. All the refinements of casuistry have their value to those who admit that a lie may be right under certain conceivable circumstances; but to those who, like Augustine and Aquinas, insist that a lie is a sin _per se_, and therefore never admissible, casuistry itself has no interest as a means of showing when a sin is not sinful.[1] [Footnote 1: Hence the casuistry of the Schoolmen and of the Jesuits, and the question of Mental Reservations, and of "Probabilities," are not treated in detail here.] Some of the zealous defenders of the principles and methods of the Jesuits affirm that, in their advocacy of dissimulation and prevarication in the interests of a good cause, the Jesuits do not intend to justify lying, but are pointing out methods of proper concealment which are not within the realm of the lie. In this (waiving the question whether these defenders are right or not as to the fact) they seem even more desirous of being counted against lying than those teachers, in the Romish Church or among Protestants, who boldly affirm that a lie itself is sometimes justifiable. Thus it is _claimed_ by a Roman Catholic writer, in defense of the Jesuits, that Liguori, their favorite theologian, taught "that to speak falsely is immutably a sin against God. It may be permitted under no circumstances, not even to save life. Pope Innocent III. says, 'Not even to defend our life is it lawful to speak falsely;'" therefore, when Liguori approves any actions that seem opposed to truthfulness, "he allows the instances because they are not falsehood."[1] On the other hand, Jeremy Taylor squarely asserts: "It is lawful to tell a lie to children or to madmen, because they, having no powers of judging, have no right to the truth."[2] [Footnote 1: See Meyrick's _Moral Theology of the Church of Rome_, Appendix, p. 256 f.] [Footnote 2: Jeremy Taylor's _Ductor Dubitantium_, in his Works, X., 103.] But Jeremy Taylor's trouble is in his indefinite definition of "a lie," and in his consequent confusion of mind and of statement with reference to the limitations of the duty of veracity. He writes on this subject at considerable length,[1] and in alternation declares himself plainly first on one side, and then on the other, of the main question, without even an attempt at logical consistency. He starts out with the idea that "we are to endeavor to be like God, who is truth essentially;" that "God speaks truth because it is his nature;" that "the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testament do indefinitely and severely forbid lying," and "our blessed Saviour condemns it by declaring every lie to be of the Devil;" and that "beyond these things nothing can [could] be said for the condemnation of lying." All that certainly is explicit and sound,--as sound as Basil the Great, as St. Augustine, or as Thomas Aquinas! [Footnote 1: Jeremy Taylor's _Ductor Dubitantium_, in his Works, X., 100-132.] When he attempts the definition of a lie, however, Jeremy Taylor would seem to claim that injustice toward others and an evil motive are of its very essence, and that, if these be lacking, a lie is not a lie. "Lying is to be understood to be something said or written to the hurt of a neighbor, which cannot be understood [by the hearer or reader] otherwise than to differ from the mind of him that speaks." As Melanchthon says, "To lie is to deceive our neighbor to his hurt." "If a lie be unjust, it can never become lawful; but if it can be separate from injustice, then it may be innocent." Jeremy Taylor naturally falls back on the Bible stories of the Hebrew midwives and Rahab the harlot, and assumes that God commended their lying, as lying, because they had a good end in view; and he asserts that "it is necessary sometimes by a lie to advantage charity by losing of a truth to save a life," and that "to tell a lie for charity, to save a man's life, the life of a friend, of a husband, of a prince, of an useful and a public person, hath not only been done in all times, but commended by great and wise and good men." From this it would appear that lying, which Jeremy Taylor sets out with denouncing as contrary to God's nature, and as declared by our Saviour to be always of the Devil, may, under certain circumstances, be a godly sin. Gregory of Nyssa and young Chrysostom could not have done better than this in showing the sinlessness of a sin in a good cause. Seeing that concealment of that which is true is often a duty, and seeing also that concealment of that which ought to be disclosed is often practically a lie, Jeremy Taylor apparently; jumps to the conclusion that concealment and equivocation and lying are practically the same thing, and that therefore lying is sometimes a duty, while again it is a sin. He holds that the right to be spoken to in truthfulness, "though it be regularly and commonly belonging to all men, yet it may be taken away by a superior right supervening; or it may be lost, or it may be hindered, or it may cease upon a greater reason." As "that which is but the half of a true proposition either signifies nothing or is directly a lie," it must be admitted that "in the same cases in which it is lawful to tell a lie, in the same cases it is lawful to use a mental reservation;" and "where it is lawful to lie, it is lawful to equivocate, which may be something less than a plain lie." Moreover, "it is lawful upon a just cause of great charity or necessity to use, in our answers and intercourses, words of divers signification, though it does deceive him that asks." Jeremy Taylor ingenuously confesses that, in certain cases where lying is allowable or is a duty, "the prejudice which the question is like to have is in the meaning and evil sound of the word lying; which, because it is so hateful to God and man, casts a cloud upon anything that it comes near." But, on the whole, Jeremy Taylor is willing to employ with commendation that very word "lying" which is "so hateful to God and man." And in various cases he insists that "it is lawful to tell a lie," although "the lie must be charitable and useful,"--a good lie, and not a wicked lie; for a good lie is good, and a wicked lie is wicked. He does not shrink from the consequences of his false position. Jeremy Taylor can therefore be cited as arguing that a lie is never admissible, but that it often is commendable. He does not seem to be quite sure of any real difference between lying and justifiable concealment, or to have in his mind an unvarying line between truthfulness and lying. He admits that God and man hate lying, but that a good lie, nevertheless, is a very good thing. And so he leaves the subject in more of a muddle than he found it. Coming down to the present century, perhaps the most prominent and influential defender of the "lie of necessity," or of limitations to the law of veracity, is Richard Rothe; therefore it is important to give special attention to his opinions and arguments on this subject. Rothe was a man of great ability, of lovely spirit, and of pervasive personal influence; and as a consequence his opinions carry special weight with his numerous pupils and followers. Kurtz[1] characterizes Rothe as "one of the most profound thinkers of the century, equaled by none of his contemporaries in the grasp, depth, and originality of his speculation," and his "Theological Ethics" as "a work which in depth, originality, and conclusiveness of reasoning, is almost unapproached." And in the opinion of Lichtenberger,[2] Rothe "is unquestionably the most distinguished theologian of the School of Conciliation, and the most original thinker since Schleiermacher," while "he also showed himself to be one of the humblest Christians and one of the finest formed characters of his age." It is not to be wondered at therefore, that, when such a leader in thought and in influence as Rothe declares himself in favor of a judicious use of falsehood as a means of good, many are inclined to feel that there must be some sound reason for his course. Yet, on the other hand, the arguments in favor of falsehood, put forward by even such a man, ought to be scrutinized with care, in order to ascertain if they are anything more than the familiar arguments on the same side repeated in varying phrase in all the former centuries from Chrysostom to Jeremy Taylor. [Footnote 1: _Church History_ (Macpherson's translation), III., 201.] [Footnote 2: _History of German Theology in the 19th Century_, p. 492.] The trouble with Rothe in his treatment of this Matter[1] is, that he considers the duty of truthfulness merely in its personal and social aspects, without any direct reference to the nature, and the declared will, of God. Moreover, his peculiar definition of a lie is adapted to his view of the necessities of the case. He defines a lie as "the unloving misuse of speech (or of other recognized means of communication) to the intentional deception of our neighbor." In his mind, lovelessness toward one's fellow-man is of the very essence of the lie, and when one speaks falsely in expression of a spirit of love to others, it is not necessarily a lie. [Footnote 1: Rothe's _Theologische Ethik_, IVter Band, §§ 1064, 1065.] Rothe does not seem to recognize, in its application to this matter, the great principle that there is no true love for man except in conformity to and in expression of love for God; hence that nothing that is in direct violation of a primal law of God can be an exhibition of real love for one of God's creatures. It is true that Rothe assumes that the subject of Theological Ethics is an essential branch of Speculative Theology; but in his treatment of Special Duties he seems to assume that Society rather than God is their background, and therefore the idea of sin as sin does not enter into the discussion. His whole argument and his conclusions are an illustration of the folly of attempting to solve any problem in ethics without considering the relation to it of God's eternal laws, and of the eternal principles which are involved in the very conception of God. Ethics necessarily includes more than social duties, and must be considered in the light of duty to God as above all. "The intentional deception of our neighbor," says Rothe, "by saying what is untrue, is not invariably and unqualifiedly a lie. The question in this case is essentially one of the purpose.... It is only in the case where the untruth spoken with intent to deceive is at the same time an act of unlovingness toward our neighbor, that it is a violation of truthfulness as already defined, that is, a lie." In Rothe's view, "there are relations of men to each other in which [for the time being] avowedly the ethical fellowship does not exist, although the suspension of this fellowship must, of course, always be regarded as temporary, and this indeed as a matter of duty for at least one of the parties. Here there can be no mention of love, and therefore no more of the want of it." Social duties being in such cases suspended, and the idea of any special duty toward God not being in consideration, it is quite proper, as Rothe sees it, for enemies in war, or in private life, to speak falsely to each other. Such enemies "naturally have in speech simply a weapon which one may use against the other.... The duty of speaking the truth cannot even be thought of as existing between persons so arrayed against each other.... However they may try to deceive each other, even with the help of speech, they do not lie." But Rothe goes even farther than this in the advocacy of such violations, or abrogations, of the law of veracity, as would undermine the very foundations of social life, and as would render the law against falsehood little more than a variable personal rule for limited and selected applications,--after the fashion of the American humorist who "believed in universal salvation if he could pick his men." Rothe teaches that falsehood is a duty, not only when it is needful in dealing with public or personal enemies, but often, also, in dealing with "children, the sick, the insane, the drunken, the passionately excited, and the morally weak,"--and that takes in a large share of the human race. He gives many illustrations of falsehood supposed to be necessary (where, in fact, they would seem to the keen-minded reader to be quite superfluous[1]) and having affirmed the duty of false speaking in these cases, he takes it for granted (in a strange misconception of the moral sense of mankind) that the deceived parties would, if appealed to in their better senses, justify the falsehoods spoken by mothers in the nursery, by physicians in the sick-room, and by the clear-headed sober man in his intercourse with the angry or foolish or drunken individual. [Footnote 1: Nitzsch, the most eminent dogmatic theologian among Schleiermacher's immediate disciples, denies the possibility of conceiving of a case where loving consideration for others, or any other dutiful regard for them, will not attain its end otherwise and more truly and nobly than by lying to them, or where "the loving liar or falsifier might not have acted still more lovingly and wisely without any falsification.... The lie told from supposed necessity or to serve another is always, even in the most favorable circumstances, a sign either of a wisdom which is lacking in love and truth, or of a love which is lacking in wisdom."] "Of course," he says, "such a procedure presupposes a certain relation of guardianship, on the part of the one who speaks untruth, over him whom he deceives, and a relative irresponsibility on the part of the other,--an incapacity to make use of certain truths except to his actual moral injury. And in each case all depends on the accuracy of this assumption." It is appalling to find a man like Rothe announcing a principle like this as operative in social ethics! Every man to decide for himself (taking the responsibility, of course, for his personal decision) whether he is in any sense such a guardian of his fellow-man as shall make it his duty to speak falsely to him in love! Rothe frankly admits that there is no evidence that Jesus Christ, while setting an example here among men, ever spoke one of these dutiful untruths; although it certainly would seem that Jesus might have fairly claimed as good a right to a guardianship of his earthly fellows as the average man of nowadays.[1] But this does not restrain Rothe from deliberately advising his fellow-men to a different course. [Footnote 1: Rothe says on this point: "That the Saviour spoke untruth is a charge to whose support only a single passage, John 7:8, can be alleged with any show of plausibility. But even here there was no speaking of untruth, even if [Greek: ank][a disputed reading] be regarded as the right reading." See on this passage Meyer in his _Commentary_, and Westcott in _The Bible Commentary_.] Rothe names Marheineke, DeWette, von Ammon, Herbart, Hartenstein, Schwartz, Harless, and Reinhard, as agreeing in the main with his position; while as opposed to it he mentions Kant, Fichte, Krause, Schleiermacher, von Hirscher, Nitzsch, Flatt, and Baumgarten-Crusius. But this is by no means a question to be settled by votes; and not one of the writers cited by Rothe as of his mind, in this controversy, has anything new to offer in defense of a position in such radical disagreement with the teachings of the Bible, and with the moral sense of the race, on this point, as that taken by Rothe. In his ignoring of the nature and the will of God as the basis of an argument in this matter, and in his arbitrary and unauthorized definition of a lie (with its inclusion of the claim that the deliberate utterance of a statement known to be false, for the express purpose of deceiving the one to whom it is spoken, is not necessarily and inevitably a lie), Rothe stands quite pre-eminent. Wuttke says, indeed, of Rothe's treatment of ethics: "Morality [as he sees it] is an independent something alongside of piety, and rests by no means on piety,--is entirely co-ordinate to and independent of it."[1] Yet so great is the general influence of Rothe, that various echoes of his arguments for falsehoods in love are to be found in subsequent English and American utterances on Christian ethics. [Footnote 1: Wuttke's _Christian Ethics_ (Lacroix's transl.), § 48.] Contemporaneous with Richard Rothe, and fully his peer in intellectual force and Christ-likeness of spirit, stands Isaac August Dorner. Dr. Schaff says of him:[1] "Dr. Dorner was one of the profoundest and most learned theologians of the nineteenth century, and ranks with Schleiermacher, Neander, Nitzsch, Julius Müller, and Richard Rothe. He mastered the theology of Schleiermacher and the philosophy of Hegel, appropriated the best elements of both, infused into them a positive evangelical faith and a historic spirit;" and as a lecturer, especially "on dogmatics and ethics ... he excelled all his contemporaries." And to this estimate of him Professor Mead adds:[2] "Even one who knows Dorner merely as the theological writer, will in his writings easily detect the fine Christian tone which characterized the man; but no one who did not personally know him can get a true impression of the Johannean tenderness and childlike simplicity which distinguished him above almost any one of equal eminence whom the world has ever known." [Footnote 1: _Supplement to Schaff-Hertzog Encyc. of Relig. Knowl_., p. 58.] [Footnote 2: Preface to Dorner's _System of Christian Ethics_ (Am. ed.), p. vii.] When, therefore, it is considered that, after Rothe had given his views on veracity to the world, Dorner wrote on the same subject, as the very last work of his maturest life, a special interest attaches to his views on this mooted question. And Dorner is diametrically opposed to Rothe in this thing. Dorner bases the duty of truthfulness on our common membership in Christ, and the love that grows out of such a relation.[1] "Truth does not," indeed, "demand that all that is in a man should be brought out, else it would be a moral duty for him to let also the evil that is in him come forth, whereas it is his duty to keep it down." But if an untrue statement be made with the intention to deceive, it is a lie. [Footnote 1: See Dorner's _System of Christian Ethics_ (Am. ed.), pp. 487-492.] "Are there cases," he asks, "where lying is allowable? Can we make out the so-called 'white lie' to be morally permissible?" Then he takes up the cases of children and the insane, who are not entitled to know all the truth, and asks if it be right not only to conceal the truth but to falsify it, in talking with them. Concealment may be a duty, he admits, but he denies that falsifying is ever a duty. "How shall ethics ever be brought to lay down a duty of lying [of 'white lying'], to recommend evil that good may come? The test for us is, whether we could ever imagine Christ acting in this way, either for the sake of others, or--which would be quite as justifiable, since self-love is a moral duty--for his _own_ sake." As to falsifying to a sick or dying man, he says, "we overestimate the value of human life, and, besides, we in a measure usurp the place of Providence, when we believe we may save it by committing sin." In other words, Dorner counts falsifying with the intention of deceiving, even with the best of motives, a lie, and therefore a sin--never justifiable. Like Augustine, Dorner recognizes degrees of guilt in lies, according to the spirit and motive of their telling; but in any event, if there be falsehood with the purpose of deceiving, it is a sin--to be regretted and repented of. Dorner makes a fresh distinction between the stratagems of war and lying, which is worthy of note. He says that playful fictions, after the manner of riddles to be guessed out, are clearly allowable. So "in war, too, something like a game of this kind is carried on, when by way of stratagem some deceptive appearance is produced, and a riddle is thus given to the enemy. In such cases there is no falsehood; for from the conditions of the situation,--whether friendly or hostile,--the appearance that is given is confessedly nothing more than an appearance, and is therefore honest." The simplicity and clearness of Dorner, in his unsophistical treatment of this question, is in refreshing contrast with the course of Rothe,--who confuses the whole matter in discussion by his arbitrary claim that a lie is not a lie, if it be told with a good purpose and a loving spirit. And the two men are representative disputants in this controversy of the centuries, as truly as were Augustine and Chrysostom. A close friend of Dorner was Hans Lassen Martensen, "the greatest theologian of Denmark," and a thinker of the first class, "with high speculative endowments, and a considerable tincture of theosophical mysticism."[1] Martensen's "Christian Ethics" do not ignore God and the Bible as factors in any question of practical morals under discussion. He characterizes the result of such an omission as "a reckoning of an account whose balance has been struck elsewhere; if we bring out another figure, we have reckoned wrong." Martensen's treatment of the duty of veracity is a remarkable exhibit of the workings of a logical mind in full view of eternal principles, yet measurably hindered and retarded by the heart-drawings of an amiable sentiment. He sees the all-dividing line, and recognizes the primal duty of conforming to it; yet he feels that it is a pity that such conformity must be so expensive in certain imaginary cases, and he longs to find some allowance for desirable exceptions.[2] [Footnote 1: See Kurtz's _Church History_ (Macpherson's transl.), III., 201; _Supplement to Schaff-Hertzog Encyc. of Relig. Knowl_., p. 57; _Johnson's Univ. Cycl._., art. "Martensen."] [Footnote 2: Martensen's _Christian Ethics (Individual)_, (Eng. trans.,) pp. 205-226.] Martensen gives as large prominence as Rothe to love for one's fellow-man; but he bases that love entirely, as Rothe does not, on love for Christ. "Only in Christ, and [in] the light which, proceeding from him, is poured over human nature and all human life, can we love men in the central sense, and only then does philanthropy receive its deepest religious and moral character, when it is rooted in the truth of Christ." And as Christ is Truth, those who are Christ's must never violate the truth. "'Thou shalt not bear false witness; thou shalt not lie, neither in word nor deed; thou shalt neither deny the truth, nor give out anything that is not truth for truth,'--this commandment must dominate and penetrate all our life's relations." "Truth does not exist for man's sake, but man for the sake of the truth, because the truth would reveal itself to man, would be owned and testified by him." This would seem to be explicit enough to shut out the possibility of a justifiable lie! "Yet it does not follow from this," says Martensen, "that our duty to communicate the truth to others is unlimited.... 'There is a time to be silent, and a time to speak.' No one is bound to say everything to everybody." Here he distinguishes between justifiable concealment and falsehood. Then he comes to the question "whether the so-called 'lie of exigency' can ever be justifiable." He runs over the arguments on both sides, and recalls the centuries of discussion on the subject. He thinks that adherence to the general principle which forbids lying would, in certain cases where love prompted to falsehood, cause in most minds an inward feeling that the letter killeth, and that to follow the promptings of love were better. Hence he argues that "as in other departments there are actions which, although from the standpoint of the ideal they are to be rejected, yet, from the hardness of men's hearts, must be approved and admitted, and under this restriction become relatively justifiable and dutiful actions, simply because greater evils are thereby averted; so there is also an untruth from exigency that must still be allowed for the sake of human weakness." And in his opinion "it comes to this, that the question of casuistry cannot be solved by general and abstract directions, but must be solved in an individual, personal way, especially according to the stage of moral and religious development and ripeness on which the person in question is found." Having made these concessions, in the realm of feeling, to the defenders of the "lie of exigency," which may be "either uttered from love to men, or as defense against men--a defense in which either a justifiable self-love or sympathy with others is operative," Martensen proceeds to show that every such falsehood is abnormal and immoral. "When we thus maintain," he says, "that in certain difficult cases an 'untruth from necessity' may occur, which is to be allowed for the sake of human weakness, and under the given relations may be said to be justified and dutiful, we cannot but allow, on the other hand, that in every such untruth there is something of sin, nay something that needs excuse and forgiveness.... Certainly even the truth of the letter, the external, actual truth, even the formally correct, finds its right, the ground of its validity, in God's holy order of the world. But by every lie of exigency the command is broken, 'Thou shalt not bear false witness.'" Martensen protests against the claim of Rothe that a falsehood spoken in love "is not at all to be called a lie, but can be absolutely defended as morally _normal_, and so in no respect needs pardon." "However sharply we may distinguish between lie and untruth (_mendacium_ and _falsilo-quium_), the untruth in question can never be resolved into the morally normal." And he suggests that if one had more of wisdom and courage and faith, he might be true to the truth in an emergency without fear of the consequences. "Let us suppose, for instance," he says, "the ... case, where the husband deceives his sick spouse from fear that she could not survive the news of the death of her child; who dare maintain that if the man had been able in the right way, that is in the power of the gospel, with the wisdom and the comfort of faith, to announce the death of the child, a religious crisis might not have arisen in her soul, which might have a healing and quickening effect upon her bodily state? And supposing that it had even led to her death, who dare maintain that that death, if it was a Christian death, were an evil, whether for the mother herself, or for the survivors? "Or, let us take the woman who, to save her chastity, applies the defense of an untruth: who dare maintain that if she said the truth to her persecutors, but uttered it in womanly heroism, with a believing look to God, with the courage, the elevation of soul springing from a pure conscience, exhibiting to her persecutors the badness and unworthiness of their object, she might not have disarmed them by that might that lies in the good, the just cause, the cause whose defense and shield God himself will be? And even if she had to suffer what is unworthy, who dare maintain that she could not in suffering preserve her moral worth?" Martensen recalls the story of Jeanie Deans, in Scott's "Heart of Midlothian," who refuses to tell a lie of exigency in order to save her sister's life; yet who, having uttered the truth which led to her sister's sentence of death, set herself, in faith in God, to secure that sister's pardon, and by God's grace compassed it. "Most people would at least be disposed to excuse Jeanie Deans, and to forgive her, if she had here made a false oath, and thereby had afforded her protection to the higher truth." And if a loving lie of exigency be a duty before God, an appeal to his knowledge of the fact is, of course, equally a duty. To refuse to appeal to God in witness of the truth of a falsehood that is told from a loving sense of duty, is to show a lack of confidence in God's approval of such an untruth. "But she will, can, and dare, for her conscience' sake, not do this." "But the best thing in this tale," adds Martensen, "is that it is no mere fiction. The kernel of this celebrated romance is actual history." And Sir Walter Scott caused a monument to be erected in his garden, with the following inscription, in memory of this faithful truth-lover: "This stone was placed by the Author of 'Waverley' in memory of Helen Walker, who fell asleep in the year of our Lord 1791. This maiden practiced in humility all the virtues with which fancy had adorned the character that bears in fiction the name of Jeanie Deans. She would not depart a foot's breadth from the path of truth, not even to save her sister's life; and yet she obtained the liberation of her sister from the severity of the law by personal sacrifices whose greatness was not less than the purity of her aims. Honor to the grave where poverty rests in beautiful union with truthfulness and sisterly love." "Who will not readily obey this request," adds Martensen, "and hold such a memory in honor?... Who does not feel himself penetrated with involuntary, most hearty admiration?" In conclusion, in view of all that can be said on either side of the question, Martensen is sure that "the lie of exigency itself, which we call inevitable, leaves in us the feeling of something unworthy, and this unworthiness should, simply in following Christ, more and more disappear from our life. That is, the inevitableness of the lie of exigency will disappear in the same measure that an individual develops into a true personality, a true character.... A lie of exigency cannot occur with a personality that is found in possession of full courage, of perfect love and holiness, as of the enlightened, all-penetrating glance. Not even as against madmen and maniacs will a lie of exigency be required, for to the word of the truly sanctified personality there belongs an imposing commanding power that casts out demons. It is this that we see in Christ, in whose mouth no guile was found, in whom we find nothing that even remotely belongs to the category of the exigent lie." So it is evident that if one would seek excuse for the lie of exigency, in the concessions made by Martensen, he must do so only on the score of the hardness of his heart, and the softness of his head, as one lacking a proper measure of wisdom, of courage, and of faith, to enable him to conform to the proper ideal standard of human conduct. And even then he must recognize the fact that in his weakness he has done something to be ashamed of, and to demand repentance. Cold comfort that for a decent man! It would seem that personal temperament and individual peculiarities had their part in deciding a man's attitude toward the question of the unvarying duty of veracity, quite as surely as the man's recognition of great principles. An illustration of this truth is shown in the treatment of the subject by Dr. Charles Hodge on the one hand, and by Dr. James H. Thornwell on the other, as representatives, severally, of Calvinistic Augustinianism in the Presbyterian Church of the United States, in its Northern and Southern branches. Starting from the same point of view, and agreeing as to the principles involved, these two thinkers are by no means together in their conclusions; and this, not because of any real difference in their processes of reasoning, but apparently because of the larger place given by the former to the influence of personal feeling, as over against the imperative demands of truth. Dr. Hodge begins with the recognition and asseveration of eternal principles, that can know no change or variation in their application to this question; and then, as he proceeds with its discussion, he is amiably illogical and good-naturedly inconsistent, and he ends in a maze, without seeming quite sure as to his own view of the case, or giving his readers cause to know what should be their view. Dr. Thornwell, on the other hand, beginning in the same way, proceeds unwaveringly to the close, in logical consistency of reasoning; leaving his readers at the last as fully assured as he is as to the application of unchangeable principles to man's life and duties. No one could state the underlying principles involved in this question more clearly and explicitly than does Dr. Hodge at the outset;[1] and it would seem from this statement that he could not be in doubt as to the issue of the discussion of this question of the ages. "The command to keep truth inviolate belongs to a different class [of commands] from those relating to the sabbath, to marriage, or to property. These are founded on the permanent relations of men in the present state of existence. They are not in their own nature immutable. But truth is at all times sacred, because it is one of the essential attributes of God, so that whatever militates against or is hostile to truth is in opposition to the very nature of God." [Footnote 1: See Hodge's _Systematic Theology_, III., 437-463.] "Truth is, so to speak, the very substratum of Deity. It is in such a sense the foundation of all the moral perfections of God, that without it they cannot be conceived of as existing. Unless God really is what he declares himself to be; unless he means what he declares himself to mean; unless he will do what he promises,--the whole idea of God is lost. As there is no God but the true God, so without truth there is and can be no God. As this attribute is the foundation, so to speak, of the divine, so it is the foundation of the physical and moral order of the universe.... There is, therefore, something awfully sacred in the obligations of truth. A man who violates the truth, sins against the very foundation of his moral being. As a false god is no god, so a false man is no man; he can never be what man was designed to be; he can never answer the end of his being. There can be in him nothing that is stable, trustworthy, or good." Here is a platform that would seem to be the right standing-place for all and for always. Dr. Hodge apparently recognizes its well-defined limits and bounds; yet when he comes to discuss the question whether a certain person is, in a supposable case, on it, or off it, he does not seem so sure as to its precise boundary lines. He begins to waver when he cites Bible incidents. Recognizing the fact that fables and parables, and works of fiction, even though untrue, are not falsehoods, he strangely jumps to the conclusion that the "intention to deceive" is "not always culpable." He immediately follows this non-sequitur with a reference to the lying Hebrew midwives,[1] and he quotes the declaration of God's blessing on them, as if it were an approval of their lying, or their false speaking with an intention to deceive, instead of an approval of their spirit of devotion to God's people.[2] [Footnote 1: Exod. I: 19, 20.] [Footnote 2: Comp. p. 35 f., _supra_.] From the midwives he passes to Samuel, sent of God to Bethlehem; [1] and under cover of the expressed opinions of others, Dr. Hodge says vaguely: "Here, it is said, is a case of intentional deception commanded. Saul was to be deceived as to the object of Samuel's journey to Bethlehem." Yet, whoever "said" this was guilty of a gratuitous charge of intentional deception, against the Almighty. Samuel was directed of God to speak the truth, so far as he spoke at all, while he concealed from others that which others had no right to know.[2] It would appear, however, throughout this discussion, that Dr. Hodge does not perceive the clear and important distinction between justifiable concealment from those who have no right to a knowledge of the facts, and concealment, or even false speaking, with the deliberate intention of deceiving those interested. In fact, Dr. Hodge does not even mention "concealment," as apart from its use for the specific purpose of deception. [Footnote 1: I Sam. 16: i, 2.] [Footnote 2: Comp. pp. 38-40, _supra_.] Again Dr. Hodge cites the incident of Elisha at Dothan[1] as if in illustration of the rightfulness of deception under certain circumstances. But in this case it was concealment of facts that might properly be concealed, and not the deception of enemies as enemies, that Elisha compassed. The Syrians wanted to find Elisha. Their eyes were blinded, so that they did not recognize him when in his presence. In order to teach them a lesson, Elisha told the Syrians that they could not find him, or the city which was his home, by their own seeking; but if they would follow him he would bring them to the man whom they sought. They followed him, and he showed himself to them. When their eyes were opened in Samaria he would not suffer them to be harmed, but had them treated as guests, and sent back safely to their king. [Footnote 1: Kings 6: 14-20.] Having cited these three cases, no one of which can fairly be made to apply to the argument he is pursuing, Dr. Hodge complacently remarks: "Examples of this kind of deception are numerous in the Old Testament. Some of them are simply recorded facts, without anything to indicate how they were regarded in the sight of God; but others, as in the cases above cited, received either directly or by implication the divine sanction." But Dr. Hodge goes even farther than this. He ventures to suggest that Jesus Christ deceived his disciples by intimating what was not true as to his purpose, in more than one instance. "Of our blessed Lord himself it is said in Luke 24:28, 'He made as though [Greek: prosepoieito]--he made a show of: he would have gone further.' He so acted as to make the impression on the two disciples that it was his purpose to continue his journey. (Comp. Mark 6: 48.)"[1] This suggestion of Dr. Hodge's would have been rebuked by even Richard Rothe, and would have shocked August Dorner. Would Dr. Hodge deny that Jesus _could_ have had it in his mind to "go further," or to have "passed by" his disciples, if they would not ask him to stop? And if this were a possibility, is it fair to intimate that a purpose of deception was in his mind, when there is nothing in the text that makes that a necessary conclusion? Dr. Hodge, indeed, adds the suggestion that "many theologians do not admit that the fact recorded in Luke 24:28 [which he cites as an illustration of justifiable deception by our Lord] involved any intentional deception;" but this fact does not deter him from putting it forward in this light. [Footnote 1: When Jesus came walking on the sea, toward his disciples in their tempest-tossed boat, "he would have passed them by;" but their cry of fear drew him toward them.] In the discussion of the application to emergencies, in practical life, of the eternal principle which he points out at the beginning, Dr. Hodge is as far from consistency as in his treatment of Bible narratives. "It is generally admitted," he says, "that in criminal falsehoods there must be not only the enunciation or signification of what is false, and an intention to deceive, but also a violation of some obligation." What obligation can be stronger than the obligation to be true to God and true to one's self? If, as Dr. Hodge declares, "a man who violates the truth, sins against the very foundation of his moral being," a man would seem to be always under an obligation not to violate the truth by speaking that which is false with an intention to deceive. But Dr. Hodge seems to lose sight of his premises, in all his progress toward his conclusions on this subject. "There will always be cases," he continues, "in which the rule of duty is a matter of doubt. It is often said that the rule above stated applies when a robber demands your purse. It is said to be right to deny that you have anything of value about you. You are not bound to aid him in committing a crime; and he has no right to assume that you will facilitate the accomplishment of his object. This is not so clear. The obligation to speak the truth is a very solemn one; and when the choice is left a man to tell a lie or lose his money, he had better let his money go. On the other hand, if a mother sees a murderer in pursuit of her child, she has a perfect right to mislead him by any means in her power [including lying?]; because the general obligation to speak the truth is merged or lost, for the time being, in the higher obligation." Yet Dr. Hodge starts out with the declaration that the obligation "to keep truth inviolate," is highest of all; that "truth is at all times sacred, because it is one of the essential attributes of God;" that God himself cannot "suspend or modify" this obligation; and that man is always under its force. And now, strangely enough, he claims that in various emergencies "the general obligation to speak the truth is merged, or lost, for the time being, in the higher obligation." The completest and most crushing answer to the vicious conclusions of Dr. Hodge as to the varying claims of veracity, is to be found in the explicit terms of his unvaryingly correct premises in the discussion. Dr. Hodge appears to be conscious of his confusion of mind in this discussion, but not to be quite sure of the cause of it. As to his claim that the general obligation to speak the truth may be merged for the time being in a "higher obligation," he says: "This principle is not invalidated by its possible or actual abuse. It has been greatly abused." And he adds, farther on, in the course of the discussion: "The question now under consideration is not whether it is ever right to do wrong, which is a solecism; nor is the question whether it is ever right to lie; but rather what constitutes a lie." Having claimed that a lie necessarily includes falsity of statement, an intention to deceive, and "a violation of some obligation," Dr. Hodge goes on to show that "every lie is a violation of a promise," as growing out of the nature of human society, where "every man is expected to speak the truth, and is under a tacit but binding promise not to deceive his neighbor by word or act." And, after all this, he is inclined to admit that there are cases in which falsehoods with the intention of deceiving are not lying, and are justifiable. "This, however," he goes on to say, "is not always admitted. Augustine, for example, makes every intentional deception, no matter what the object or what the circumstances, to be sinful." And then, in artless simplicity, Dr. Hodge concludes: "This would be the simplest ground for the moralist to take. But as shown above, and as generally admitted, there are cases of intentional deception which are not criminal." According to the principles laid down at the start by Dr. Hodge, there is no place for a lie in God's service; but according to the inferences of Dr. Hodge, in the discussion of this question, there are places where falsehoods spoken with intent to deceive are admissible in God's sight and service. His whole treatment of this subject reminds me of an incident in my army-prison life, where this question as a question was first forced upon my attention. The Union prisoners, in Columbia at that time, received their rations from the Confederate authorities, and had them cooked in their own way, and at their own expense, by an old colored woman whom they employed for the purpose. Two of us had a dislike for onions in our stew, while the others were well pleased with them. So we two agreed with old "Maggie," for a small consideration, to prepare us a separate mess without onions. The next day our mess came by itself. We took it, and began our meal with peculiar satisfaction; but the first taste showed us an unmistakable onion flavor in our stew. When old Maggie came again, we remonstrated with her on her breach of engagement. "Bless your hearts, honeys," she replied, "you must have _some_ onions in your stew!" She could not comprehend the possibility of a beef stew without onions, even though she had formally agreed to make it. Dr. Hodge's premises in the discussion of the duty of truthfulness rule out onions; but his inferences and conclusions have the odor and the taste of onions. He stands on a safe platform to begin with; but he is an unsafe guide when he walks away from it. His arguments in this case are an illustration of his own declaration: "An adept in logic may be a very poor reasoner." Dr. Thornwell's "Discourses on Truth"[1] are a thorough treatment of the obligation of veracity and the sin of lying. He is clear in his definitions, marking the distinction between rightful concealment as concealment, and concealment for the purpose of deception. "There are things which men have a right to keep secret," he says, "and if a prurient curiosity prompts others officiously to pry into them, there is nothing criminal or dishonest in refusing to minister to such a spirit. Our silence or evasive answers may have the effect of misleading. That is not our fault, as it was not our design. Our purpose was simply to leave the inquirer as nearly as possible in the state of ignorance in which we found him: it was not to misinform him, but not to inform him at all. [Footnote 1: In Thornwell's _Collected Writings_, II., 451-613.] "'Every man,' says Dr. Dick, 'has not a right to hear the truth when he chooses to demand it. We are not bound to answer every question which may be proposed to us. In such cases we may be silent, or we may give as much information as we please, and suppress the rest. If the person afterward discover that the information was partial, he has no title to complain, because he had no right even to what he obtained; and we are not guilty of a falsehood unless we made him believe, by something which we said, that the information was complete.'" "The _intention_ of the speaker, and the _effect_ consequent upon it, are very different things." Dr. Thornwell recognizes the fact that the moral sense of humanity discerns the invariable superiority of truth over falsehood. "If we place virtue in sentiment," he says, "there is nothing, according to the confession of all mankind, more beautiful and lovely than truth, more ugly and hateful than a lie. If we place it in calculations of expediency, nothing, on the one hand, is more conspicuously useful than truth and the confidence it inspires; nothing, on the other, more disastrous than falsehood, treachery, and distrust. If there be then a moral principle to which, in every form, humanity has given utterance, it is the obligation of veracity." "No man ever tells a lie without a certain degree of violence to his nature." Dr. Thornwell bases this obligation of veracity on the nature of God, and on the duty of man to conform to the image of God in which he was created. "Jesus Christ commends himself to our confidence and love," he says, "on the ground of his being the truth;... and makes it the glory of the Father that he is the God of truth, and the shame and everlasting infamy of the prince of darkness that he is the father of lies;" and he adds: "The mind cannot move in charity, nor rest in Providence, unless it turn upon the poles of truth." "Every man is as distinctly organized in reference to truth, as in reference to any other purpose." In Dr. Thornwell's view, it is not, as Dr. Paley would have it, that "a lie is a breach of promise," because as between man and man "the truth is expected," according to a tacit understanding. As Dr. Thornwell sees it, "we are not bound by any other expectations of man but those which we have authorized;" and he deems it "surprising to what an extent this superficial theory of 'contract' has found advocates among divines and moralists," as, for example, Dr. Robert South, whom he quotes.[1] "If Dr. Paley had pushed his inquiries a little farther," adds Thornwell, "he might have accounted for this expectation [of truthfulness] which certainly exists, independently of a promise, upon principles firmer and surer than any he has admitted in the structure of his philosophy. He might have seen it in the language of our nature proclaiming the will of our nature's God." The moral sense of mankind demands veracity, and abhors falsehood. [Footnote 1: Smith's _Sermon, on Falsehood and Lying_.] Dr. Thornwell is clear as to the teachings of the Bible, in its principles, and in the illustration of those principles in the sacred narrative. The Bible as he sees it teaches the unvarying duty of veracity, and the essential sinfulness of falsehood and deception. He repudiates the idea that God, in any instance, approved deception, or that Jesus Christ practiced it. "When our Saviour 'made as though he would have gone farther,' he effectually questioned his disciples as to the condition of their hearts in relation to the duties of hospitality. The angels, in pretending that it was their purpose to abide in the street all night, made the same experiment on Lot. This species of simulation involves no falsehood; its design is not to deceive, but to catechize and instruct. The whole action is to be regarded as a sign by which a question is proposed, or the mind excited to such a degree of curiosity and attention that lessons of truth can be successfully imparted." And so on through other Bible incidents. Dr. Thornwell has no hesitation in distinguishing when concealment is right concealment, and when concealment is wrong because intended to deceive. Exposing the incorrectness of the claim, made by Dr. Paley, as by others, that certain specific falsehoods are not lies, Dr. Thornwell shows himself familiar with the discussion of this question of the ages in all the centuries; and he moves on with his eye fixed unerringly on the polar star of truth, in refreshing contrast with the amiable wavering of Dr. Hodge's footsteps. "Paley's law," he concludes, "would obviously be the destruction of all confidence. How much nobler and safer is the doctrine of the Scriptures, and of the unsophisticated language of man's moral constitution, that truth is obligatory on its own account, and that he who undertakes to signify to another, no matter in what form, and no matter what may be the right in the case to know the truth, is bound to signify according to the convictions of his own mind! He is not always bound to speak, but whenever he does speak he is solemnly bound to speak nothing but the truth. The universal application of this principle would be the diffusion of universal confidence. It would banish deceit and suspicion from the world, and restrict the use of signs to their legitimate offices." A later work on Christian Ethics, which acquires special prominence through its place in "The International Theological Library," edited by Drs. Briggs and Salmond, is by Dr. Newman Smyth. It shows signs of strength in the premises assumed by the writer, in accordance with the teachings of Scripture and of the best moral sense of mankind; and signs of weakness in his processes of reasoning, and in his final conclusion, according to the mental methods of those who have wavered on this subject, from John Chrysostom to Richard Rothe and Charles Hodge. Dr. Smyth rightly bases Christian ethics on the nature and will of God, as illustrated in the life and teachings of the divine-human Son of God. "A thoroughly scientific ethics must not only be adequate to the common moral sense of men, but prove true also to the moral consciousness of the Son of man. No ethics has right to claim to be thoroughly scientific, or to offer itself as the only science of ethics possible to us in our present experience, until it has sought to enter into the spirit of Christ, and has brought all its, analysis and theories of man's moral life to the light of the luminous ethical personality of Jesus Christ."[1] [Footnote 1: Smyth's _Christian Ethics_, p. 6.] In his general statement of "the duty of speaking the truth," Dr. Smyth is also clear, sound, and emphatic.[1] "The law of truthfulness is," he says, "a supreme inward law of thought." "The obligation of veracity ... is an obligation which every man owes to himself. It is a primal personal obligation. Kant was profoundly right when he regarded falsehood as a forfeiture of personal worth, a destruction of personal integrity.... Truthfulness is the self-consistency of character; falsehood is a breaking up of the moral integrity. Inward truthfulness is essential to moral growth and personal vigor, as it is necessary to the live oak that it should be of one fiber and grain from root to branch. What a flaw is in steel, what a foreign substance is in any texture, that a falsehood is to the character,--a source of weakness, a point where under strain it may break.... Truthfulness, then, is due, first by the individual to himself as the obligation of personal integrity. The unity of the personal life consists in it." [Footnote 1: _Ibid_., pp. 386-389.] And in addition to the obligation of veracity as a duty to one's self, Dr. Smyth recognizes it as a duty to others. He says: "Truthfulness is owed to society as essential to its integrity. It is the indispensable bond of social life. Men can be members, one of another in a social organism only as they live together in truth. Society would fall, to pieces without credit; but credit rests on the general social virtue of truthfulness.... The liar is rightly regarded as an enemy to mankind. A lie is not only an affront against the person to whom it is told, but it is an offense against humanity." If Dr. Smyth had been content to leave this matter with the explicit statement of the principles that are unvaryingly operative, he would have done good service to the world, and his work could have been commended as sound and trustworthy in this department of ethics; but as soon as he begins to question and reason on the subject, he begins to waver and grow confused; and in the end his inconclusive conclusions are pitiably defective and reprehensible.[1] [Footnote 1: Smyth's _Christian Ethics_, pp. 392-403] In considering "the so-called lies of necessity," Dr. Smyth declares with frankness: "Some moralists in their supreme regard for truth will not admit that under any conceivable circumstances a lie can be deemed necessary, not even to save life or to prevent a murderer from accomplishing his fiendish purpose." And then over against this he indicates his fatal confusion of mind and weakness of reasoning in the suggestion: "But the sound human understanding, in spite of the moralists, will prevaricate, and often with great vigor and success, in such cases. Who is right,--Kant, or the common moral sense? Which should be followed,--the philosophic morality, or the practice of otherwise most truthful men?" It is to be noted that, in these two declarations, Dr. Smyth puts lying as if it were synonymous with prevarication; else there is no reason for his giving the one as over against the other. And this indicates a peculiar difficulty in the whole course of Dr. Smyth's argument concerning the "so-called lie of necessity." He essays no definition of the "lie." He draws no clear line of distinction between a lie, a falsehood, a deceit, and a prevarication, or between a justifiable concealment and an unjustifiable concealment; and in his various illustrations of his position he uses these terms indiscriminately, in such a way as to indicate that he knows no essential difference between them, or that he does not care to emphasize any difference. If, in the instance given above, Dr. Smyth means that "the sound human understanding, in spite of the moralists," will approve lying, or falsifying with the intention to deceive, he ought to know that the sound human understanding will not justify such a course, and that it is unfair to intimate such a thing.[1] And when he asks, in connection with this suggestion, "Who is right,--Kant, or the common moral sense? Which should be followed, the philosophic morality, or the practice of otherwise most truthful men?" his own preliminary assertions are his conclusive answer. He says specifically, "Kant was profoundly right when he regarded falsehood as a forfeiture of personal worth, a destruction of personal integrity;" and the "common moral sense" of humanity is with Kant in this thing, in accordance with Dr. Smyth's primary view of the case, as over against the intimation of Dr. Smyth's question. As to the suggested "practice of otherwise most truthful men" in this thing,--if men who generally tell the truth, lie, or speak falsely, or deceive, under certain circumstances, they are much like men who are generally decent, but who occasionally, under temptation, are unchaste or dishonest; they are better examples in their uprightness than in their sinning. [Footnote 1: See pp. 9-32, _supra_.] It would seem, indeed, that, notwithstanding his sound basis of principles, which recognizes the incompatibility of falsehood with true manhood and with man's duty to his fellows, Dr. Smyth does not carry with him in his argument the idea of the essential sinfulness of a lie, and therefore he is continually inconsistent with himself. He says, for example, in speaking of the suspension of social duties in war time: "If the war is justifiable, the ethics of warfare come at once into play. It would be absurd to say that it is right to kill an enemy, but not to deceive him. Falsehood, it may be admitted, as military strategy, is justifiable, if the war is righteous." Here, again, is the interchange of the terms "deception" and "falsehood." But unless this is an intentional jugglery of words, which is not to be supposed, this means that it would be absurd to say that it is right to kill an enemy, but not right to tell him a falsehood. And nothing could more clearly show Dr. Smyth's error of mind on this whole subject than this declaration. "Absurd" to claim that while it is right to take a man's life in open warfare, in a just cause, it would not be right to forfeit one's personal worth, and to destroy one's personal integrity, which Dr. Smyth says are involved in a falsehood! "Absurd" to claim that while God who is the author of life can justify the taking of life, he cannot justify the sin of lying! No, no, the absurdity of the case is not on _that_ side of the line. There is no consistency of argument on this subject in Dr. Smyth's work. His premises are sound. His reasoning is confused and inconsistent. "Not only in some cases of necessity is falsehood permissible, but we may recognize a positive obligation of love to the concealment of the truth," he says. Here again is that apparent confounding of unjustifiable "falsehood" with perfectly proper "concealment of truth." He continues: "Other duties which under such circumstances have become paramount, may require the preservation of one's own or another's life through a falsehood. Not only ought one not to tell the truth under the supposed conditions, but, if the principle assumed be sound, a good conscience may proceed to enforce a positive obligation of untruthfulness.... There are occasions when the interests of society and the highest motives of Christian love may render it much more preferable to discharge the duty of self-defense through the humanity of a successful falsehood, than by the barbarity of a stunning blow or a pistol-shot. General benevolence demands that the lesser evil, if possible, rather than the greater, should be inflicted on another." Just compare these conclusions of Dr. Smyth with his own premises. "Truthfulness ... is an obligation which every man owes to himself. It is a primal personal obligation.... Truthfulness is the self-consistency of character; falsehood is a breaking up of the moral integrity." "The liar is rightly regarded as an enemy to mankind. A lie is not only an affront against the person to whom it is told, but it is an offense against humanity." But what of all that? "There are occasions when the interests of society and the highest motives of Christian love may render it much more preferable to discharge the duty of self-defense through the humanity of a successful falsehood, than by the barbarity of a stunning blow or a pistol-shot. General benevolence demands that the lesser evil, if possible, rather than the greater, should be inflicted on another." Better break up one's moral integrity, and fail in one's primal personal obligation to himself,--better become an enemy of mankind, and commit an offense against humanity,--than defend one's self against an outlaw by the barbarity of a stunning blow or a bullet! Would any one suppose from his premises that Dr. Smyth looked upon personal truthfulness as a minor virtue, and upon falsehood as a lesser vice? Does he seem in those premises to put veracity below chastity, and falsehood below personal impurity? Yet is he to be understood as intimating, in this phase of his argument, that unchastity, or dishonesty, or any other vice than falsehood, is to be preferred, in practice, over a stunning blow or a fatal bullet against a would-be murderer?[1] The looseness of Dr. Smyth's logic, as indicated in this reasoning on the subject of veracity, would in its tendency be destructive to the safeguards of personal virtue and of social purity; and his arguments for the lie of exigency are similar to those which are put forward in excuse for common sins against chastity, by the free-and-easy defenders of a lax standard in such matters. "Some moralists," says the average young man of the world, "in their extreme regard for personal purity, will not admit that any act of unchastity is necessary, even to protect one's health, or as an act of love. But the men of virility and strong feeling will let down occasionally at this point, in spite of the moralists. Which should be followed,--the philosophic morality, or the practice of many otherwise decent and very respectable men?" [Footnote 1: See Augustine's words on this point, quoted at p. 100, _supra_.] Confounding, as always, a wise and right concealment of truth with actual falsehood, Dr. Smyth says of the duty of a teacher in the matter of imparting truth to a pupil according to the measure of the pupil's ability to receive it: "An occasional friendly use of truth as a crash towel may be wholesome; but ordinarily there is a more excellent way." _That_ is a counting of truth precious, with a vengeance! Dr. Smyth seems inclined to accept in the main the conclusions, on this whole subject, of Rothe, but without Rothe's measure of consistency in the argument. Rothe starts wrong, and of course ends wrong. Dr. Smyth, like Dr. Hodge, starts right and ends wrong. No sorer condemnation of Dr. Smyth's position can be made, than by the simple presentation of his own review of his own argument, when he says: "To sum up, then, what has been said concerning the so-called lies of necessity, the principle to be applied with wisdom is simply this: give the truth always to those who in the bonds of humanity have the right to the truth; conceal it or falsify it only when it is unmistakably evident that the human right to the truth from others has been forfeited, or temporarily is held in abeyance by sickness, weakness, or some criminal intent: do not in any case prevaricate, unless you can tell the necessary falsehood deliberately and positively, from principle, with a good conscience void of offense toward men, and sincere in the sight of God." What says the moral sense of humanity to such a position as that? As over against the erroneous claim, made by Richard Rothe, and Newman Smyth, and others, that the "moral sense" of mankind is at variance with the demands of "rigid moralists," in regard to the unjustifiableness of falsehood, it is of interest to note the testimony of strong thinkers, who have written on this subject with the fullest freedom, from the standpoint of speculative philosophy, rather than of exclusively Christian ethics. For example, James Martineau, while a Christian philosopher, discusses the question of veracity as a philosopher, rather than as a Christian, in his "Types of Ethical Theory;"[1] and he insists that "veracity is strictly natural, that is, it is implied in the very nature which leads us to intercommunion in speech." [Footnote 1: Martineau's _Types of Ethical Theory_, II., 255-265.] As he sees it, a man is treacherous to himself who speaks falsely at any time to any one, and the man's moral sense recoils from his action accordingly. Dr. Martineau says: "It is perhaps, the peculiar _treachery_ of this process which fixes upon falsehood a stamp of _meanness_ quite exceptional; and renders it impossible, I think, to yield to its inducements, even in cases supposed to be venial, without a disgust little distinguishable from compunction. This must have been Kant's feeling when he said: 'A lie is the abandonment, or, as it were, the annihilation of the dignity of man.'" Dr. Martineau is not so rigid a moralist but that he is ready to agree with those easy-going theologians who find a place for exceptional falsehoods in their reasoning; yet he is so true a man in his moral instincts that his nature recoils from the results of such reasoning. "After all," he says, "there is something in this problem which refuses to be thus laid to rest; and in treating it, it is hardly possible to escape the uneasiness of a certain moral inconsequence. If we consult the casuist of Common Sense he usually tells us that, in theory, Veracity can have no exceptions; but that, in practice, he is brought face to face with at least a few; and he cheerfully accepts a dispensation, when required, at the hands of Necessity. "I confess rather to an inverse experience. The theoretic reasons for certain limits to the rule of veracity appear to me unanswerable; nor can I condemn any one who acts in accordance with them. Yet when I place myself in a like position, at one of the crises demanding a deliberate lie, an unutterable repugnance returns upon me, and makes the theory seem shameful. If brought to the test, I should probably act rather as I think than as I feel,[1] without, however, being able to escape the stab of an instant compunction and the secret wound of a long humiliation. Is this the mere weakness of superstition? It may be so. But may it not also spring from an ineradicable sense of a common humanity, still leaving social ties to even social aliens, and, in the presence of an imperishable fraternal unity, forbidding to the individual of the moment the proud right of spiritual ostracism?..." [Footnote 1: No, a man who feels like that would be true in the hour of temptation. His doubt of himself is only the tremulousness of true courage.] "How could I ever face the soul I had deceived, when perhaps our relations are reversed, and he meets my sins, not with self-protective repulse, but with winning love? And if with thoughts like these there also blends that inward reverence for reality which clings to the very essence of human reason, and renders it incredible, _à priori_, that falsehood should become an implement of good, it is perhaps intelligible how there may be an irremediable discrepancy between the dioptric certainty of the understanding and the immediate insight of the conscience: not all the rays of spiritual truth are refrangible; some there are beyond the intellectual spectrum, that wake invisible response, and tremble in the dark." Dr. Martineau's definition of right and wrong is this:[1] "Every action is right, which, in presence of a lower principle, follows a higher: every action is wrong, which, in presence of a higher principle, follows a lower;" and his moral sense will not admit the possibility of falsehood being at any time higher than truth, or of veracity ever being lower than a lie. [Footnote 1: _Types of Ethical Theory_, II., 270.] Professor Thomas Fowler, of the University of Oxford, writing as a believer in the gradual evolution of morals, and basing his philosophy on experience without any recognition of _à priori_ principles, is much more nearly in accord, at this point,[1] with Martineau, than with Rothe, Hodge, and Smyth. Although he is ready to concede that a lie may, theoretically, be justifiable, he is sure that the moral sense of mankind is, at the present state of average development, against its propriety. Hence, he asserts that, even when justice might deny an answer to an improper question, "outside the limits of justice, and irrespectively of their duty to others, many persons are often restrained, and quite rightly so, from returning an untruthful or ambiguous answer by purely self-regarding feelings. They feel that to give an untruthful answer, even under such circumstances as I have supposed, would be to burden themselves with the subsequent consciousness of cowardice or lack of self-respect. And hence, whatever inconvenience or annoyance it may cost them, they tell the naked truth, rather than stand convicted to themselves of a want of courage or dignity." [Footnote 1: _Principles of Morals_, II., 159-161.] "Veracity, though this was by no means always the case," Professor Fowler continues, "has become the point of honor in the upper ranks of modern civilized societies, and hence it is invested with a sanctity which seems to attach to no other virtue; and to the uninstructed conscience of the unreflective man, the duty of telling the truth appears, of all duties, to be the only duty which never admits of any exceptions, from the unavoidable conflict with other duties." He ranges the moral sense of the "upper ranks of modern civilized societies," and "the uninstructed conscience of the unreflective man," against any tolerance of the "lie of necessity," leaving only the locality of Muhammad's coffin for those who are arrayed against the rigid moralists on this question. While he admits the theoretical possibility of the "lie of necessity," Professor Fowler concludes as to its practical expediency: "Without maintaining that there are no conceivable circumstances under which a man will be justified in committing a breach of veracity, it may at least be said that, in the lives of most men, there is no case likely to occur in which the greater social good would not be attained by the observation of the general rule to tell the truth, rather than by the recognition of an exception in favor of a lie, even though that lie were told for purely benevolent reasons." That is nearer right than the conclusions of many an inconsistent intuitionist! Leslie Stephen, a consistent agnostic, and a believer in the slow evolution of morals, in his "Science of Ethics,"[1] naturally holds, like Herbert Spencer, to the gradual development of the custom of truthfulness, as a necessity of society.[2] The moral sense of primitive man, as he sees it, might seem to justify falsehood to an _enemy_, rather than, as Rothe and Smyth would claim, to those who are _wards of love_. In illustration of this he says: "The obligation to truthfulness is [primarily] limited to relations with members of the same tribe or state; and, more generally, it is curious to observe how a kind of local or special morality is often developed in regard to this virtue. The schoolboy thinks it a duty to his fellows to lie to his master, the merchant to his customer, and the servant to his employer; and, inversely, the duty is often recognized as between members of some little clique or profession, as soon as it is seen to be important for their corporate interest, even at the expense of the wider social organization. There is honor among thieves, both of the respectable and other varieties." [Footnote 1: Leslie Stephen's _Science of Ethics_, pp. 202-209.] [Footnote 2: See pp. 26-32, _supra_.] But Leslie Stephen sees that, in the progress of the race, the importance of veracity has come to a recognition, "in which it differs from the other virtues." While the law of marriage may vary at different periods, "the rule of truthfulness, on the other hand, seems to possess the _a priori_ quality of a mathematical axiom.... Truth, in short, being always the same, truthfulness must be unvarying. Thus, 'Be truthful' means, 'Speak the truth whatever the consequences, whether the teller or the hearer receives benefit or injury.' And hence, it is inferred, truthfulness implies a quality independent of the organization of the agent or of society." While Mr. Stephen would himself find a place for the "lie of necessity" under conceivable circumstances, he is clear-minded enough to perceive that the moral sense of the civilized world is opposed to this view; and in this he is nearer correct than those who claim the opposite. It is true that those who seek an approbation of their defense of falsehoods which they deem a necessity, assume, without proof, their agreement with the moral sense of the race. But it is also true that there stands opposed to their theory the best moral sense of primitive man, as shown in a wide area of investigation, and also of thinkers all the way up from the lowest moral grade to the most rigorous moralists, including intuitionists, utilitarians, and agnostics. However deficient may be the practice of erring mortals, the ideal standard in theory, is veracity, and not falsehood. As to the opinions of purely speculative philosophers, concerning the admissibility of the "lie of necessity," they have little value except as personal opinions. This question is one that cannot be discussed fairly without relation to the nature and law of God. It is of interest, however, to note that a keen mind like Kant's insists that "the highest violation of the duty owed by man to himself, considered as a moral being singly (owed to the humanity subsisting in his person), is a departure from truth, or lying."[1] And when a man like Fichte,[2] whom Carlyle characterizes as "that cold, colossal, adamantine spirit, standing erect like a Cato Major among degenerate men; fit to have been the teacher of the Stoa, and to have discoursed of beauty and virtue in the groves of Academe," declares that no measure of evil results from truth-speaking would induce him to tell a lie, a certain moral weight attaches to his testimony. And so with all the other philosophers. No attempt at exhaustiveness in their treatment is made in this work. But the fullest force of any fresh argument made by them in favor of occasional lying is recognized so far as it is known. [Footnote 1: See Semple's _Kant's Metaphysic of Ethics_, p. 267.] [Footnote 2: See Martensen's _Christian Ethics (Individual)_, § 97.] One common misquotation from a well-known philosopher, in this line, is, however, sufficiently noteworthy for special mention here. Jacobi, in his intense theism, protests against the unqualified idealism of Fichte, and the indefinite naturalism of Schelling; and, in his famous Letter to Fichte,[1] he says vehemently: "But the Good what is it? I have no answer if there be no God. As to me, this world of phenomena--if it have all its truth in these phenomena, and no more profound significance, if it have nothing beyond itself to reveal to me--becomes a repulsive phantom, in whose presence I curse the consciousness which has called it into existence, and I invoke against it annihilation as a deity. Even so, also, everything that I call good, beautiful, and sacred, turns to a chimera, disturbing my spirit, and rending the heart out of my bosom, as soon as I assume that it stands not in me as a relation to a higher, real Being,--not a mere resemblance or copy of it in me;--when, in fine, I have within me an empty and fictitious consciousness only. I admit also that I know nothing of 'the Good _per se_,' or 'the True _per se_,' that I even have nothing but a vague notion of what such terms stand for. I declare that it revolts me when people seek to obtrude upon me the Will which wills nothing, this empty nut of independence and freedom in absolute indifference, and accuse me of atheism, the true and proper godlessness, because I show reluctance to accept it." [Footnote 1: F.H. Jacobi's _Werke_, IIIter Band, pp. 36-38.] Insisting thus that he must have the will of a personal God as a source of obligation to conform to the law of truth and virtue, and that without such a source no assumed law can be binding on him, Jacobi adds: "Yes I am the atheist, and the godless man who, in opposition to the Will that wills nothing, will lie as the lying Desdemona lied; will lie and deceive as did Pylades in passing himself off as Orestes; will commit murder as did Timoleon; break law and oath as did Epaminondas, as did John De Witt; will commit suicide as did Otho; will undertake sacrilege with David; yes and rub ears of corn on the Sabbath merely because I am an hungered, and because the law is made for man and not man for the law." Jacobi's reference, in this statement, to lying and other sins, was taken by itself as the motto to one of Coleridge's essays;[1] and this seems to have given currency to the idea that Jacobi was in favor of lying. Hence he is unfairly cited by ethical writers[2] as having declared himself for the lie of expediency; whereas the context shows that that is not his position. He is simply stating the logical consequences of a philosophy which he repudiates. [Footnote 1: Coleridge's Works: _The Friend_, Essay XV.] [Footnote 2: See, for instance, Martensen's _Christian Ethics (Individual)_, §97.] Among the false assumptions that are made by many of the advocates of the "lie of necessity" is the claim that in war, in medical practice, and in the legal profession, the propriety of falsehood and deceit, in certain cases, is recognized and admitted on all sides. While the baselessness of this claim has been pointed out, incidentally, in the progress of the foregoing discussion,[1] it would seem desirable to give particular attention to the matter in a fuller treatment of it, before closing this record of centuries of discussion. [Footnote 1: See pp. 71-75, _supra_.] It is not true that in civilized warfare there is an entire abrogation, or suspension, of the duty of truthfulness toward an enemy. There is no material difference between war and peace in this respect. Enemies, on both sides, understand that in warfare they are to kill each other if they can, by the use of means that are allowable as means; but this does not give them the privilege of doing what is utterly inconsistent with true manhood. Enemies are not bound to disclose their plans to each other. They have a duty of concealing those plans from each other. Hence, as Dorner has suggested, they proffer to each other's sight only appearances, not assurances; and it is for each to guess out, if he can, the real purpose of the other, below the appearance. An enemy can protect his borders by pitfalls, or torpedoes, or ambushes, carefully concealed from sight, in order to guard the life of his own people by destroying the life of his opponents, or may make demonstrations, before the enemy, of possible movements, in order to conceal his purposed movements; but in doing this he does only what is allowable, in effect, in time of peace.[1] [Footnote 1: Several of the illustrations of Oriental warfare in the Bible record are to be explained in accordance with this principle. Thus with the ambush set by Joshua before Ai (Josh. 8: 1-26): the Canaanites did not read aright the riddle of the Israelitish commander, and they suffered accordingly. Yet Dr. Dabney (_Theology_, p. 424) cites this as an instance of an intentional deception which was innocent in God's sight. And again, in the case recorded at 2 Kings 7: 6, where the Lord "made the host of the Syrians to hear a noise of chariots, and a noise of horses, even the noise of a great host,... and they arose and ... fled for their life," thinking that Hittite and Egyptian forces were approaching, it is evident that God simply caused the Syrians, who were contending with his people, to feel that they were fighting hopelessly against God's cause. The impression God made on their minds was a correct one. He could bring chariots and horses as a great host against them. They did well to realize this fact. But the Syrians' explanation of this impression was incorrect in its details.] A similar method of mystifying his opponent is adopted by the base-ball pitcher in his demonstrations with the ball before letting it drive at the batsman. The batsman holds himself responsible for reading the riddle of the pitcher's motions. Yet the pitcher is forbidden to deceive the batsman by a feint of delivering the ball without delivering it. If an enemy attempts any communication with his opponent, he has no right to lie to, or to deceive him. He must not draw him into an ambuscade, or over concealed torpedoes, on the plea of desiring an amicable interview with him; and his every word given to an enemy must be observed sacredly as an obligation of truth. Even before the Christian era, and centuries prior to the time when Chrysostom was confused in his mind on this point, Cicero wrote as to the obligations of veracity upon enemies in time of war, and in repudiation of the idea that warfare included a suspension of all moral relations between belligerents during active hostilities.[1] [Footnote 1: Cicero's _De Officiis_, I., 12, 13.] He said: "The equities of war are prescribed most carefully by the heralds' law (_lex fetialis_) of the Roman people," and he went on to give illustrations of the recognized duty of combatants to keep within the bounds of mutual social obligations. "Even where private persons, under stress of circumstances, have made any promise to the enemy," he said, "they should observe the exactest good faith, as did Regulus, in the first Punic war, when taken prisoner and sent to Rome to treat of the exchange of prisoners, having sworn that he would return. First, when he had arrived, he did not vote in the Senate for the return of the prisoners. Then, when his friends and kinsmen would have detained him, he preferred to go back to punishment rather than evade his faith plighted to the enemy. "In the second Punic war also, after the battle of Cannae, of the ten Romans whom Hannibal sent to Rome bound by an oath that they would return unless they obtained an agreement for the redemption of prisoners, the censors kept disfranchised those who perjured themselves, making no exception in favor of him who had devised a fraudulent evasion of his oath. For when by leave of Hannibal he had departed from the camp, he went back a little later, on pretense of having forgotten something. Then departing again from the camp [without renewing his oath], he counted himself set free from the obligation of his oath. And so he was free _so_ far as the words went, but not so in reality; for always in a promise we must have regard to the meaning of our words, rather than to the words themselves." In modern times, when Lord Clive, in India, acted on the theory that an utter lack of veracity and good faith on the part of an enemy justified a suspension of all moral obligations toward him, and practiced deceit on a Bengalee by the name of Omichund, in order to gain an advantage over the Nabob of Bengal, he was condemned by the moral sense of the nation for which he thus acted deceitfully; and, in spite of the specious arguments put forth by his partisan defenders, his name is infamous because of this transaction. "English valor and English intelligence have done less to extend and preserve our Oriental empire than English veracity," says Lord Macaulay. "All that we could have gained by imitating the doublings, the evasions, the fictions, the perjuries, which have been employed against us, is as nothing when compared with what we have gained by being the one power in India on whose word reliance can be placed. No oath which superstition can devise, no hostage however precious, inspires a hundredth part of the confidence which is produced by the 'yea, yea,' and the 'nay, nay,' of a British envoy." Therefore it is that Lord Macaulay is sure that "looking at the question of expediency in the lowest sense of the word, and using no arguments but such as Machiavelli might have employed in his conferences with Borgia, we are convinced that Clive was altogether in the wrong, and that he committed, not merely a crime but a blunder."[1] [Footnote 1: Macaulay's _Essay on Lord Clive_.] So again when an English vessel of war made signals of distress, off the coast of France, during the war with Napoleon, and thereby deceived men from the enemy into coming to its relief, and then held them as prisoners, the act was condemned by the moral sense of the world. As Woolsey says, in his "International Law:"[1] "Breach of faith between enemies has always been strongly condemned, and that vindication of it is worthless which maintains that, without an express or tacit promise to our enemy, we are not bound to keep faith with him." [Footnote 1: Sect. 133, p. 213.] The theologian who assumes that the duty of veracity is suspended between enemies in war time is ignorant of the very theory of civilized warfare; or else he fails to distinguish between justifiable concealment, by the aid of methods of mystifying, and falsehood which is never justifiable. And that commander who should attempt to justify falsehood and bad faith in warfare on the ground that it is held justifiable in certain works on Christian ethics, would incur the scorn of the civilized world for his credulity; and he would be told that it is absurd to claim that because he is entitled to kill a man in warfare it must be fair to lie to him. In the treatment of the medical profession, many writers on ethics have been as unfair, as in their misrepresentation of the general moral sense with reference to warfare. They have spoken as if "the ethics of the medical profession" had a recognized place for falsehood in the treatment of the sick. But this assumption is only an assumption. There are physicians who will lie, and there are physicians who will not lie; and in each case the individual physician acts in this matter on his own responsibility: he has no code of professional ethics justifying a lie on his part as a physician, when it would not be justifiable in a layman. Concealment of that which he has a right to conceal, is as clearly a duty, in many a case, on the part of a physician, as it is on the part of any other person; but falsehood is never a legitimate, or an allowable, means of concealment by physician or layman. As has been already stated[1] if it be once known that a physician is ever ready to speak words of cheer to a patient falsely, that physician is measurably deprived of the possibility of encouraging a patient by truthful words of cheer when he would gladly do so. And physicians would probably be surprised to know how generally they are estimated in the community according to their reputation in this matter. One is known as a man who will speak falsely to his patients as a means of encouragement, while another is known as a man who will be cautious about giving his opinion concerning chances of recovery, but who will never tell an untruth to a patient or to any other person. But in no case can a physician claim that the ethics of his profession as a profession justify him in a falsehood to any person--patient or no patient. [Footnote 1: See p. 75 f., _supra_.] A distinguished professor in one of the prominent medical colleges of this country, in denying the claim of a writer on ethics that it may become the duty of a physician to deceive his patient as a means of curing him, declares that a physician acting on this theory "will not be found in accord with the best and the highest medical teaching of the present day;" and he goes on to say:[1] "In my profession to-day, the truth properly presented, we have found, carries with it a convincing and adjusting element which does not fail to bring the afflicted person to that condition of mind that is most conducive to his physical well-being, and let me add also, I believe, to his spiritual welfare." This statement was made in connection with the declaration that in the hospital which was in his charge it is not deemed right or wise to deceive a patient as to any operation to be performed upon him. And there are other well-known physicians who testify similarly as to the ethics of their profession. [Footnote 1: In a personal communication to the author.] An illustration of the possible good results of concealing an unpleasant fact from a sick person, that has been a favorite citation all along the centuries with writers on ethics who would justify emergency falsehoods, is one which is given in his correspondence by Pliny the younger, eighteen centuries ago.[1] [Footnote 1: _Epistles of Pliny the Younger_, Book III., Epis. 16. Pliny to Nepos.] Caecinna Paetus and his son "were both at the same time attacked with what seemed a mortal illness, of which the son died.... His mother [Arria] managed his funeral so privately that Paetus did not know of his death. Whenever she came into his bedchamber, she pretended that her son was better, and, as often as he inquired after his health, would answer that he had rested well, or had eaten with an appetite. When she found she could no longer restrain her grief, but her tears were gushing out, she would leave the room, and, having given vent to her passion, return again with dry eyes and a serene countenance, as if she had dismissed every sentiment of sorrow." This Roman matron also committed suicide, as an encouragement to her husband whom she desired to have put an end to his own life, when he was likely to have it taken from him by the executioner; and Pliny commends her nobleness of conduct in both cases. It is common among ethical writers, in citing this instance in favor of lying, to say nothing about the suicide, and to omit mention of the fact that the mother squarely lied, by saying that her dead boy had eaten a good breakfast, instead of employing language that might have been the truth as far as it went, while it concealed that portion of the truth which she thought it best to conceal. It is common to quote her as simply saying of her son" He is better;"[1] quite a different version from Pliny's, and presenting a different issue. [Footnote 1: See Newman Smyth's _Christian Ethics_, p. 395, where this case is stated with vagueness of phrase, and as thus stated is approved.] It was perfectly proper for that mother to conceal the signs of her sorrow from her sick husband, who had no right to know the truth concerning matters outside of his sick-room at such a time. And if, indeed, she could say in all sincerity, as expressive of her feelings in the death of her son, by the will of the gods, "He is better," it would have been possible for her to feel that she was entitled to say that as the truth, and not as a falsehood; and in that case she would not have intended a deceit, but only a concealment. But when, on the other hand, she told a deliberate lie--spoke falsely in order to deceive--she committed a sin in so doing, and her sin was none the less a sin because it resulted in apparent good to her husband. An illustration does not overturn a principle, but it may misrepresent it. Another illustration, on the other side of the case, is worth citing here. Victor Hugo pictures, in his _Les Miserables_,[1] a sister of charity adroitly concealing facts from a sick person in a hospital, while refusing to tell a falsehood even for the patient's good. "Never to have told a falsehood, never to have said for any advantage, or even indifferently, a thing which was not the truth, the holy truth, was the characteristic feature of Sister Simplice." She had taken the name of Simplice through special choice. "Simplice, of Sicily, our readers will remember, is the saint who sooner let her bosom be plucked out than say she was a native of Segeste, as she was born at Syracuse, though the falsehood would have saved her. Such a patron saint suited this soul." And in speaking of Sister Simplice, as never having told even "a white lie," Victor Hugo quotes a letter from the Abbé Sicard, to his deaf-mute pupil Massieu, on this point: "Can there be such a thing as a white lie, an innocent lie? Lying is the absolute of evil. Lying a little is not possible. The man who lies tells the whole lie. Lying is the face of the fiend; and Satan has two names,--he is called Satan and Lying." Victor Hugo the romancer would seem to be a safer guide, so far, for the physician or the nurse in the sick-room, than Pliny the rhetorician, or Rothe the theologian.[2] [Footnote 1: Book VII.] [Footnote 2: Yet Victor Hugo afterwards represents even Sister Simplice as lying unqualifiedly, when sorely tempted--although not in the sick-room.] A well-known physician, in speaking to me of this subject, said: "It is not so difficult to avoid falsehood in dealing with anxious patients as many seem to suppose. _Tact_, as well as _principle_, will do a good deal to help a physician out, in an emergency. I have never seen any need of lying, in my practice." And yet another physician, who had been in a widely varied practice for forty years, said that he had never found it necessary to tell a lie to a patient; although he thought he might have done so if he had deemed it necessary to save a patient's life. In other words, while he admitted the possible justification of an "emergency lie," he had never found a first-class opening for one in his practice. And he added, that he knew very well that if he had been known to lie to his patients, his professional efficiency, as well as his good name, would have suffered. Medical men do not always see, in their practice, the supposed advantages of lying, which have so large prominence in the minds of ethical writers. Another profession, which is popularly and wrongly accused of having a place for the lie in its system of ethics, is the legal profession. Whewell refers to this charge in his "Elements of Morality" (citing Paley in its support). He says: "Some moralists have ranked with the cases in which convention supersedes the general rule of truth, an advocate asserting the justice, or his belief in the justice, of his client's cause." But as to an advocate's right in this matter, Whewell says explicitly: "If, in pleading, he assert his belief that his cause is just, when he believes it unjust, he offends against truth; as any other man would do who, in like manner, made a like assertion."[1] [Footnote 1: Whewell's _Elements of Morality_, § 400.] Chief-Justice Sharswood, of Pennsylvania, in his standard work on "Legal Ethics," cites this opinion of Whewell with unqualified approval; and, in speaking for the legal profession, he says: "No counsel can with propriety and good conscience express to court or jury his belief in the justice of his client's cause, contrary to the fact. Indeed, the occasions are very rare in which he ought to throw the weight of his private opinion into the scales in favor of the side he has espoused." Calling attention to the fact that the official oath of an attorney, on his admission to the bar, in the state of Pennsylvania, includes the specific promise to "use no falsehood," he says: "Truth in all its simplicity--truth to the court, client, and adversary--should be indeed the polar star of the lawyer. The influence of only slight deviations from truth upon professional character is very observable. A man may as well be detected in a great as a little lie. A single discovery, among professional brethren, of a failure of truthfulness, makes a man the object of distrust, subjects him to constant mortification, and soon this want of confidence extends itself beyond the Bar to those who employ the Bar. That lawyer's case is truly pitiable, upon the escutcheon of whose honesty or truth rests the slightest tarnish."[1] [Footnote 1: Sharswood's _Essay on Professional Ethics_, pp. 57, 99,102,167 f.] As illustrative of the carelessness with which popular charges against an entire profession are made the basis of reflections upon the ethical standard of that profession, the comments of Dr. Hodge on this matter are worthy of particular notice. In connection with his assertion that "the principles of professional men allow of many things which are clearly inconsistent with the requirements of the ninth commandment," he says: "Lord Brougham is reported to have said, in the House of Lords, that an advocate knows no one but his client. He is bound _per fas et nefas_, if possible, to clear him. If necessary for the accomplishment of that object, he is at liberty to accuse and defame the innocent, and even (as the report stated) to ruin his country. It is not unusual, especially in trials for murder, for the advocates of the accused to charge the crime on innocent parties and to exert all their ingenuity to convince the jury of their guilt." And Dr. Hodge adds the note that "Lord Brougham, according to the public papers, uttered these sentiments in vindication of the conduct of the famous Irish advocate Phillips, who on the trial of Courvoisier for the murder of Lord Russell, endeavored to fasten the guilt on the butler and housemaid, whom he knew to be innocent, as his client had confessed to him that he had committed the murder."[1] [Footnote 1: Hodge's _Systematic Theology_, III., 439.] Now the facts, in the two very different cases thus erroneously intermingled by Dr. Hodge, as given by Justice Sharswood,[1] present quite another aspect from that in which Dr. Hodge sees them, as bearing on the accepted ethics of the legal profession. It would appear that Lord Brougham was not speaking in defense of another attorney's action, but in defense of his own course as attorney of Queen Caroline, thirty years before the Courvoisier murder trial. As Justice Sharswood remarks of Lord Brougham's "extravagant" claims: "No doubt he was led by the excitement of so great an occasion to say what cool reflection and sober reason certainly never can approve." Yet Lord Brougham does not appear to have suggested, in his claim, that a lawyer had a right to falsify the facts involved, or to utter an untruth. He was speaking of his supposed duty to defend his client, the Queen, against the charges of the King, regardless of the consequences to himself or to his country through his advocacy of her cause, which he deemed a just one. [Footnote 1: Sharswood's _Legal Ethics_, p. 86 f.] And as to the charge against the eminent advocate, Charles Phillips, of seeking to fasten the crime on the innocent, when he knew that his client was guilty, in the trial of Courvoisier for the murder of Lord Russell, that charge was overwhelmingly refuted by the testimony of lawyers and judges present at that trial. Mr. Phillips supposed his client an innocent man until the trial was nearly concluded. Then came the unexpected confession from the guilty man, accompanied by the demand that his counsel continue in his case to the end. At first Mr. Phillips proposed to retire at once from the case; but, on advising with eminent counsel, he was told that it would be wrong for him to betray the prisoner's confidence, and practically to testify against him, by deserting him at that hour. He then continued in the case, but, as is shown conclusively in his statement of the facts, with its accompanying proofs, without saying a word or doing a thing that might properly be deemed in the realm of false assertion or intimations.[1] [Footnote 1: See Sharswood's _Legal Ethics_, pp. 103-107, 183-196.] The very prominence given in the public press to the charges against Mr. Phillips, and to their refutation, are added proof that the moral sense of the community is against falsehood under any circumstances or in any profession. Members of the legal profession are bound by the same ethical obligations as other men; yet the civil law, in connection with which they practice their profession, is not in all points identical with the moral law; although it is not in conflict with any of its particulars. As Chancellor Kent says: "Human laws are not so perfect as the dictates of conscience, and the sphere of morality is more enlarged than the limits of civil jurisdiction. There are many duties that belong to the class of imperfect obligations, which are binding on conscience, but which human laws do not and cannot undertake directly to enforce. But when the aid of a Court of Equity is sought to carry into execution ... a contract, then the principles of ethics have a more extensive sway."[1] [Footnote 1: Kent's _Commentaries_, Lect. 39, p. 490 f. (4th ed.); cited in Story's _Equity Jurisprudence_, VI., p. 229 (13th ed.).] In the decisions of Equity courts, while the duty of absolute truthfulness between parties in interest is insisted on as vital, and a suppression of the truth from one who had a right to its knowledge, or a suggestion of that which is untrue in a similar case("_suggestio falsi aut suppressio veri_"), is deemed an element of fraud, the distinction between mere silence when one is entitled to be silent, and concealment with the purpose of deception, is distinctly recognized, as it is not in all manuals on ethics.[1] This is indicated, on the one hand, in the legal maxim _Aliud est celare, aliud tacere_,--"It is one thing to conceal, another to be silent;" silence is not necessarily deceptive concealment;[2] and on the other hand in such a statement as this, in Benjamin's great work on Sales: "The nondisclosure of hidden facts [to a party in interest] is the more objectionable when any artifice is employed to throw the buyer off his guard; as by telling half the truth."[3] It is not in any principles which are recognized by the legal profession as binding on the conscience, that loose ethics are to find defense or support. [Footnote 1: See Bispham's _Principles of Equity_, p. 261, (3d ed.); Broom's _Legal Maxims_, p. 781 f. (7th Am. ed.); Merrill's _American and English Encyclopedia of Law_, art. "Fraud."] [Footnote 2: See Anderson's _Dictionary of Law_, p. 220; Abbott's _Law Dictionary_, I., 53.] [Footnote 3: _Treatise on the Law of Sale of Personal Property_, p. 451 f.] But the profession that has most at stake in this discussion, and that, indeed, is most involved in its issue, is the ministerial, or clerical, profession. While it was Jewish rabbis who affirmed most positively, in olden time, the unwavering obligations of truthfulness, it was Jewish rabbis, also, who sought to find extenuation or excuse for falsehoods uttered with a good intention. And while it was Christian Fathers, like the Shepherd of Hermas, and Justin Martyr, and Basil the Great, and Augustine, who insisted that no tolerance should be allowed to falsehood or deceit, it was also Christian Fathers, like Gregory of Nyssa, and Chrysostom, who having practiced deceit for what they deemed a good end, first attempted a special plea for such falsities as they had found convenient in their professional labors. And it was other Christian Fathers, like Origen and Jerome, who sought to find arguments for laxity of practice, at this point, in the course of the Apostles themselves. All the way along the centuries, while the strongest defenders of the law of truthfulness have been found among clergymen, more has been written in favor of the lie of necessity by clergymen than by men of any other class or profession. And if it be true, as many of these have claimed, that deceit and falsehood are a duty, on the part of a God-loving teacher, toward those persons who, through weakness, or mental incapacity, or moral obliquity, are in the relation to him of wards of love, or of subjects of guardianship, there is no profession in which there is more of a call for godly deception, and for holy falsehood, than the Christian ministry. If it be true that a lie, or a falsehood, is justifiable in order to the saving of the physical life of another, how much better were it to tell such a lie in the loving desire to save a soul. If the lie of necessity be allowable for any purpose, it would seem to be more important as a means of good in the exercise of the ministerial profession, than of any other profession or occupation. And if it be understood that this is the case, what dependence can be put, by the average hearer, on the most earnest words of a preacher, who may be declaring a truth from God, and who, on the other hand, may be uttering falsehoods in love? And if it be true, also, as some of these clergymen have claimed, that God specifically approved falsehood and deception, according to the Bible record, and that Jesus Christ practiced in this line, while here on earth, what measure of confidence can fallible man place in the sacred text as it has come to him? The statement of this view of the case, is the best refutation of the claim of a possible justification for the most loving lie imaginable. The only other point remaining untouched, in this review of the centuries of discussion concerning the possible justifiableness of a lie under conceivable circumstances, is in its relation to the lower animals. It has been claimed that "all admit" that there is no impropriety in using any available means for the decoying of fish or of beasts to their death, or in saving one's self from an enraged animal; hence that a lie is not to be counted as a sin _per se_, but depends for its moral value on the relation subsisting between its utterer and the one toward whom it is uttered. Dr. Dabney, who is far less clear and sound than Dr. Thornwell in his reasoning on this ethical question, says: "I presume that no man would feel himself guilty for deceiving a mad dog in order to destroy him;"[1] and he argues from this assumption that when a man, through insanity or malice, "is not a rational man, but a brute," he may fairly be deemed as outside of the pale of humanity, so far as the obligations of veracity, viewed only as a social virtue, are concerned. [Footnote 1: Dabney's _Theology_ (second edition), p. 425 f.] Dr. Newman Smyth expands this idea.[1] He says: "We may say that animals, strictly speaking, can have no immediate right to our words of truth, since they belong below the line of existence which marks the beginning of any functions of speech." He adds that animals "may have direct claims upon our humanity, and so indirectly put us under obligations to give them straightforward and fair treatment," and that "truthfulness to the domestic animal, to the horse or the dog, is to be included as a part of our general obligation of kindness to creatures that are entirely dependent upon our fidelity to them and their wants." But he cites the driving of horses with blinders,[2] and the fishing for trout with artificial flies, as evidence of the fact that man recognizes no sinfulness in the deceiving of the lower animals, and hence that the duty of veracity is not one of universal obligation. [Footnote 1: Smyth's _Christian Ethics_, p. 398.] [Footnote 2: Here is another illustration of Dr. Smyth's strange confusion of concealment with deception. It would seem as though a man must have blinders before his own eyes, to render him incapable of perceiving the difference between concealing a possible cause of fright from an animal, and intentionally deceiving that animal.] If, indeed, the duty of truthfulness were only a social obligation, there might be a force in this reasoning that is lacking when we see that falsehood and deceit are against the very nature of God, and are a violation of man's primal nature. A lie is a sin, whenever and however and to whomsoever spoken or acted. It is a sin against God when uttered in his sight. Man is given authority from God over all the lower animals;[1] and he is empowered to take their lives, if necessary for his protection or for his sustenance. In the exercise of this right, man is entitled to conceal from the animals he would kill or capture the means employed for the purpose; as he is entitled to conceal similarly from his fellow-man, when he is authorized to kill him as an enemy, in time of war waged for God. Thus it is quite proper for a man to conceal the hook or the net from the fish, or the trap or the pitfall from the beast; but it is not proper to deceive an animal by an imitation of the cry of the animal's offspring in order to lure that animal to its destruction; and the moral sense of the human race makes this distinction. [Footnote 1: Gen. 1:28; 9:1-3.] An illustration that has been put forward, as involving a nice question in the treatment of an animal, is that of going toward a loose horse with a proffered tuft of grass in one hand, and a halter for his capture concealed behind the back in the other hand. It is right to conceal the halter, and to proffer the grass, provided they are used severally in their proper relations. If the grass be held forth as an assurance of the readiness of the man to provide for the needs of the horse, and it be given to him when he comes for it, there is no deception practiced so far; and if, when horse and man are thus on good terms, the man brings out the halter for its use in the relation of master and servitor between the two, that also is proper, and the horse would so understand it. But if the man were to refuse the grass to the horse, when the two had come together, and were to substitute for it the halter, the man would do wrong, and the horse would recognize the fact, and not be caught again in that way. Even a writer like Professor Bowne, who is not quite sure as to the right in all phases of the lying question, sees this point in its psychological aspects to better advantage than those ethical writers who would look at the duty of truthfulness as mainly a social virtue: "Even in cases where we regard truth as in our own power," he says, "there are considerations of expediency which are by no means to be disregarded. There is first the psychological fact that inexactness of statement, exaggeration, unreality in speech, are sure to react upon the mental habit of the person himself, and upon the estimate in which his statements are held by others. In dealing with children, also, however convenient a romancing statement might momentarily be, it is unquestionable that exact truthfulness is the only way which does not lead to mischief. Even in dealing with animals, it pays in the long run to be truthful. The horse that is caught once by false pretenses will not be long in finding out the trick. The physician also who dissembles, quickly comes to lose the confidence of his patient, and has thereafter no way of getting himself believed."[1] [Footnote 1: Bowne's _Principles of Ethics_, p. 224.] The main question is not whether it is fair toward an animal for a man to lie to him, but whether it is fair toward a man's self, or toward God the maker of animals and of men, for a man to lie to an animal. A lie has no place, even theoretically, in the universe, unless it be in some sphere where God has no cognizance and man has no individuality. * * * * * It were useless to follow farther the ever-varying changes of the never-varying reasonings for the justification of the unjustifiable "lie of necessity" in the course of the passing centuries. It is evident that the specious arguments put forth by young Chrysostom, in defense of his inexcusable lie of love fifteen centuries ago, have neither been added to nor improved on by any subsequent apologist of lying and deception. The action of Chrysostom is declared by his biographers to be "utterly at variance with the principles of truth and honor," one which "every sound Christian conscience must condemn;" yet those modern ethical writers who find force and reasonableness in his now venerable though often-refuted fallacies, are sure that the moral sense of the race is with Chrysostom. Every man who recognizes the binding force of intuitions of a primal law of truthfulness, and who gives weight to _à priori_ arguments for the unchanging opposition of truth and falsehood, either admits, in his discussion of this question, that a lie is never justifiable, or he is obviously illogical and inconsistent in his processes of reasoning, and in his conclusions. Even those who deny any _à priori_ argument for the superiority of truthfulness over falsehood, and whose philosophy rests on the experimental evidence of the good or evil of a given course, are generally inclined to condemn any departure from strict truthfulness as in its tendencies detrimental to the interests of society, aside from any question of its sinfulness. The only men who are thoroughly consistent in their arguments in favor of occasional lying, are those who start with the false premise that there is no higher law of ethics than that of such a love for one's neighbor as will make one ready to do whatever seems likely to advantage him in the present life. Centuries of discussion have only brought out with added clearness the essential fact that a lie is eternally opposed to the truth; and that he who would be a worthy child of the Father of truth must refuse to employ, under any circumstances, modes of speech and action which belong exclusively to the "father of lies." VII. THE GIST OF THE MATTER. It would seem that the one all-dividing line in the universe, which never changes or varies, is the line between the true and the false, between the truth and a lie. All other lines of distinction, such even as those which separate good from evil, light from darkness, purity from impurity, love from hate, are in a sense relative and variable lines, taking their decisive measure from this one primal and eternal dividing line. This is the one line which goes back of our very conception of a personal God, or which is inherent in that conception. We cannot conceive of God as God, unless we conceive of him as the true God, and the God of truth. If there be any falsity in him, he is not the true God. Truth is of God's very nature. To admit in our thought that a lie is of God, is to admit that falsity is in him, or, in other words, that he is a false god. A lie is the opposite of truth, and a being who will lie stands opposed to God, who by his very nature cannot lie. Hence he who lies takes a stand, by that very act, in opposition to God. Therefore if it be necessary at any time to lie, it is necessary to desert God and be in hostility to him so long as the necessity for lying continues. If there be such a thing as a sin _per se_, a lie is that thing; as a lie is, in its very nature, in hostility to the being of God. Whatever, therefore, be the temptation to lie, it is a temptation to sin by lying. Whatever be the seeming gain to result from a lie, it is the seeming gain from a sin. Whatever be the apparent cost or loss from refusing to lie, it is the apparent cost or loss from refusing to sin. Man, formed in the moral image of God, is so far a representative of God. If a man lies, he misrepresents and dishonors God, and must incur God's disapproval because of his course. This fact is recognized in the universal habit of appealing to God in witness of the truthfulness of a statement, when there is room for doubt as to its correctness. The feeling is general that a man who believes in God will not lie unto God under the solemnity of an oath. If, however, it were possible for God to approve a lie on the part of one of his children, then that child of God might confidently make solemn oath to the truth of his lie, appealing to God to bear witness to the lie--which in God's mind is, in this case, better than the truth. In God's sight an oath is no more sacred than a yea, yea; and every child of God speaks always as in the sight of God. Perjury is no more of an immorality than ordinary lying; nor is ordinary lying any less a sin than formal perjury. The sin of lying consists primarily and chiefly in its inconsistency with the nature of God and with the nature of God's image in man. It is not mainly as a sin against one's neighbor, but it is as a sin against God and one's self, that a lie is ever and always a sin. If it were possible to lie without harming or offending one's neighbor, or even if it were possible to benefit one's fellow-man by a lie, no man could ever tell a lie, under any circumstances or for any purpose whatsoever, without doing harm to his own nature, and offending against God's very being. If a lie comes out of a man on any inducement or provocation, or for any purpose of good, that man is the worse for it. The lie is evil, and its coming out of the man is harmful to him. "The things which proceed out of the man are those that defile the man,"[1] said our Lord; and the experience of mankind bears witness to the correctness of this asseveration. [Footnote 1: Mark 7:15.] Yet, although the main sin and guilt and curse of a lie are ever on him who utters that lie, whatever be his motive in so doing, the evil consequences of lying are immeasurable in the community as a community; and whoever is guilty of a new lie adds to the burden of evil that weighs down society, and that tends to its disintegration and ruin. The bond of society is confidence. A lie is inconsistent with confidence; and the knowledge that a lie is, under certain circumstances, deemed proper by a man, throws doubt on all that that man says or does under any circumstances. No matter why or where the one opening for an allowable lie be made in the reservoir of public confidence, if it be made at all, the final emptying of that reservoir is merely a question of time. To-day, as in all the days, the chief need of men, for themselves and for their fellows, is a likeness to God in the impossibility of lying; and the chief longing of the community is for such confidence of men in one another as will give them assurance that they will not lie one to another. There was never yet a lie uttered which did not bring more of harm than of good; nor will there ever be a harmless lie, while God is Truth, and Satan is the father of lies. TOPICAL INDEX. Abbé Sicard: cited Abbott, Benjamin V.; cited Abohab, Isaac: quotation from Abraham: his deceiving Achilles, truthfulness of Act and speech, lying in Advantages of lying, supposed Africans, truthfulness among Ahab's false prophets Ahriman, father of lies American Indians, habits of Ananias and Sapphira Anderson, Rasmus B.: cited Animals, deception of Aquinas, Thomas: cited Arabs, influence of civilization on Aristotle: cited Army prison life, incidents in Augustine: cited Aurelius, Marcus: cited Bailey: cited Barrow, Sir John: cited Base-ball, concealment in Basil, friend of Chrysostom Basil the Great: cited Baumgarten-Crusius: cited Benjamin, Judah P.: cited Bergk, Theodor: cited Bethlehem, Samuel at Bheels, estimate of truth by Bible: principles, not rules, in first record of lie in story of man's "fall" in standard of right forbids lying Bible teachings on lying Bingham, Joseph: cited Bispham, George T.: cited Bock, Carl: cited Bowne, B.P., quotation from Boyle, F.: cited Brahmans, estimate of truth by Briggs and Salmond: cited Broom, Dr. Herbert: cited Brougham, Lord: cited Budge, E.A.: cited Bunsen, C.K.J,; cited Burton, Richard: cited, 30. Caecinna Paetus: cited Calvin, John: cited Carlyle, Thomas: cited Cartwright, William C.: cited Chastity, lying to save Children's right to truth Choosing between duties Christ, example of Christian ethics, basis of Christian Fathers, discussion by Christians, early, discussion by Chrysostom: cited Cicero: cited Clergymen, position of Clive, Lord: cited Coleridge, S.T.: cited Concealment, justifiable Concealment, unjustifiable Confidence essential to society Contract, overpressing theory of Conway, Moncure D.: cited Court, oath in Courvoisier, trial of Crime, lying to prevent Cyprian: cited Dabney, Dr. R.L.: cited Darius, inscription of David: his deceiving "Deans, Jeanie," story of Deception: antagonistic to nature of God among Phoenicians by Hebrew midwives by Rahab by Jacob Samuel charged with Micah charged with by Abraham by Isaac by David by Ananias and Sapphira in speech and in act concealment not necessarily purposed and resultant of lower animals in medical profession of insane in flag of truce teaching of Talmudists as to Peter and Paul charged with teaching of Jesuits of the intoxicated Elisha charged with Joshua charged with in legal profession in ministerial profession, Definitions of lie Denham: cited De Wette: cited Dick, Dr., quotation from Dorner, Dr. Isaac A.: cited Drona, story of Yudhishthira and Duns Scotus: cited Duty: of truthfulness; of disclosure, conditional; choosing of more important; of right concealment; to God not to be counted out. Dyaks; their truthfulness Earl, G.W.: cited Early Christians, temptations of East Africans, estimate of truth by Egyptian idea of deity synonymous with truth Elisha and Syrians Enemy, duty of truthfulness to Esau, deceit practiced on Eunomius: cited Evil as a means of good Exigency, lie of (see _Lie of Necessity_) False impressions, limit of responsibility for Falsehood: estimate of, in India; in Ceylon; in Persia; in Egypt; "Punic faith," synonym of; in medical profession; its use as means of good; spoken in love; in legal profession. Family troubles, concealment of Fichte: cited Firmus, Bishop: cited Flag of truce, sending of Flatt: cited Forsyth, Capt. J.: cited Fowler, Professor: cited Frankness, brutal Fridthjof and Ingeborg, story of Fürstenthal, R.J.: cited German ideal of truth Glasfurd: cited God: killing, but not lying, a possibility with; cannot lie; his concealments from man; is truth; called to witness lie; Greeks, ancient: their estimate of truth Gregory of Nyssa: cited "Hall of two truths" Hamburger, Dr. I.: cited Hannibal: cited Harischandra, story of Harkness, Capt. Henry: cited Harless: cited Hartenstein: cited Heber, Bishop: cited Hebrew midwives Hebrew spies Hegel: cited Heralds' law Herbart: cited Hennas, Shepherd of: cited Herodotus: cited Hill Tribes of India: their estimate of truth Hindoo; estimate of truth; passion-play. Hodge, Dr. Charles; cited "Home of Song" "Home of the Lie" Hottentot, estimate of truth Hugo, Victor: cited Hunter, W.W.: cited Ilai, Rabbi: cited Iliad, estimate of truth in Indians, American, influence of civilization on Ingeborg and Fridthjof of, story of Innocent III.: cited Insane: lying to their right to truth Inscription of Darius Intoxicated, the: their right to truth Isaac: his deceiving Isaac, Jacob, and Esau Ishmael, Rabbi: cited Jackson, Prof. A.V.W.: cited Jacob: his deceiving his lie to Isaac Jacobi, F.H.: cited Javanese: their truthfulness Jehoshaphat and Ahab Jehuda, Rabbi: cited Jerome: cited Jesuits, teaching of Jewish Talmudists, discussions of Johnson's Cyclopaedia: cited Judith and Holofernes Justin Martyr: cited Juvenal: cited Kant, Immanuel: cited Keating, W.H.: cited Kent, Chancellor: cited Khonds of Central India, truthfulness among Killing an enemy or lying to him Kirkbride, Dr. Thomas S., testimony of Kolben, P.: cited Krause: cited Kurtz, Prof. J.H.: cited Lamberton, Prof. W.A.: cited Lecky, W.E.H.: cited Legal profession, ethics of Legends, Scandinavian Liar: an enemy of righteousness form of prayer for Liars, place of Libby Prison, incident of Lichtenberger, F.: cited Life, losing of truth to save Life insurance, truthfulness in Lightfoot, Bishop: cited Liguori: cited Livingstone, David: cited Logic swayed by feeling Loyola, Ignatius: cited Luther, Martin: cited MA, symbol of Truth Macaulay, Lord, on Lord Clive's treachery Macpherson, Lieutenant: cited Mahabharata on lying Mahaffy, Prof. J.P.: cited Mandingoes: their estimate of truth Marcus Aurelius, quotation from Marheineke: cited Marriage, duty of truthfulness in connection with Marshman, Joshua: cited Martensen, Hans Lassen: cited Martineau, Dr. James, quotations from Martyrdom price of truth-telling Mead, Professor: cited Medical profession, no justifiable falsehood in Melanchthon: cited _Menorath Hammaor_, reference to Merrill, J.H.: cited Meyer, Dr. H.A.W.: cited Meyrick, Rev. F.: cited Micaiah, story of Midwives, Hebrew, lies of Mithra, god of truth Moore, William: cited Moral sense of man against lying Morgan: cited Müller, Julius: cited Müller, Prof. Max: cited Murderer, concealment from would-be Nathan, Rabbi: cited Neander: cited Nitzsch: cited Oath of witness in court Omichund, deceit practiced on One all-dividing line Origen: cited Ormuzd, Zoroastrian god of truth Paley, Dr.: definition of lie Palgrave, W.G.: cited Paradise, two pictures of Park, Mungo: cited Pascal: cited Passion-play, Hindoo Patagonians: their view of lying Patient, deception of, by physician Paul and Peter: suggestion of their deceiving Perjury justifiable, if lying be Persian ideals Peter and Paul: suggestion of their deceiving Phillips, Charles, misrepresented Philoctetes, tragedy of Phoenicians: their untruthfulness Physician, lying by Pindar: cited Place of liars Plato: cited Pliny the younger: cited Pope Innocent III.: cited Prayer, form of, for liar Principles, not rules, Bible standard Priscillianists, sect of Prophets, lying Plan, lord of truth "Punic faith," synonym of falsehood Pylades and Orestes Quaker and salesman "Quaker guns," concealment by means of Ra, symbol of light Raba: cited Raffles, Sir T.S.: cited Rahab the harlot, lying of Rawlinson, Prof. George: cited Reinhard: cited Responsibility, limit of Robber: concealment from lying to Roberts, Joseph, quotation from Rock of Behistun, inscription on Roman Catholic writers, views of Roman matron, story of: cited by Pliny Roman standard of truthfulness Rothe, Richard: cited St. John, Sir Spencer: cited Samuel at Bethlehem Sapphira: her deceiving Satan, "father of lies" Sayce, Prof. A.H.: cited Scandinavian legends Schaff, Dr. Philip: cited Schaff-Hertzog: cited Schleiermacher: cited Schoolcraft, H.R.: cited Schwartz: cited Scott Sir Walter: cited Self-deception in others, limit of responsibility for Semple, J.W.: cited Sharswood, Chief-Justice: cited Shepherd of Hermas, quotation from Sherwill: cited Shorn, Dr. J.: cited Sick: their right to truth Simplice, Sister, story of Sin _per se_, lying Smith and Cheetham: cited Smith and Wace: cited Smyth, Dr. Newman: cited Sonthals, truthfulness among South, Dr. Robert: cited Sowrahs, truthfulness among Speech and act, lying in Spencer, Herbert: cited Spies, Hebrew, Rahab and Spy denied soldier's death Stephen, Leslie: cited Story, Justice: cited Surgeon's responsibility for his action testimony as to deceiving patient Symonds J.A.: cited Syrians, Elisha and Talmud, teachings of Talmudists, discussion among Taylor, Jeremy; cited Teaching of Jesuits Temptations influencing decision Tertullian: cited Theognis: cited Thornwell, Dr. James H.: cited Tipperahs: their habit of lying Todas, truthfulness among Tragedy of Philoctetes Truce, flag of, use of Truth: universal duty of telling God is not every one entitled to full dearer than life justifiable concealment of unjustifiable concealment of Truth, estimate of: among Hindoos among Scandinavians in ancient Persia in ancient Egypt among Romans among ancient Greeks among ancient Germans among Hill Tribes of India among Arabs among American Indians among Patagonians among Africans among Dyaks among Veddahs among Javanese Ueberweg, F.: cited Ulysses, reference to Urim and Thummim Veddahs of Ceylon: their truthfulness Veracity: duty of of Greeks of Persians of primitive and civilized peoples compared of Hill Tribes of India of Arabs of American Indians of Africans of Dyaks of Veddahs of Javanese Viswamitra and Indra, story of Von Ammon: cited Von Hirscher: cited Walker, Helen, example of War: justifiable concealment in duty of veracity in Westcott, Bishop: cited Wheeler, J. Talboys; cited Whewell, Dr. William: cited "White lie" Wig, concealment by Wilkinson, Sir J.G.: cited Witness, oath of, in court Woolsey, President: cited Wuttke, Dr. Adolf: cited Yudhishthira and Drona, mythical story of Zoroastrian designation of heaven and hell _SCRIPTURAL INDEX_. GENESIS. 1: 28 2 and 3 3: 6, 7 9: 1-3 12: 10-19 12: 14-20 16: 1-6 25: 27-34 26: 6-10 27: 1-40 27: 6-29 28: 1-22 39: 8-21 EXODUS. 1: 15-19 1: 15-21 1: 19, 20 1: 20, 21 LEVITICUS. 8: 8 18: 5 19: 2, 12, 13, 34-37 19: 11 NUMBERS. 23: 19 DEUTERONOMY. 29: 29 JOSHUA. 2: 1-21 8: 1-26 24: 3 1 SAMUEL. 7: 15-17 9: 22-24 11: 14, 15 13: 14 15: 29 16: 1, 2 16: 1-3 20: 29 21: 1, 2 2 SAMUEL. 11: 1-27 1 KINGS. 22: 1-23 2 KINGS. 6: 14-20 7: 6 20: 12-19 2 CHRONICLES. 18: 1-34 20: 7 PSALMS. 31: 5 58: 3 62: 4 63: 11 101: 7 116: 11 120: 2 146: 6 PROVERBS. 6: 16, 17 14: 5 19: 5, 9, 22 ISAIAH. 41: 8 51: 2 MATTHEW. 3: 9 MARK. 6: 48 7: 15 LUKE. 24: 28 JOHN. 7: 8 8: 44 14: 6 16: 12 ACTS. 5: 1-11 13: 22 ROMANS. 3: 4 3: 7, 8 4: 12 GALATIANS. 2: 11-14 3: 9 EPHESIANS. 4: 25 COLOSSIANS. 3: 9 TITUS. 1: 2 HEBREWS. 6: 18 11: 31 JAMES. 2: 23 1 JOHN. 5: 7 REVELATION. 21: 5-8 22 
33432	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations in color. See 33432-h.htm or 33432-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33432/33432-h/33432-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33432/33432-h.zip) MR. MUNCHAUSEN [Illustration] MR. MUNCHAUSEN _Being a TRUE ACCOUNT of some of the RECENT ADVENTURES beyond the STYX of the late HIERONYMUS CARL FRIEDRICH, sometime BARON MUNCHAUSEN of BODENWERDER, as originally reported for the SUNDAY EDITION of the GEHENNA GAZETTE by its SPECIAL INTERVIEWER the late Mr. ANANIAS formerly of JERUSALEM and now first transcribed from the columns of that JOURNAL by_ JOHN KENDRICK BANGS Embellished with Drawings by Peter Newell [Illustration] Boston: _Printed for Noyes, Platt & Company and published by them at their offices in the Pierce Building in Copley Square_, A.D. 1901 Copyright, 1901, by Noyes, Platt & Company, (Incorporated) Entered at Stationers' Hall The lithographed illustrations are printed in eight colours by George H. Walker and Company, Boston Press of Riggs Printing and Publishing Co. Albany, N. Y., U. S. A. EDITOR'S APOLOGY _and_ DEDICATION _In order that there may be no misunderstanding as to the why and the wherefore of this collection of tales it appears to me to be desirable that I should at the outset state my reasons for acting as the medium between the spirit of the late Baron Munchausen and the reading public. In common with a large number of other great men in history Baron Munchausen has suffered because he is not understood. I have observed with wondering surprise the steady and constant growth of the idea that Baron Munchausen was not a man of truth; that his statements of fact were untrustworthy, and that as a realist he had no standing whatsoever. Just how this misconception of the man's character has arisen it would be difficult to say. Surely in his published writings he shows that same lofty resolve to be true to life as he has seen it that characterises the work of some of the high Apostles of Realism, who are writing of the things that will teach future generations how we of to-day ordered our goings-on. The note of veracity in Baron Munchausen's early literary venturings rings as clear and as true certainly as the similar note in the charming studies of Manx Realism that have come to us of late years from the pen of Mr. Corridor Walkingstick, of Gloomster Abbey and London. We all remember the glow of satisfaction with which we read Mr. Walkingstick's great story of the love of the clergyman, John Stress, for the charming little heroine, Glory Partridge. Here was something at last that rang true. The picture was painted in the boldest of colours, and, regardless of consequences to himself, Mr. Walkingstick dared to be real when he might have given rein to his imagination. Mr. Walkingstick was, thereupon, lifted up by popular favour to the level of an apostle--nay, he even admitted the soft impeachment--and now as a moral teacher he is without a rival in the world of literature. Yet the same age that accepts this man as a moral teacher, rejects Baron Munchausen, who, in different manner perhaps, presented to the world as true and life-like a picture of the conditions of his day as that given to us by Mr. Walkingstick in his deservedly popular romance, "Episcopalians I have Met." Of course, I do not claim that Baron Munchausen's stories in bulk or in specified instances, have the literary vigour that is so marked a quality of the latter-day writer, but the point I do wish to urge is that to accept the one as a veracious chronicler of his time and to reject the other as one who indulges his pen in all sorts of grotesque vagaries, without proper regard for the facts, is a great injustice to the man of other times. The question arises, _why_ is this? How has this wrong upon the worthy realist of the eighteenth century been perpetrated? Is it an intentional or an unwitting wrong? I prefer to believe that it is based upon ignorance of the Baron's true quality, due to the fact that his works are rarely to be found within the reach of the public: in some cases, because of the failure of librarians to comprehend his real motives, his narratives are excluded from Public and Sunday-School libraries; and because of their extreme age, they are not easily again brought into vogue. I have, therefore, accepted the office of intermediary between the Baron and the readers of the present day, in order that his later work, which, while it shows to a marked degree the decadence of his literary powers, may yet serve to demonstrate to the readers of my own time how favourably he compares with some of the literary idols of to-day, in the simple matter of fidelity to fact. If these stories which follow shall serve to rehabilitate Baron Munchausen as a lover and practitioner of the arts of Truth, I shall not have made the sacrifice of my time in vain. If they fail of this purpose I shall still have the satisfaction of knowing that I have tried to render a service to an honest and defenceless man._ _Meanwhile I dedicate this volume, with sentiments of the highest regard, to that other great realist_ MR. CORRIDOR WALKINGSTICK _of_ GLOOMSTER ABBEY J. K. B. Contents I. I Encounter the Old Gentleman II. The Sporting Tour of Mr. Munchausen III. Three Months in a Balloon IV. Some Hunting Stories for Children V. The Story of Jang VI. He Tells the Twins of Fire-Works VII. Saved by a Magic Lantern VIII. An Adventure in the Desert IX. Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands X. Mr. Munchausen's Adventure with a Shark XI. The Baron as a Runner XII. Mr. Munchausen Meets His Match XIII. Wriggletto XIV. The Poetic June-Bug, Together with Some Remarks on the Gillyhooly Bird XV. A Lucky Stroke List of Illustrations Portrait of Mr. Munchausen "There was the whale, drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _The Lyre_" "As their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, I reached out and caught them" "I got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed" "Jang buzzed over and sat on his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good" "Out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw" "'I am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'I yield all to you'" "I reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree" "They were celebrating Decoration Day, strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries" "I laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea" "This brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile which made it safe for me to run into a haystack" "At the first whoop Mr. Bear jumped ten feet and fell over backward on the floor" "He used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour" "Most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse" "Again I swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what I had hoped for followed" MR. MUNCHAUSEN AN ACCOUNT OF HIS RECENT ADVENTURES I I ENCOUNTER THE OLD GENTLEMAN There are moments of supreme embarrassment in the lives of persons given to veracity,--indeed it has been my own unusual experience in life that the truth well stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as a lie so obvious that no one is deceived by it at the outset. I cannot quite agree with my friend, Caddy Barlow, who says that in a tight place it is better to lie at once and be done with it than to tell the truth which will need forty more truths to explain it, but I must confess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious devotion to truth I have found myself in holes far deeper than any my most mendacious of friends ever got into. I do not propose, however, to desert at this late hour the Goddess I have always worshipped because she leads me over a rough and rocky road, and whatever may be the hardships involved in my wooing I intend to the very end to remain the ever faithful slave of Mademoiselle Veracité. All of which I state here in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible for me to do so, to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may be inclined to doubt the truth of my story of how the manuscript of the following pages came into my possession. I am quite aware that to some the tale will appear absolutely and intolerably impossible. I know that if any other than I told it to me I should not believe it. Yet despite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential and otherwise, absolutely truthful. The facts are briefly these: It was not, to begin with, a dark and dismal evening. The snow was not falling silently, clothing a sad and gloomy world in a mantle of white, and over the darkling moor a heavy mist was not rising, as is so frequently the case. There was no soul-stirring moaning of bitter winds through the leafless boughs; so far as I was aware nothing soughed within twenty miles of my bailiwick; and my dog, lying before a blazing log fire in my library, did not give forth an occasional growl of apprehension, denoting the presence or approach of an uncanny visitor from other and mysterious realms: and for two good reasons. The first reason is that it was midsummer when the thing happened, so that a blazing log fire in my library would have been an extravagance as well as an anachronism. The second is that I have no dog. In fact there was nothing unusual, or uncanny in the whole experience. It happened to be a bright and somewhat too sunny July day, which is not an unusual happening along the banks of the Hudson. You could see the heat, and if anything had soughed it could only have been the mercury in my thermometer. This I must say clicked nervously against the top of the glass tube and manifested an extraordinary desire to climb higher than the length of the tube permitted. Incidentally I may add, even if it be not believed, that the heat was so intense that the mercury actually did raise the whole thermometer a foot and a half above the mantel-shelf, and for two mortal hours, from midday until two by the Monastery Clock, held it suspended there in mid-air with no visible means of support. Not a breath of air was stirring, and the only sounds heard were the expanding creaks of the beams of my house, which upon that particular day increased eight feet in width and assumed a height which made it appear to be a three instead of a two story dwelling. There was little work doing in the house. The children played about in their bathing suits, and the only other active factor in my life of the moment was our hired man who was kept busy in the cellar pouring water on the furnace coal to keep it from spontaneously combusting. We had just had luncheon, burning our throats with the iced tea and with considerable discomfort swallowing the simmering cold roast filet, which we had to eat hastily before the heat of the day transformed it into smoked beef. My youngest boy Willie perspired so copiously that we seriously thought of sending for a plumber to solder up his pores, and as for myself who have spent three summers of my life in the desert of Sahara in order to rid myself of nervous chills to which I was once unhappily subject, for the first time in my life I was impelled to admit that it was intolerably warm. And then the telephone bell rang. "Great Scott!" I cried, "Who in thunder do you suppose wants to play golf on a day like this?"--for nowadays our telephone is used for no other purpose than the making or the breaking of golf engagements. "Me," cried my eldest son, whose grammar is not as yet on a par with his activity. "I'll go." The boy shot out of the dining room and ran to the telephone, returning in a few moments with the statement that a gentleman with a husky voice whose name was none of his business wished to speak with me on a matter of some importance to myself. I was loath to go. My friends the book agents had recently acquired the habit of approaching me over the telephone, and I feared that here was another nefarious attempt to foist a thirty-eight volume tabloid edition of _The World's Worst Literature_ upon me. Nevertheless I wisely determined to respond. "Hello," I said, placing my lips against the rubber cup. "Hello there, who wants 91162 Nepperhan?" "Is that you?" came the answering question, and, as my boy had indicated, in a voice whose chief quality was huskiness. "I guess so," I replied facetiously;--"It was this morning, but the heat has affected me somewhat, and I don't feel as much like myself as I might. What can I do for you?" "Nothing, but you can do a lot for yourself," was the astonishing answer. "Pretty hot for literary work, isn't it?" the voice added sympathetically. "Very," said I. "Fact is I can't seem to do anything these days but perspire." "That's what I thought; and when you can't work ruin stares you in the face, eh? Now I have a manuscript--" "Oh Lord!" I cried. "Don't. There are millions in the same fix. Even my cook writes." "Don't know about that," he returned instantly. "But I do know that there's millions in my manuscript. And you can have it for the asking. How's that for an offer?" "Very kind, thank you," said I. "What's the nature of your story?" "It's extremely good-natured," he answered promptly. I laughed. The twist amused me. "That isn't what I meant exactly," said I, "though it has some bearing on the situation. Is it a Henry James dandy, or does it bear the mark of Caine? Is it realism or fiction?" "Realism," said he. "Fiction isn't in my line." "Well, I'll tell you," I replied; "you send it to me by post and I'll look it over. If I can use it I will." "Can't do it," said he. "There isn't any post-office where I am." "What?" I cried. "No post-office? Where in Hades are you?" "Gehenna," he answered briefly. "The transportation between your country and mine is all one way," he added. "If it wasn't the population here would diminish." "Then how the deuce am I to get hold of your stuff?" I demanded. "That's easy. Send your stenographer to the 'phone and I'll dictate it," he answered. The novelty of the situation appealed to me. Even if my new found acquaintance were some funny person nearer at hand than Gehenna trying to play a practical joke upon me, still it might be worth while to get hold of the story he had to tell. Hence I agreed to his proposal. "All right, sir," said I. "I'll do it. I'll have him here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock sharp. What's your number? I'll ring you up." "Never mind that," he replied. "I'm merely a tapster on your wires. I'll ring _you_ up as soon as I've had breakfast and then we can get to work." "Very good," said I. "And may I ask your name?" "Certainly," he answered. "I'm Munchausen." "What? The Baron?" I roared, delighted. "Well--I used to be Baron," he returned with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "but here in Gehenna we are all on an equal footing. I'm plain Mr. Munchausen of Hades now. But that's a detail. Don't forget. Nine o'clock. Good-bye." "Wait a moment, Baron," I cried. "How about the royalties on this book?" "Keep 'em for yourself," he replied. "We have money to burn over here. You are welcome to all the earthly rights of the book. I'm satisfied with the returns on the Asbestos Edition, already in its 468th thousand. Good-bye." There was a rattle as of the hanging up of the receiver, a short sharp click and a ring, and I realised that he had gone. The next morning in response to a telegraphic summons my stenographer arrived and when I explained the situation to him he was incredulous, but orders were orders and he remained. I could see, however, that as nine o'clock approached he grew visibly nervous, which indicated that he half believed me anyhow, and when at nine to the second the sharp ring of the 'phone fell upon our ears he jumped as if he had been shot. "Hello," said I again. "That you, Baron?" "The same," the voice replied. "Stenographer ready?" "Yes," said I. The stenographer walked to the desk, placed the receiver at his ear, and with trembling voice announced his presence. There was a response of some kind, and then more calmly he remarked, "Fire ahead, Mr. Munchausen," and began to write rapidly in short-hand. Two days later he handed me a type-written copy of the following stories. The reader will observe that they are in the form of interviews, and it should be stated here that they appeared originally in the columns of the Sunday edition of the _Gehenna Gazette_, a publication of Hades which circulates wholly among the best people of that country, and which, if report saith truly, would not print a line which could not be placed in the hands of children, and to whose columns such writers as Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Jonah and Ananias are frequent contributors. Indeed, on the statement of Mr. Munchausen, all the interviews herein set forth were between himself as the principal and the Hon. Henry B. Ananias as reporter, or were scrupulously edited by the latter before being published. II THE SPORTING TOUR OF MR. MUNCHAUSEN "Good morning, Mr. Munchausen," said the interviewer of the _Gehenna Gazette_ entering the apartment of the famous traveller at the Hotel Deville, where the late Baron had just arrived from his sporting tour in the Blue Hills of Cimmeria and elsewhere. "The interests of truth, my dear Ananias," replied the Baron, grasping me cordially by the hand, "require that I should state it as my opinion that it is not a good morning. In fact, my good friend, it is a very bad morning. Can you not see that it is raining cats and dogs without?" "Sir," said I with a bow, "I accept the spirit of your correction but not the letter. It is raining indeed, sir, as you suggest, but having passed through it myself on my way hither I can personally testify that it is raining rain, and not a single cat or canine has, to my knowledge, as yet fallen from the clouds to the parched earth, although I am informed that down upon the coast an elephant and three cows have fallen upon one of the summer hotels and irreparably damaged the roof." Mr. Munchausen laughed. "It is curious, Ananias," said he, "what sticklers for the truth you and I have become." "It is indeed, Munchausen," I returned. "The effects of this climate are working wonders upon us. And it is just as well. You and I are outclassed by these twentieth century prevaricators concerning whom late arrivals from the upper world tell such strange things. They tell me that lying has become a business and is no longer ranked among the Arts or Professions." "Ah me!" sighed the Baron with a retrospective look in his eye, "lying isn't what it used to be, Ananias, in your days and mine. I fear it has become one of the lost arts." "I have noticed it myself, my friend, and only last night I observed the same thing to my well beloved Sapphira, who was lamenting the transparency of the modern lie, and said that lying to-day is no better than the truth. In our day a prevarication had all of the opaque beauty of an opalescent bit of glass, whereas to-day in the majority of cases it is like a great vulgar plate-glass window, through which we can plainly see the ugly truths that lie behind. But, sir, I am here to secure from you not a treatise upon the lost art of lying, but some idea of the results of your sporting tour. You fished, and hunted, and golfed, and doubtless did other things. You, of course, had luck and made the greatest catch of the season; shot all the game in sight, and won every silver, gold and pewter golf mug in all creation?" "You speak truly, Ananias," returned Mr. Munchausen. "My luck _was_ wonderful--even for one who has been so singularly fortunate as I. I took three tons of speckled beauties with one cast of an ordinary horse whip in the Blue Hills, and with nothing but a silken line and a minnow hook landed upon the deck of my steam yacht a whale of most tremendous proportions; I shot game of every kind in great abundance and in my golf there was none to whom I could not give with ease seven holes in every nine and beat him out." "Seven?" said I, failing to see how the ex-Baron could be right. "Seven," said he complacently. "Seven on the first, and seven on the second nine; fourteen in all of the eighteen holes." "But," I cried, "I do not see how that could be. With fourteen holes out of the eighteen given to your opponent even if you won all the rest you still would be ten down." "True, by ordinary methods of calculation," returned the Baron, "but I got them back on a technicality, which I claim is a new and valuable discovery in the game. You see it is impossible to play more than one hole at a time, and I invariably proved to the Greens Committee that in taking fourteen holes at once my opponent violated the physical possibilities of the situation. In every case the point was accepted as well taken, for if we allow golfers to rise above physical possibilities the game is gone. The integrity of the Card is the soul of Golf," he added sententiously. "Tell me of the whale," said I, simply. "You landed a whale of large proportions on the deck of your yacht with a simple silken line and a minnow hook." "Well it's a tough story," the Baron replied, handing me a cigar. "But it is true, Ananias, true to the last word. I was fishing for eels. Sitting on the deck of _The Lyre_ one very warm afternoon in the early stages of my trip, I baited a minnow hook and dropped it overboard. It was the roughest day at sea I had ever encountered. The waves were mountain high, and it is the sad fact that one of our crew seated in the main-top was drowned with the spray of the dashing billows. Fortunately for myself, directly behind my deck chair, to which I was securely lashed, was a powerful electric fan which blew the spray away from me, else I too might have suffered the same horrid fate. Suddenly there came a tug on my line. I was half asleep at the time and let the line pay out involuntarily, but I was wide-awake enough to know that something larger than an eel had taken hold of the hook. I had hooked either a Leviathan or a derelict. Caution and patience, the chief attributes of a good angler were required. I hauled the line in until it was taut. There were a thousand yards of it out, and when it reached the point of tensity, I gave orders to the engineers to steam closer to the object at the other end. We steamed in five hundred yards, I meanwhile hauling in my line. Then came another tug and I let out ten yards. 'Steam closer,' said I. 'Three hundred yards sou-sou-west by nor'-east.' The yacht obeyed on the instant. I called the Captain and let him feel the line. 'What do you think it is?' said I. He pulled a half dozen times. 'Feels like a snag,' he said, 'but seein' as there ain't no snags out here, I think it must be a fish.' 'What kind?' I asked. I could not but agree that he was better acquainted with the sea and its denizens than I. 'Well,' he replied, 'it is either a sea serpent or a whale.' At the mere mention of the word whale I was alert. I have always wanted to kill a whale. 'Captain,' said I, 'can't you tie an anchor onto a hawser, and bait the flukes with a boa constrictor and make sure of him?' He looked at me contemptuously. 'Whales eats fish,' said he, 'and they don't bite at no anchors. Whales has brains, whales has.' 'What shall we do?' I asked. 'Steam closer,' said the Captain, and we did so." Munchausen took a long breath and for the moment was silent. "Well?" said I. "Well, Ananias," said he. "We resolved to wait. As the Captain said to me, 'Fishin' is waitin'.' So we waited. 'Coax him along,' said the Captain. 'How can we do it?' I asked. 'By kindness,' said he. 'Treat him gently, persuasive-like and he'll come.' We waited four days and nobody moved and I grew weary of coaxing. 'We've got to do something,' said I to the Captain. 'Yes,' said he, 'Let's _make_ him move. He doesn't seem to respond to kindness.' 'But how?' I cried. 'Give him an electric shock,' said the Captain. 'Telegraph him his mother's sick and may be it'll move him.' 'Can't you get closer to him?' I demanded, resenting his facetious manner. 'I can, but it will scare him off,' replied the Captain. So we turned all our batteries on the sea. The dynamo shot forth its bolts and along about four o'clock in the afternoon there was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _The Lyre_. He was a beauty, Ananias," Munchausen added with enthusiasm. "You never saw such a whale. His back was as broad as the deck of an ocean steamer and in his length he exceeded the dimensions of _The Lyre_ by sixty feet." "And still you got him on deck?" I asked,--I, Ananias, who can stand something in the way of an exaggeration. "Yes," said Munchausen, lighting his cigar, which had gone out. "Another storm came up and we rolled and rolled and rolled, until I thought _The Lyre_ was going to capsize." "But weren't you sea-sick?" I asked. "Didn't have a chance to be," said Munchausen. "I was thinking of the whale all the time. Finally there came a roll in which we went completely under, and with a slight pulling on the line the whale was landed by the force of the wave and laid squarely upon the deck." "Great Sapphira!" said I. "But you just said he was wider and longer than the yacht!" [Illustration: "There was the whale drawn by magnetic influence to the side of _The Lyre_." _Chapter II._] "He was," sighed Munchausen. "He landed on the deck and by sheer force of his weight the yacht went down under him. I swam ashore and the whole crew with me. The next day Mr. Whale floated in strangled. He'd swallowed the thousand yards of line and it got so tangled in his tonsils that it choked him to death. Come around next week and I'll give you a couple of pounds of whalebone for Mrs. Ananias, and all the oil you can carry." I thanked the old gentleman for his kind offer and promised to avail myself of it, although as a newspaper man it is against my principles to accept gifts from public men. "It was great luck, Baron," said I. "Or at least it would have been if you hadn't lost your yacht." "That was great luck too," he observed nonchalantly. "It cost me ten thousand dollars a month keeping that yacht in commission. Now she's gone I save all that. Why it's like finding money in the street, Ananias. She wasn't worth more than fifty thousand dollars, and in six months I'll be ten thousand ahead." I could not but admire the cheerful philosophy of the man, but then I was not surprised. Munchausen was never the sort of man to let little things worry him. "But that whale business wasn't a circumstance to my catch of three tons of trout with a single cast of a horse-whip in the Blue Hills," said the Baron after a few moments of meditation, during which I could see that he was carefully marshalling his facts. "I never heard of its equal," said I. "You must have used a derrick." "No," he replied suavely. "Nothing of the sort. It was the simplest thing in the world. It was along about five o'clock in the afternoon when with my three guides and my valet I drove up the winding roadway of Great Sulphur Mountain on my way to the Blue Mountain House where I purposed to put up for a few days. I had one of those big mountain wagons with a covered top to it such as the pioneers used on the American plains, with six fine horses to the fore. I held the reins myself, since we were in the midst of a terrific thunderstorm and I felt safer when I did my own driving. All the flaps of the leathern cover were let down at the sides and at the back, and were securely fastened. The roads were unusually heavy, and when we came to the last great hill before the lake all but I were walking, as a measure of relief to the horses. Suddenly one of the horses balked right in the middle of the ascent, and in a moment of impatience I gave him a stinging flick with my whip, when like a whirlwind the whole six swerved to one side and started on a dead run upward. The jolt and the unexpected swerving of the wagon threw me from my seat and I landed clear of the wheels in the soft mud of the roadway, fortunately without injury. When I arose the team was out of sight and we had to walk the remainder of the distance to the hotel. Imagine our surprise upon arriving there to find the six panting steeds and the wagon standing before the main entrance to the hotel dripping as though they had been through the Falls of Niagara, and, would you believe it, Ananias, inside that leather cover of the wagon, packed as tightly as sardines, were no less than three thousand trout, not one of them weighing less than a pound and some of them getting as high as four. The whole catch weighed a trifle over six thousand pounds." "Great Heavens, Baron," I cried. "Where the dickens did they come from?" "That's what I asked myself," said the Baron easily. "It seemed astounding at first glance, but investigation showed it after all to be a very simple proposition. The runaways after reaching the top of the hill turned to the left, and clattered on down toward the bridge over the inlet to the lake. The bridge broke beneath their weight and the horses soon found themselves struggling in the water. The harness was strong and the wagon never left them. They had to swim for it, and I am told by a small boy who was fishing on the lake at the time that they swam directly across it, pulling the wagon after them. Naturally with its open front and confined back and sides the wagon acted as a sort of drag-net and when the opposite shore was gained, and the wagon was pulled ashore, it was found to have gathered in all the fish that could not get out of the way." The Baron resumed his cigar, and I sat still eyeing the ample pattern of the drawing-room carpet. "Pretty good catch for an afternoon, eh?" he said in a minute. "Yes," said I. "Almost too good, Baron. Those horses must have swam like the dickens to get over so quickly. You would think the trout would have had time to escape." "Oh I presume one or two of them did," said Munchausen. "But the majority of them couldn't. The horses were all fast, record-breakers anyhow. I never hire a horse that isn't." And with that I left the old gentleman and walked blushing back to the office. I don't doubt for an instant the truth of the Baron's story, but somehow or other I feel that in writing it my reputation is in some measure at stake. NOTE--Mr. Munchausen, upon request of the Editor of the _Gehenna Gazette_ to write a few stories of adventure for his Imp's page, conducted by Sapphira, contributed the tales which form the substance of several of the following chapters. III THREE MONTHS IN A BALLOON Mr. Munchausen was not handsome, but the Imps liked him very much, he was so full of wonderful reminiscences, and was always willing to tell anybody that would listen, all about himself. To the Heavenly Twins he was the greatest hero that had ever lived. Napoleon Bonaparte, on Mr. Munchausen's own authority, was not half the warrior that he, the late Baron had been, nor was Cæsar in his palmiest days, one-quarter so wise or so brave. How old the Baron was no one ever knew, but he had certainly lived long enough to travel the world over, and stare every kind of death squarely in the face without flinching. He had fought Zulus, Indians, tigers, elephants--in fact, everything that fights, the Baron had encountered, and in every contest he had come out victorious. He was the only man the children had ever seen that had lost three legs in battle and then had recovered them after the fight was over; he was the only visitor to their house that had been lost in the African jungle and wandered about for three months without food or shelter, and best of all he was, on his own confession, the most truthful narrator of extraordinary tales living. The youngsters had to ask the Baron a question only, any one, it mattered not what it was--to start him off on a story of adventure, and as he called upon the Twins' father once a month regularly, the children were not long in getting together a collection of tales beside which the most exciting episodes in history paled into insignificant commonplaces. "Uncle Munch," said the Twins one day, as they climbed up into the visitor's lap and disarranged his necktie, "was you ever up in a balloon?" "Only once," said the Baron calmly. "But I had enough of it that time to last me for a lifetime." "Was you in it for long?" queried the Twins, taking the Baron's watch out of his pocket and flinging it at Cerberus, who was barking outside of the window. "Well, it seemed long enough," the Baron answered, putting his pocket-book in the inside pocket of his vest where the Twins could not reach it. "Three months off in the country sleeping all day long and playing tricks all night seems a very short time, but three months in a balloon and the constant centre of attack from every source is too long for comfort." "Were you up in the air for three whole months?" asked the Twins, their eyes wide open with astonishment. "All but two days," said the Baron. "For two of those days we rested in the top of a tree in India. The way of it was this: I was always, as you know, a great favourite with the Emperor Napoleon, of France, and when he found himself involved in a war with all Europe, he replied to one of his courtiers who warned him that his army was not in condition: 'Any army is prepared for war whose commander-in-chief numbers Baron Munchausen among his advisers. Let me have Munchausen at my right hand and I will fight the world.' So they sent for me and as I was not very busy I concluded to go and assist the French, although the allies and I were also very good friends. I reasoned it out this way: In this fight the allies are the stronger. They do not need me. Napoleon does. Fight for the weak, Munchausen, I said to myself, and so I went. Of course, when I reached Paris I went at once to the Emperor's palace and remained at his side until he took the field, after which I remained behind for a few days to put things to rights for the Imperial family. Unfortunately for the French, the King of Prussia heard of my delay in going to the front, and he sent word to his forces to intercept me on my way to join Napoleon at all hazards, and this they tried to do. When I was within ten miles of the Emperor's headquarters, I was stopped by the Prussians, and had it not been that I had provided myself with a balloon for just such an emergency, I should have been captured and confined in the King's palace at Berlin, until the war was over. "Foreseeing all this, I had brought with me a large balloon packed away in a secret section of my trunk, and while my body-guard was fighting with the Prussian troops sent to capture me, I and my valet inflated the balloon, jumped into the car and were soon high up out of the enemy's reach. They fired several shots at us, and one of them would have pierced the balloon had I not, by a rare good shot, fired my own rifle at the bullet, and hitting it squarely in the middle, as is my custom, diverted it from its course, and so saved our lives. "It had been my intention to sail directly over the heads of the attacking party and drop down into Napoleon's camp the next morning, but unfortunately for my calculations, a heavy wind came up in the night and the balloon was caught by a northerly blast, and blown into Africa, where, poised in the air directly over the desert of Sahara, we encountered a dead calm, which kept us stalled up for two miserable weeks." "Why didn't you come down?" asked the Twins, "wasn't the elevator running?" "We didn't dare," explained the Baron, ignoring the latter part of the question. "If we had we'd have wasted a great deal of our gas, and our condition would have been worse than ever. As I told you we were directly over the centre of the desert. There was no way of getting out of it except by long and wearisome marches over the hot, burning sands with the chances largely in favour of our never getting out alive. The only thing to do was to stay just where we were and wait for a favouring breeze. This we did, having to wait four mortal weeks before the air was stirred." "You said two weeks a minute ago, Uncle Munch," said the Twins critically. "Two? Hem! Well, yes it was two, now that I think of it. It's a natural mistake," said the Baron stroking his mustache a little nervously. "You see two weeks in a balloon over a vast desert of sand, with nothing to do but whistle for a breeze, is equal to four weeks anywhere else. That is, it seems so. Anyhow, two weeks or four, whichever it was, the breeze came finally, and along about midnight left us stranded again directly over an Arab encampment near Wady Halfa. It was a more perilous position really, than the first, because the moment the Arabs caught sight of us they began to make frantic efforts to get us down. At first we simply laughed them to scorn and made faces at them, because as far as we could see, we were safely out of reach. This enraged them and they apparently made up their minds to kill us if they could. At first their idea was to get us down alive and sell us as slaves, but our jeers changed all that, and what should they do but whip out a lot of guns and begin to pepper us. "'I'll settle them in a minute,' I said to myself, and set about loading my own gun. Would you believe it, I found that my last bullet was the one with which I had saved the balloon from the Prussian shot?" "Mercy, how careless of you, Uncle Munch!" said one of the Twins. "What did you do?" "I threw out a bag of sand ballast so that the balloon would rise just out of range of their guns, and then, as their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, I reached out and caught them in a dipper. Rather neat idea, eh? With these I loaded my own rifle and shot every one of the hostile party with their own ammunition, and when the last of the attacking Arabs dropped I found there were enough bullets left to fill the empty sand bag again, so that the lost ballast was not missed. In fact, there were enough of them in weight to bring the balloon down so near to the earth that our anchor rope dangled directly over the encampment, so that my valet and I, without wasting any of our gas, could climb down and secure all the magnificent treasures in rugs and silks and rare jewels these robbers of the desert had managed to get together in the course of their depredations. When these were placed in the car another breeze came up, and for the rest of the time we drifted idly about in the heavens waiting for a convenient place to land. In this manner we were blown hither and yon for three months over land and sea, and finally we were wrecked upon a tall tree in India, whence we escaped by means of a convenient elephant that happened to come our way, upon which we rode triumphantly into Calcutta. The treasures we had secured from the Arabs, unfortunately, we had to leave behind us in the tree, where I suppose they still are. I hope some day to go back and find them." Here Mr. Munchausen paused for a moment to catch his breath. Then he added with a sigh. "Of course, I went back to France immediately, but by the time I reached Paris the war was over, and the Emperor was in exile. I was too late to save him--though I think if he had lived some sixty or seventy years longer I should have managed to restore his throne, and Imperial splendour to him." The Twins gazed into the fire in silence for a minute or two. Then one of them asked: "But what did you live on all that time, Uncle Munch?" "Eggs," said the Baron. "Eggs and occasionally fish. My servant had had the foresight when getting the balloon ready to include, among the things put into the car, a small coop in which were six pet chickens I owned, and without which I never went anywhere. These laid enough eggs every day to keep us alive. The fish we caught when our balloon stood over the sea, baiting our anchor with pieces of rubber gas pipe used to inflate the balloon, and which looked very much like worms." [Illustration: "As their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, I reached out and caught them." _Chapter III._] "But the chickens?" said the Twins. "What did they live on?" The Baron blushed. "I am sorry you asked that question," he said, his voice trembling somewhat. "But I'll answer it if you promise never to tell anyone. It was the only time in my life that I ever practised an intentional deception upon any living thing, and I have always regretted it, although our very lives depended upon it." "What was it, Uncle Munch?" asked the Twins, awed to think that the old warrior had ever deceived anyone. "I took the egg shells and ground them into powder, and fed them to the chickens. The poor creatures supposed it was corn-meal they were getting," confessed the Baron. "I know it was mean, but what could I do?" "Nothing," said the Twins softly. "And we don't think it was so bad of you after all. Many another person would have kept them laying eggs until they starved, and then he'd have killed them and eaten them up. You let them live." "That may be so," said the Baron, with a smile that showed how relieved his conscience was by the Twins' suggestion. "But I couldn't do that you know, because they were pets. I had been brought up from childhood with those chickens." Then the Twins, jamming the Baron's hat down over his eyes, climbed down from his lap and went to their play, strongly of the opinion that, though a bold warrior, the Baron was a singularly kind, soft-hearted man after all. IV SOME HUNTING STORIES FOR CHILDREN The Heavenly Twins had been off in the mountains during their summer holiday, and in consequence had seen very little of their good old friend, Mr. Munchausen. He had written them once or twice, and they had found his letters most interesting, especially that one in which he told how he had killed a moose up in Maine with his Waterbury watch spring, and I do not wonder that they marvelled at that, for it was one of the most extraordinary happenings in the annals of the chase. It seems, if his story is to be believed, and I am sure that none of us who know him has ever had any reason to think that he would deceive intentionally; it seems, I say, that he had gone to Maine for a week's sport with an old army acquaintance of his, who had now become a guide in that region. Unfortunately his rifle, of which he was very fond, and with which his aim was unerring, was in some manner mislaid on the way, and when they arrived in the woods they were utterly without weapons; but Mr. Munchausen was not the man to be daunted by any such trifle as that, particularly while his friend had an old army musket, a relic of the war, stored away in the attic of his woodland domicile. "Th' only trouble with that ar musket," said the old guide, "ain't so much that she won't shoot straight, nor that she's got a kick onto her like an unbroke mule. What I'm most afeard 'on about your shootin' with her ain't that I think she'll bust neither, for the fact is we ain't got nothin' for to bust her with, seein' as how ammynition is skeerce. I got powder, an' I got waddin', but I ain't got no shot." "That doesn't make any difference," the Baron replied. "We can make the shot. Have you got any plumbing in the camp? If you have, rip it out, and I'll melt up a water-pipe into bullets." "No, sir," retorted the old man. "Plumbin' is one of the things I came here to escape from." "Then," said the Baron, "I'll use my watch for ammunition. It is only a three-dollar watch and I can spare it." With this determination, Mr. Munchausen took his watch to pieces, an ordinary time-piece of the old-fashioned kind, and, to make a long story short, shot for several days with the component parts of that useful affair rammed down into the barrel of the old musket. With the stem-winding ball he killed an eagle; with pieces of the back cover chopped up to a fineness of medium-sized shot he brought down several other birds, but the great feat of all was when he started for moose with nothing but the watch-spring in the barrel of the gun. Having rolled it up as tight as he could, fastened it with a piece of twine, and rammed it well into the gun, he set out to find the noble animal upon whose life he had designs. After stalking the woods for several hours, he came upon the tracks which told him that his prey was not far off, and in a short while he caught sight of a magnificent creature, his huge antlers held proudly up and his great eyes full of defiance. For a moment the Baron hesitated. The idea of destroying so beautiful an animal seemed to be abhorrent to his nature, which, warrior-like as he is, has something of the tenderness of a woman about it. A second glance at the superb creature, however, changed all that, for the Baron then saw that to shoot to kill was necessary, for the beast was about to force a fight in which the hunter himself would be put upon the defensive. "I won't shoot you through the head, my beauty," he said, softly, "nor will I puncture your beautiful coat with this load of mine, but I'll kill you in a new way." With this he pulled the trigger. The powder exploded, the string binding the long black spring into a coil broke, and immediately the strip of steel shot forth into the air, made directly toward the neck of the rushing moose, and coiling its whole sinuous length tightly about the doomed creature's throat strangled him to death. As the Twins' father said, a feat of that kind entitled the Baron to a high place in fiction at least, if not in history itself. The Twins were very much wrought up over the incident, particularly, when one too-smart small imp who was spending the summer at the same hotel where they were said that he didn't believe it,--but he was an imp who had never seen a cheap watch, so how should he know anything about what could be done with a spring that cannot be wound up by a great strong man in less than ten minutes? As for the Baron he was very modest about the achievement, for when he first appeared at the Twins' home after their return he had actually forgotten all about it, and, in fact, could not recall the incident at all, until Diavolo brought him his own letter, when, of course, the whole matter came back to him. "It wasn't so very wonderful, anyhow," said the Baron. "I should not think, for instance, of bragging about any such thing as that. It was a simple affair all through." "And what did you do with the moose's antlers?" asked Angelica. "I hope you brought 'em home with you, because I'd like to see 'em." "I wanted to," said the Baron, stroking the Twins' soft brown locks affectionately. "I wanted to bring them home for your father to use as a hat rack, dear, but they were too large. When I had removed them from the dead animal, I found them so large that I could not get them out of the forest, they got so tangled up in the trees. I should have had to clear a path twenty feet wide and seven miles long to get them even as far as my friend's hut, and after that they would have had to be carried thirty miles through the woods to the express office." "I guess it's just as well after all," said Diavolo. "If they were as big as all that, Papa would have had to build a new house to get 'em into." "Exactly," said the Baron. "Exactly. That same idea occurred to me, and for that reason I concluded not to go to the trouble of cutting away those miles of trees. The antlers would have made a very expensive present for your father to receive in these hard times." "It was a good thing you had that watch," the Twins observed, after thinking over the Baron's adventure. "If you hadn't had that you couldn't have killed the moose." "Very likely not," said the Baron, "unless I had been able to do as I did in India thirty years ago at a man hunt." "What?" cried the Twins. "Do they hunt men in India?"? "That all depends, my dears," replied the Baron. "It all depends upon what you mean by the word they. Men don't hunt men, but animals, great wild beasts sometimes hunt them, and it doesn't often happen that the men escape. In the particular man hunt I refer to I was the creature that was being hunted, and I've had a good deal of sympathy for foxes ever since. This was a regular fox hunt in a way, although I was the fox, and a herd of elephants were the huntsmen." "How queer," said Diavolo, unscrewing one of the Baron's shirt studs to see if he would fall apart. "Not half so queer as my feelings when I realised my position," said the Baron with a shake of his head. "I was frightened half to death. It seemed to me that I'd reached the end of my tether at last. I was studying the fauna and flora of India, in a small Indian village, known as ah--what was the name of that town! Ah--something like Rathabad--no, that isn't quite it--however, one name does as well as another in India. It was a good many miles from Calcutta, and I'd been living there about three months. The village lay in a small valley between two ranges of hills, none of them very high. On the other side of the westerly hills was a great level stretch of country upon which herds of elephants used to graze. Out of this rose these hills, very precipitously, which was a very good thing for the people in the valley, else those elephants would have come over and played havoc with their homes and crops. To me the plains had a great fascination, and I used to wander over them day after day in search of new specimens for my collection of plants and flowers, never thinking of the danger I ran from an encounter with these elephants, who were very ferocious and extremely jealous of the territory they had come through years of occupation to regard as their own. So it happened, that one day, late in the afternoon, I was returning from an expedition over the plains, and, as I had found a large number of new specimens, I was feeling pretty happy. I whistled loudly as I walked, when suddenly coming to a slight undulation in the plain what should I see before me but a herd of sixty-three elephants, some eating, some thinking, some romping, and some lying asleep on the soft turf. Now, if I had come quietly, of course, I could have passed them unobserved, but as I told you I was whistling. I forget what the tune was, The Marsellaise or Die Wacht Am Rhein, or maybe Tommie Atkins, which enrages the elephants very much, being the national anthem of the British invader. At any rate, whatever the tune was it attracted the attention of the elephants, and then their sport began. The leader lifted his trunk high in the air, and let out a trumpet blast that echoed back from the cliff three miles distant. Instantly every elephant was on the alert. Those that had been sleeping awoke, and sprang to their feet. Those that had been at play stopped in their romp, and under the leadership of the biggest brute of the lot they made a rush for me. I had no gun; nothing except my wits and my legs with which to defend myself, so I naturally began to use the latter until I could get the former to work. It was nip and tuck. They could run faster than I could, and I saw in an instant that without stratagem I could not hope to reach a place of safety. As I have said, the cliff, which rose straight up from the plain like a stone-wall, was three miles away, nor was there any other spot in which I could find a refuge. It occurred to me as I ran that if I ran in circles I could edge up nearer to the cliff all the time, and still keep my pursuers at a distance for the simple reason that an elephant being more or less unwieldy cannot turn as rapidly as a man can, so I kept running in circles. I could run around my short circle in less time than the enemy could run around his larger one, and in this manner I got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed. Finally, when I began to see that I was tolerably safe, another idea occurred to me, which was that if I could manage to kill those huge creatures the ivory I could get would make my fortune. But how! That was the question. Well, my dearly beloved Imps, I admit that I am a fast runner, but I am also a fast thinker, and in less than two minutes I had my plan arranged. I stopped short when about two hundred feet from the cliff, and waited until the herd was fifty feet away. Then I turned about and ran with all my might up to within two feet of the cliff, and then turning sharply to the left ran off in that direction. The elephants, thinking they had me, redoubled their speed, but failed to notice that I had turned, so quickly was that movement executed. They failed likewise to notice the cliff, as I had intended. The consequence was the whole sixty-three of them rushed head first, bang! with all their force, into the rock. The hill shook with the force of the blow and the sixty-three elephants fell dead. They had simply butted their brains out." [Illustration: "I got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed." _Chapter IV._] Here the Baron paused and pulled vigourously on his cigar, which had almost gone out. "That was fine," said the Twins. "What a narrow escape it was for you, Uncle Munch," said Diavolo. "Very true," said the great soldier rising, as a signal that his story was done. "In fact you might say that I had sixty-three narrow escapes, one for each elephant." "But what became of the ivory?" asked Angelica. "Oh, as for that!" said the Baron, with a sigh, "I was disappointed in that. They turned out to be all young elephants, and they had lost their first teeth. Their second teeth hadn't grown yet. I got only enough ivory to make one paper cutter, which is the one I gave your father for Christmas last year." Which may account for the extraordinary interest the Twins have taken in their father's paper cutter ever since. V THE STORY OF JANG "Did you ever own a dog, Baron Munchausen?" asked the reporter of the _Gehenna Gazette_, calling to interview the eminent nobleman during Dog Show Week in Cimmeria. "Yes, indeed I have," said the Baron, "I fancy I must have owned as many as a hundred dogs in my life. To be sure some of the dogs were iron and brass, but I was just as fond of them as if they had been made of plush or lamb's wool. They were so quiet, those iron dogs were; and the brass dogs never barked or snapped at any one." "I never saw a brass dog," said the reporter. "What good are they?" "Oh they are likely to be very useful in winter," the Baron replied. "My brass dogs used to guard my fire-place and keep the blazing logs from rolling out into my room and setting fire to the rug the Khan of Tartary gave me for saving his life from a herd of Antipodes he and I were hunting in the Himalaya Mountains." "I don't see what you needed dogs to do that for," said the reporter. "A fender would have done just as well, or a pair of andirons," he added. "That's what these dogs were," said the Baron. "They were fire dogs and fire dogs are andirons." Ananias pressed his lips tightly together, and into his eyes came a troubled look. It was evident that, revolting as the idea was to him, he thought the Baron was trying to deceive him. Noting his displeasure, the Baron inwardly resolving to be careful how he handled the truth, hastened on with his story. "But dogs were never my favourite animals," he said. "With my pets I am quite as I am with other things. I like to have pets that are entirely different from the pets of other people, and that is why in my day I have made companions of such animals as the sangaree, and the camomile, and the--ah--the two-horned piccolo. I've had tame bees even--in fact my bees used to be the wonder of Siam, in which country I was stationed for three years, having been commissioned by a British company to make a study of its climate with a view to finding out if it would pay the company to go into the ice business there. Siam is, as you have probably heard, a very warm country, and as ice is a very rare thing in warm countries these English people thought they might make a vast fortune by sending tug-boats up to the Arctic Ocean, and with them capture and tow icebergs to Siam, where they might be cut up and sold to the people at tremendous profit. The scheme was certainly a good one, and I found many of the wealthy Siamese quite willing to subscribe for a hundred pounds of ice a week at ten dollars a pound, but it never came to anything because we had no means of preserving the icebergs after we got them into the Gulf of Siam. The water was so hot that they melted before we could cut them up, and we nearly got ourselves into very serious trouble with the coast people for that same reason. An iceberg, as you know, is a huge affair, and when a dozen or two of them had melted in the Gulf they added so to the quantity of water there that fifty miles of the coast line were completely flooded, and thousands of valuable fish, able to live in warm water only, were so chilled that they got pneumonia, and died. You can readily imagine how indignant the Siamese fishermen were with my company over the losses they had to bear, but their affection for me personally was so great that they promised not to sue the company if I would promise not to let the thing occur again. This I promised, and all went well. But about the bees, it was while I was living in Bangkok that I had them, and they were truly wonderful. There was hardly anything those bees couldn't do after I got them tamed." "How did you tame them, Baron," asked Ananias. "Power of the eye, my boy," returned the Baron. "I attracted their attention first and then held it. Of course, I tried my plan on one bee first. He tamed the rest. Bees are very like children. They like to play stunts--I think it is called stunts, isn't it, when one boy does something, and all his companions try to do the same thing?" "Yes," said Ananias, "I believe there is such a game, but I shouldn't like to play it with you." "Well, that was the way I did with the bees," said Mr. Munchausen. "I tamed the king bee, and when he had learned all sorts of funny little tricks, such as standing on his head and humming tunes, I let him go back to the swarm. He was gone a week, and then he came back, he had grown so fond of me--as well he might, because I fed him well, giving him a large basket of flowers three times a day. Back with him came two or three thousand other bees, and whatever Jang did they did." "Who was Jang?" asked Ananias. "That was the first bee's name. King Jang. Jang is Siamese for Billie, and as I was always fond of the name, Billie, I called him Jang. By and by every bee in the lot could hum the Star Spangled Banner and Yankee Doodle as well as you or I could, and it was grand on those soft moonlight nights we had there, to sit on the back porch of my pagoda and listen to my bee orchestra discoursing sweet music. Of course, as soon as Jang had learned to hum one tune it was easy enough for him to learn another, and before long the bee orchestra could give us any bit of music we wished to have. Then I used to give musicales at my house and all the Siamese people, from the King down asked to be invited, so that through my pets my home became one of the most attractive in all Asia. "And the honey those bees made! It was the sweetest honey you ever tasted, and every morning when I got down to breakfast there was a fresh bottleful ready for me, the bees having made it in the bottle itself over night. They were the most grateful pets I ever had, and once they saved my life. They used to live in a hive I had built for them in one corner of my room and I could go to bed and sleep with every door in my house open, and not be afraid of robbers, because those bees were there to protect me. One night a lion broke loose from the Royal Zoo, and while trotting along the road looking for something to eat he saw my front door wide open. In he walked, and began to sniff. He sniffed here and he sniffed there, but found nothing but a pot of anchovy paste, which made him thirstier and hungrier than ever. So he prowled into the parlour, and had his appetite further aggravated by a bronze statue of the Emperor of China I had there. He thought in the dim light it was a small-sized human being, and he pounced on it in a minute. Well, of course, he couldn't make any headway trying to eat a bronze statue, and the more he tried the more hungry and angry he got. He roared until he shook the house and would undoubtedly have awakened me had it not been that I am always a sound sleeper and never wake until I have slept enough. Why, on one occasion, on the Northern Pacific Railway, a train I was on ran into and completely telescoped another while I was asleep in the smoking car, and although I was severely burned and hurled out of the car window to land sixty feet away on the prairie, I didn't wake up for two hours. I was nearly buried alive because they thought I'd been killed, I lay so still. "But to return to the bees. The roaring of the lion disturbed them, and Jang buzzed out of his hive to see what was the matter just as the lion appeared at my bed-room door. The intelligent insect saw in a moment what the trouble was, and he sounded the alarm for the rest of the bees, who came swarming out of the hive in response to the summons. Jang kept his eye on the lion meanwhile, and just as the prowler caught sight of your uncle peacefully snoring away on the bed, dreaming of his boyhood, and prepared to spring upon me, Jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good. The angry lion, who in a moment would have fastened his teeth upon me, turned with a yelp of pain, and the bite which was to have been mine wrought havoc with his own back. Following Jang's example, the other bees ranged themselves in line over the lion's broad shoulders, and stung him until he roared with pain. Each time he was stung he would whisk his head around like a dog after a flea, and bite himself, until finally he had literally chewed himself up, when he fainted from sheer exhaustion, and I was saved. You can imagine my surprise when next morning I awakened to find a dying lion in my room." "But, Baron," said Ananias. "I don't understand one thing about it. If you were fast asleep while all this was happening how did you know that Jang did those things?" [Illustration: "Jang buzzed over and sat down upon his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good." _Chapter V._] "Why, Jang told me himself," replied the Baron calmly. "Could he talk?" cried Ananias in amazement. "Not as you and I do," said the Baron. "Of course not, but Jang could spell. I taught him how. You see I reasoned it out this way. If a bee can be taught to sing a song which is only a story in music, why can't he be taught to tell a story in real words. It was worth trying anyhow, and I tried. Jang was an apt pupil. He was the most intelligent bee I ever met, and it didn't take me more than a month to teach him his letters, and when he once knew his letters it was easy enough to teach him how to spell. I got a great big sheet and covered it with twenty-six squares, and in each of these squares I painted a letter of the alphabet, so that finally when Jang came to know them, and wanted to tell me anything he would fly from one square to another until he had spelled out whatever he wished to say. I would follow his movements closely, and we got so after awhile that we could converse for hours without any trouble whatsoever. I really believe that if Jang had been a little heavier so that he could push the keys down far enough he could have managed a typewriter as well as anybody, and when I think about his wonderful mind and delicious fancy I deeply regret that there never was a typewriting machine so delicately made that a bee of his weight could make it go. The world would have been very much enriched by the stories Jang had in his mind to tell, but it is too late now. He is gone forever." "How did you lose Jang, Baron?" asked Ananias, with tears in his eyes. "He thought I had deceived him," said the Baron, with a sigh. "He was as much of a stickler for truth as I am. An American friend of mine sent me a magnificent parterre of wax flowers which were so perfectly made that I couldn't tell them from the real. I was very proud of them, and kept them in my room near the hive. When Jang and his tribe first caught sight of them they were delighted and they sang as they had never sung before just to show how pleased they were. Then they set to work to make honey out of them. They must have laboured over those flowers for two months before I thought to tell them that they were only wax and not at all real. As I told Jang this, I unfortunately laughed, thinking that he could understand the joke of the thing as well as I, but I was mistaken. All that he could see was that he had been deceived, and it made him very angry. Bees don't seem to have a well-developed sense of humour. He cast a reproachful glance at me and returned to his hive and on the morning of the third day when I waked up they were moving out. They flew to my lattice and ranged themselves along the slats and waited for Jang. In a moment he appeared and at a given signal they buzzed out of my sight, humming a farewell dirge as they went. I never saw them again." Here the Baron wiped his eyes. "I felt very bad about it," he went on, "and resolved then never again to do anything which even suggested deception, and when several years later I had my crest designed I had a bee drawn on it, for in my eyes my good friend the bee, represents three great factors of the good and successful life--Industry, Fidelity, and Truth." Whereupon the Baron went his way, leaving Ananias to think it over. VI HE TELLS THE TWINS OF FIRE-WORKS There was a great noise going on in the public square of Cimmeria when Mr. Munchausen sauntered into the library at the home of the Heavenly Twins. "These Americans are having a great time of it celebrating their Fourth of July," said he, as the house shook with the explosion of a bomb. "They've burnt powder enough already to set ten revolutions revolving, and they're going to outdo themselves to-night in the park. They've made a bicycle out of the two huge pin-wheels, and they're going to make Benedict Arnold ride a mile on it after it's lit." The Twins appeared much interested. They too had heard much of the celebration and some of its joys and when the Baron arrived they were primed with questions. "Uncle Munch," they said, helping the Baron to remove his hat and coat, which they threw into a corner so anxious were they to get to work, "do you think there's much danger in little boys having fire-crackers and rockets and pin-wheels, or in little girls having torpeters?" "Well, I don't know," the Baron answered, warily. "What does your venerable Dad say about it?" "He thinks we ought to wait until we are older, but we don't," said the Twins. "Torpeters never sets nothing afire," said Angelica. "That's true," said the Baron, kindly; "but after all your father is right. Why do you know what happened to me when I was a boy?" "You burnt your thumb," said the Twins, ready to make a guess at it. "Well, you get me a cigar, and I'll tell you what happened to me when I was a boy just because my father let me have all the fire-works I wanted, and then perhaps you will see how wise your father is in not doing as you wish him to," said Mr. Munchausen. The Twins readily found the desired cigar, after which Mr. Munchausen settled down comfortably in the hammock, and swinging softly to and fro, told his story. "My dear old father," said he, "was the most indulgent man that ever lived. He'd give me anything in the world that I wanted whether he could afford it or not, only he had an original system of giving which kept him from being ruined by indulgence of his children. He gave me a Rhine steamboat once without its costing him a cent. I saw it, wanted it, was beginning to cry for it, when he patted me on the head and told me I could have it, adding, however, that I must never take it away from the river or try to run it myself. That satisfied me. All I wanted really was the happiness of feeling it was mine, and my dear old daddy gave me permission to feel that way. The same thing happened with reference to the moon. He gave it to me freely and ungrudgingly. He had received it from his father, he said, and he thought he had owned it long enough. Only, he added, as he had about the steamboat, I must leave it where it was and let other people look at it whenever they wanted to, and not interfere if I found any other little boys or girls playing with its beams, which I promised and have faithfully observed to this day. "Of course from such a parent as this you may very easily see everything was to be expected on such a day as the Tenth of August which the people in our region celebrated because it was my birthday. He used to let me have my own way at all times, and it's a wonder I wasn't spoiled. I really can't understand how it is that I have become the man I am, considering how I was indulged when I was small. "However, like all boys, I was very fond of celebrating the Tenth, and being a more or less ingenious lad, I usually prepared my own fire-works and many things happened which might not otherwise have come to pass if I had been properly looked after as you are. The first thing that happened to me on the Tenth of August that would have a great deal better not have happened, was when I was--er--how old are you Imps?" "Sixteen," said they. "Going on eighteen." "Nonsense," said the Baron. "Why you're not more than eight." "Nope--we're sixteen," said Diavolo. "I'm eight and Angelica's eight and twice eight is sixteen." "Oh," said the Baron. "I see. Well, that was exactly the age I was at the time. Just eight to a day." "Sixteen we said," said the Twins. "Yes," nodded the Baron. "Just eight, but going on towards sixteen. My father had given me ten thalers to spend on noises, but unlike most boys I did not care so much for noises as I did for novelties. It didn't give me any particular pleasure to hear a giant cracker go off with a bang. What I wanted to do most of all was to get up some kind of an exhibition that would please the people and that could be seen in the day-time instead of at night when everybody is tired and sleepy. So instead of spending my money on fire-crackers and torpedoes and rockets, I spent nine thalers of it on powder and one thaler on putty blowers. My particular object was to make one grand effort and provide passers-by with a free exhibition of what I was going to call 'Munchausen's Grand Geyser Cascade.' To do this properly I had set my eye upon a fish pond not far from the town hall. It was a very deep pond and about a mile in circumference, I should say. Putty blowers were then selling at five for a pfennig and powder was cheap as sand owing to the fact that the powder makers, expecting a war, had made a hundred times as much as was needed, and as the war didn't come off, they were willing to take almost anything they could get for it. The consequence was that the powder I got was sufficient in quantity to fill a rubber bag as large as five sofa cushions. This I sank in the middle of the pond, without telling anybody what I intended to do, and through the putty blowers, sealed tightly together end to end, I conducted a fuse, which I made myself, from the powder bag to the shore. My idea was that I could touch the thing off, you know, and that about sixty square feet of the pond would fly up into the air and then fall gracefully back again like a huge fountain. If it had worked as I expected everything would have been all right, but it didn't. I had too much powder, for a second after I had lit the fuse there came a muffled roar and the whole pond in a solid mass, fish and all, went flying up into the air and disappeared. Everybody was astonished, not a few were very much frightened. I was scared to death but I never let on to any one that I was the person that had blown the pond off. How high the pond went I don't know, but I do know that for a week there wasn't any sign of it, and then most unexpectedly out of what appeared to be a clear sky there came the most extraordinary rain-storm you ever saw. It literally poured down for two days, and, what I alone could understand, with it came trout and sunfish and minnows, and most singular to all but myself an old scow that was recognised as the property of the owner of the pond suddenly appeared in the sky falling toward the earth at a fearful rate of speed. When I saw the scow coming I was more frightened than ever because I was afraid it might fall upon and kill some of our neighbours. Fortunately, however, this possible disaster was averted, for it came down directly over the sharp-pointed lightning-rod on the tower of our public library and stuck there like a piece of paper on a file. "The rain washed away several acres of finely cultivated farms, but the losses on crops and fences and so forth were largely reduced by the fish that came with the storm. One farmer took a rake and caught three hundred pounds of trout, forty pounds of sun-fish, eight turtles, and a minnow in his potato patch in five minutes. Others were almost as fortunate, but the damage was sufficiently large to teach me that parents cannot be too careful about what they let their children do on the day they celebrate." "And weren't you ever punished?" asked the Twins. "No, indeed," said the Baron. "Nobody ever knew that I did it because I never told them. In fact you are the only two persons who ever heard about it, and you mustn't tell, because there are still a number of farmers around that region who would sue me for damages in case they knew that I was responsible for the accident." [Illustration: "Out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw." _Chapter VI._] "That was pretty awful," said the Twins. "But we don't want to blow up ponds so as to get cascadeses, but we do want torpeters. Torpeters aren't any harm, are they, Uncle Munch?" "Well, you can never tell. It all depends on the torpedo. Torpedoes are sometimes made carelessly," said the Baron. "They ought to be made as carefully as a druggist makes pills. So many pebbles, so much paper, and so much saltpeter and sulphur, or whatever else is used to make them go off. I had a very unhappy time once with a carelessly made torpedo. I had two boxes full. They were those tin-foil torpedoes that little girls are so fond of, and I expected they would make quite a lot of noise, but the first ten I threw down didn't go off at all. The eleventh for some reason or other, I never knew exactly what, I hurled with all my force against the side of my father's barn, and my, what a surprise it was! It smashed in the whole side of the barn and sent seven bales of hay, and our big farm plough bounding down the hillside into the town. The hay-bales smashed down fences; one of them hit a cow-shed on its way down, knocked the back of it to smithereens and then proceeded to demolish the rear end of a small crockery shop that fronted on the main street. It struck the crockery shop square in the middle of its back and threw down fifteen dozen cups and saucers, thirty-two water pitchers, and five china busts of Shakespeare. The din was frightful--but I couldn't help that. Nobody could blame me, because I had no means of knowing that the man who made the torpedoes was careless and had put a solid ball of dynamite into one of them. So you see, my dear Imps, that even torpedoes are not always safe." "Yes," said Angelica. "I guess I'll play with my dolls on my birthday. They never goes off and blows things up." "That's very wise of you," said the Baron. "But what became of the plough, Uncle Munch?" said Diavolo. "Oh, the plough didn't do much damage," replied Mr. Munchausen. "It simply furrowed its way down the hill, across the main street, to the bowling green. It ploughed up about one hundred feet of this before it stopped, but nobody minded that much because it was to have been ploughed and seeded again anyhow within a few days. Of course the furrow it made in crossing the road was bad, and to make it worse the share caught one of the water pipes that ran under the street, and ripped it in two so that the water burst out and flooded the street for a while, but one hundred and sixty thousand dollars would have covered the damage." The Twins were silent for a few moments and then they asked: "Well, Uncle Munch, what kind of fire-works are safe anyhow?" "My experience has taught me that there are only two kinds that are safe," replied their old friend. "One is a Jack-o-lantern and the other is a cigar, and as you are not old enough to have cigars, if you will put on your hats and coats and go down into the garden and get me two pumpkins, I'll make each of you a Jack-o'-lantern. What do you say?" "We say yes," said the Twins, and off they went, while the Baron turning over in the hammock, and arranging a pillow comfortably under his head, went to sleep to dream of more birthday recollections in case there should be a demand for them later on. VII SAVED BY A MAGIC LANTERN When the Sunday dinner was over, the Twins, on Mr. Munchausen's invitation, climbed into the old warrior's lap, Angelica kissing him on the ear, and Diavolo giving his nose an affectionate tweak. "Ah!" said the Baron. "That's it!" "What's what, Uncle Munch?" demanded Diavolo. "Why that," returned the Baron. "I was wondering what it was I needed to make my dinner an unqualified success. There was something lacking, but what it was, we have had so much, I could not guess until you two Imps kissed me and tweaked my nasal feature. Now I know, for really a feeling of the most blessed contentment has settled upon my soul." "Don't you wish _you_ had two youngsters like us, Uncle Munch?" asked the Twins. "Do I wish I had? Why I have got two youngsters like you," the Baron replied. "I've got 'em right here too." "Where?" asked the Twins, looking curiously about them for the other two. "On my knees, of course," said he. "You are mine. Your papa gave you to me--and you are as like yourselves as two peas in a pod." "I--I hope you aren't going to take us away from here," said the Twins, a little ruefully. They were very fond of the Baron, but they didn't exactly like the idea of being given away. "Oh no--not at all," said the Baron. "Your father has consented to keep you here for me and your mother has kindly volunteered to look after you. There is to be no change, except that you belong to me, and, vice versa, I belong to you." "And I suppose, then," said Diavolo, "if you belong to us you've got to do pretty much what we tell you to?" "Exactly," responded Mr. Munchausen. "If you should ask me to tell you a story I'd have to do it, even if you were to demand the full particulars of how I spent Christmas with Mtulu, King of the Taafe Eatars, on the upper Congo away down in Africa--which is a tale I have never told any one in all my life." "It sounds as if it might be interesting," said the Twins. "Those are real candy names, aren't they?" "Yes," said the Baron. "Taafe sounds like taffy and Mtulu is very suggestive of chewing gum. That's the curious thing about the savage tribes of Africa. Their names often sound as if they might be things to eat instead of people. Perhaps that is why they sometimes eat each other--though, of course, I won't say for sure that that is the real explanation of cannibalism." "What's cannon-ballism?" asked Angelica. "He didn't say cannon-ballism," said Diavolo, scornfully. "It was candy-ballism." "Well--you've both come pretty near it," said the Baron, "and we'll let the matter rest there, or I won't have time to tell you how Christmas got me into trouble with King Mtulu." The Baron called for a cigar, which the Twins lighted for him and then he began. "You may not have heard," he said, "that some twenty or thirty years ago I was in command of an expedition in Africa. Our object was to find Lake Majolica, which we hoped would turn up half way between Lollokolela and the Clebungo Mountains. Lollokolela was the furthermost point to which civilisation had reached at that time, and was directly in the pathway to the Clebungo Mountains, which the natives said were full of gold and silver mines and scattered all over which were reputed to be caves in which diamonds and rubies and other gems of the rarest sort were to be found in great profusion. No white man had ever succeeded in reaching this marvellously rich range of hills for the reason that after leaving Lollokolela there was, as far as was known, no means of obtaining water, and countless adventurous spirits had had to give up because of the overpowering thirst which the climate brought upon them. "Under such circumstances it was considered by a company of gentlemen in London to be well worth their while to set about the discovery of a lake, which they decided in advance to call Majolica, for reasons best known to themselves; they probably wanted to jar somebody with it. And to me was intrusted the mission of leading the expedition. I will confess that I did not want to go for the very good reason that I did not wish to be eaten alive by the savage tribes that infested that region, but the company provided me with a close fitting suit of mail, which I wore from the time I started until I returned. It was very fortunate for me that I was so provided, for on three distinct occasions I was served up for state dinners and each time successfully resisted the carving knife and as a result, was thereafter well received, all the chiefs looking upon me as one who bore a charmed existence." Here the Baron paused long enough for the Twins to reflect upon and realise the terrors which had beset him on his way to Lake Majolica, and be it said that if they had thought him brave before they now deemed him a very hero of heroes. "When I set out," said the Baron, "I was accompanied by ten Zanzibaris and a thousand tins of condensed dinners." "A thousand what, Uncle Munch?" asked Jack, his mouth watering. "Condensed dinners," said the Baron, "I had a lot of my favourite dinners condensed and put up in tins. I didn't expect to be gone more than a year and a thousand dinners condensed and tinned, together with the food I expected to find on the way, elephant meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops, I thought would suffice for the trip. I could eat the condensed dinners and my followers could have the elephant's meat, rhinoceros steaks, and tiger chops--not to mention the bananas and other fruits which grow wild in the African jungle. It was not long, however, before I made the discovery that the Zanzibaris, in order to eat tigers, need to learn first how to keep tigers from eating them. We went to bed late one night on the fourth day out from Lollokolela, and when we waked up the next morning every mother's son of us, save myself, had been eaten by tigers, and again it was nothing but my coat of mail that saved me. There were eighteen tigers' teeth sticking into the sleeve of the coat, as it was. You can imagine my distress at having to continue the search for Lake Majolica alone. It was then that I acquired the habit of talking to myself, which has kept me young ever since, for I enjoy my own conversation hugely, and find myself always a sympathetic listener. I walked on for days and days, until finally, on Christmas Eve, I reached King Mtulu's palace. Of course your idea of a palace is a magnificent five-story building with beautiful carvings all over the front of it, marble stair-cases and handsomely painted and gilded ceilings. King Mtulu's palace was nothing of the sort, although for that region it was quite magnificent, the walls being decorated with elephants' tusks, crocodile teeth and many other treasures such as delight the soul of the Central African. "Now as I may not have told you, King Mtulu was the fiercest of the African chiefs, and it is said that up to the time when I outwitted him no white man had ever encountered him and lived to tell the tale. Consequently, when without knowing it on this sultry Christmas Eve, laden with the luggage and the tinned dinners and other things I had brought with me I stumbled upon the blood-thirsty monarch I gave myself up for lost. "'Who comes here to disturb the royal peace?' cried Mtulu, savagely, as I crossed the threshold. "'It is I, your highness,' I returned, my face blanching, for I recognized him at once by the ivory ring he wore in the end of his nose. "'Who is I?' retorted Mtulu, picking up his battle axe and striding forward. "A happy thought struck me then. These folks are superstitious. Perhaps the missionaries may have told these uncivilised creatures the story of Santa Claus. I will pretend that I am Santa Claus. So I answered, 'Who is I, O Mtulu, Bravest of the Taafe Chiefs? I am Santa Claus, the Children's Friend, and bearer of gifts to and for all.' "Mtulu gazed at me narrowly for a moment and then he beat lightly upon a tom-tom at his side. Immediately thirty of the most villainous-looking natives, each armed with a club, appeared. "'Arrest that man,' said Mtulu, 'before he goes any farther. He is an impostor.' "'If your majesty pleases,' I began. "'Silence!' he cried, 'I am fierce and I eat men, but I love truth. The truthful man has nothing to fear from me, for I have been converted from my evil ways and since last New Year's day I have eaten only those who have attempted to deceive me. You will be served raw at dinner to-morrow night. My respect for your record as a man of courage leads me to spare you the torture of the frying-pan. You are Baron Munchausen. I recognized you the moment you turned pale. Another man would have blushed.' "So I was carried off and shut up in a mud hovel, the interior walls of which were of white, a fact which strangely enough, preserved my life when later I came to the crucial moment. I had brought with me, among other things, for my amusement solely, a magic lantern. As a child, I had always been particularly fond of pictures, and when I thought of the lonely nights in Africa, with no books at hand, no theatres, no cotillions to enliven the monotony of my life, I resolved to take with me my little magic-lantern as much for company as for anything else. It was very compact in form. It folded up to be hardly larger than a wallet containing a thousand one dollar bills, and the glass lenses of course could be carried easily in my trousers pockets. The views, instead of being mounted on glass, were put on a substance not unlike glass, but thinner, called gelatine. All of these things I carried in my vest pockets, and when Mtulu confiscated my luggage the magic lantern and views of course escaped his notice. "Christmas morning came and passed and I was about to give myself up for lost, for Mtulu was not a king to be kept from eating a man by anything so small as a suit of mail, when I received word that before dinner my captor and his suite were going to pay me a formal parting call. Night was coming on and as I sat despondently awaiting the king's arrival, I suddenly bethought me of a lantern slide of the British army, standing and awaiting the command to fire, I happened to have with me. It was a superb view--lifelike as you please. Why not throw that on the wall and when Mtulu enters he will find me apparently with a strong force at my command, thought I. It was no sooner thought than it was done and my life was saved. Hardly was that noble picture reflected upon the rear wall of my prison when the door opened and Mtulu, followed by his suite, appeared. I rose to greet him, but apparently he saw me not. Mute with terror he stood upon the threshold gazing at that terrible line of soldiers ready as he thought to sweep him and his men from the face of the earth with their death-dealing bullets. [Illustration: "'I am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'I yield all to you.'" _Chapter VII._] "'I am your slave,' he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, 'I yield all to you.' "'I thought you would,' said I. 'But I ask nothing save the discovery of Lake Majolica. If within twenty-four hours Lake Majolica is not discovered I give the command to fire!' Then I turned and gave the order to carry arms, and lo! by a quick change of slides, the army appeared at a carry. Mtulu gasped with terror, but accepted my ultimatum. I was freed, Lake Majolica was discovered before ten o'clock the next morning, and at five o'clock I was on my way home, the British army reposing quietly in my breast pocket. It was a mighty narrow escape!" "I should say so," said the Twins. "But Mtulu must have been awful stupid not to see what it was." "Didn't he see through it when he saw you put the army in your pocket?" asked Diavolo. "No," said the Baron, "that frightened him worse than ever, for you see he reasoned this way. If I could carry an army in my pocket-book, what was to prevent my carrying Mtulu himself and all his tribe off in the same way! He thought I was a marvellous man to be able to do that." "Well, we guess he was right," said the Twins, as they climbed down from the Baron's lap to find an atlas and search the map of Africa for Lake Majolica. This they failed to find and the Baron's explanation is unknown to me, for when the Imps returned, the warrior had departed. VIII AN ADVENTURE IN THE DESERT "The editor has a sort of notion, Mr. Munchausen," said Ananias, as he settled down in the big arm-chair before the fire in the Baron's library, "that he'd like to have a story about a giraffe. Public taste has a necky quality about it of late." "What do you say to that, Sapphira?" asked the Baron, politely turning to Mrs. Ananias, who had called with her husband. "Are you interested in giraffes?" "I like lions better," said Sapphira. "They roar louder and bite more fiercely." "Well, suppose we compromise," said the Baron, "and have a story about a poodle dog. Poodle dogs sometimes look like lions, and as a rule they are as gentle as giraffes." "I know a better scheme than that," put in Ananias. "Tell us a story about a lion and a giraffe, and if you feel disposed throw in a few poodles for good measure. I'm writing on space this year." "That's so," said Sapphira, wearily. "I could say it was a story about a lion and Ananias could call it a giraffe story, and we'd each be right." "Very well," said the Baron, "it shall be a story of each, only I must have a cigar before I begin. Cigars help me to think, and the adventure I had in the Desert of Sahara with a lion, a giraffe, and a slippery elm tree was so long ago that I shall have to do a great deal of thinking in order to recall it." So the Baron went for a cigar, while Ananias and Sapphira winked enviously at each other and lamented their lost glory. In a minute the Baron returned with the weed, and after lighting it, began his story. "I was about twenty years old when this thing happened to me," said he. "I had gone to Africa to investigate the sand in the Desert of Sahara for a Sand Company in America. As you may already have heard, sand is a very useful thing in a great many ways, more particularly however in the building trades. The Sand Company was formed for the purpose of supplying sand to everybody that wanted it, but land in America at that time was so very expensive that there was very little profit in the business. People who owned sand banks and sand lots asked outrageous prices for their property; and the sea-shore people were not willing to part with any of theirs because they needed it in their hotel business. The great attraction of a seaside hotel is the sand on the beach, and of course the proprietors weren't going to sell that. They might better even sell their brass bands. So the Sand Company thought it might be well to build some steam-ships, load them with oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, or anything else that is produced in the United States, and in demand elsewhere; send them to Egypt, sell the oysters, or mowing machines, or historical novels, and then have the ships fill up with sand from the Sahara, which they could get for nothing, and bring it back in ballast to the United States." "It must have cost a lot!" said Ananias. "Not at all," returned the Baron. "The profits on the oysters and mowing machines and historical novels were so large that all expenses both ways were more than paid, so that when it was delivered in America the sand had really cost less than nothing. We could have thrown it all overboard and still have a profit left. It was I who suggested the idea to the President of the Sand Company--his name was Bartlett, or--ah--Mulligan--or some similar well-known American name, I can't exactly recall it now. However, Mr. Bartlett, or Mr. Mulligan, or whoever it was, was very much pleased with the idea and asked me if I wouldn't go to the Sahara, investigate the quality of the sand, and report; and as I was temporarily out of employment I accepted the commission. Six weeks later I arrived in Cairo and set out immediately on a tour of the desert. I went alone because I preferred not to take any one into my confidence, and besides one can always be more independent when he has only his own wishes to consult. I also went on foot, for the reason that camels need a great deal of care--at least mine would have, if I'd had one, because I always like to have my steeds well groomed whether there is any one to see them or not. So to save myself trouble I started off alone on foot. In twenty-four hours I travelled over a hundred miles of the desert, and the night of the second day found me resting in the shade of a slippery elm tree in the middle of an oasis, which after much suffering and anxiety I had discovered. It was a beautiful moonlight night and I was enjoying it hugely. There were no mosquitoes or insects of any kind to interfere with my comfort. No insects could have flown so far across the sands. I have no doubt that many of them have tried to get there, but up to the time of my arrival none had succeeded, and I felt as happy as though I were in Paradise. "After eating my supper and taking a draught of the delicious spring water that purled up in the middle of the oasis, I threw myself down under the elm tree, and began to play my violin, without which in those days I never went anywhere." "I didn't know you played the violin," said Sapphira. "I thought your instrument was the trombone--plenty of blow and a mighty stretch." "I don't--now," said the Baron, ignoring the sarcasm. "I gave it up ten years ago--but that's a different story. How long I played that night I don't know, but I do know that lulled by the delicious strains of the music and soothed by the soft sweetness of the atmosphere I soon dropped off to sleep. Suddenly I was awakened by what I thought to be the distant roar of thunder. 'Humph!' I said to myself. 'This is something new. A thunder storm in the Desert of Sahara is a thing I never expected to see, particularly on a beautifully clear moonlight night'--for the moon was still shining like a great silver ball in the heavens, and not a cloud was anywhere to be seen. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I had been dreaming, so I turned over to go to sleep again. Hardly had I closed my eyes when a second ear-splitting roar came bounding over the sands, and I knew that it was no dream, but an actual sound that I heard. I sprang to my feet and looked about the horizon and there, a mere speck in the distance, was something--for the moment I thought a cloud, but in another instant I changed my mind, for glancing through my telescope I perceived it was not a cloud but a huge lion with the glitter of hunger in his eye. What I had mistaken for the thunder was the roar of this savage beast. I seized my gun and felt for my cartridge box only to discover that I had lost my ammunition and was there alone, unarmed, in the great desert, at the mercy of that savage creature, who was drawing nearer and nearer every minute and giving forth the most fearful roars you ever heard. It was a terrible moment and I was in despair. "'It's all up with you, Baron,' I said to myself, and then I caught sight of the tree. It seemed my only chance. I must climb that. I tried, but alas! As I have told you it was a slippery elm tree, and I might as well have tried to climb a greased pole. Despite my frantic efforts to get a grip upon the trunk I could not climb more than two feet without slipping back. It was impossible. Nothing was left for me to do but to take to my legs, and I took to them as well as I knew how. My, what a run it was, and how hopeless. The beast was gaining on me every second, and before me lay mile after mile of desert. 'Better give up and treat the beast to a breakfast, Baron,' I moaned to myself. 'When there's only one thing to do, you might as well do it and be done with it. Your misery will be over the more quickly if you stop right here.' As I spoke these words, I slowed up a little, but the frightful roaring of the lion unnerved me for an instant, or rather nerved me on to a spurt, which left the lion slightly more to the rear--and which resulted in the saving of my life; for as I ran on, what should I see about a mile ahead but another slippery elm tree, and under it stood a giraffe who had apparently fallen asleep while browsing among its upper branches, and filling its stomach with its cooling cocoanuts. The giraffe had its back to me, and as I sped on I formed my plan. I would grab hold of the giraffe's tail; haul myself up onto his back; climb up his neck into the tree, and then give my benefactor a blow between the eyes which would send him flying across the desert before the lion could come along and get up into the tree the same way I did. The agony of fear I went through as I approached the long-necked creature was something dreadful. Suppose the giraffe should be awakened by the roaring of the lion before I got there and should rush off himself to escape the fate that awaited me? I nearly dropped, I was so nervous, and the lion was now not more than a hundred yards away. I could hear his breath as he came panting on. I redoubled my speed; his pants came closer, closer, until at length after what seemed a year, I reached the giraffe, caught his tail, raised myself up to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree just as the lion sprang upon the giraffe's back and came on toward me. What happened then I don't know, for as I have told you I swooned away; but I do know that when I came to, the giraffe had disappeared and the lion lay at the foot of the tree dead from a broken neck." "A broken neck?" demanded Sapphira. "Yes," returned the Baron. "A broken neck! From which I concluded that as the lion reached the nape of the giraffe's neck, the giraffe had waked up and bent his head toward the earth, thus causing the lion to fall head first to the ground instead of landing as he had expected in the tree with me." "It was wonderful," said Sapphira, scornfully. "Yes," said Ananias, "but I shouldn't think a lion could break his neck falling off a giraffe. Perhaps it was one of the slippery elm cocoanuts that fell on him." "Well, of course," said the Baron, rising, "that would all depend upon the height of the giraffe. Mine was the tallest one I ever saw." "About how tall?" asked Ananias. "Well," returned the Baron, thoughtfully, as if calculating, "did you ever see the Eiffel Tower?" "Yes," said Ananias. "Well," observed the Baron, "I don't think my giraffe was more than half as tall as that." With which estimate the Baron bowed his guests out of the room, and with a placid smile on his face, shook hands with himself. "Mr. and Mrs. Ananias are charming people," he chuckled, "but amateurs both--deadly amateurs." [Illustration: "I reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree." _Chapter VIII._] IX DECORATION DAY IN THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS "Uncle Munch," said Diavolo as he clambered up into the old warrior's lap, "I don't suppose you could tell us a story about Decoration Day could you?" "I think I might try," said Mr. Munchausen, puffing thoughtfully upon his cigar and making a ring with the smoke for Angelica to catch upon her little thumb. "I might try--but it will all depend upon whether you want me to tell you about Decoration Day as it is celebrated in the United States, or the way a band of missionaries I once knew in the Cannibal Islands observed it for twenty years or more." "Why can't we have both stories?" said Angelica. "I think that would be the nicest way. Two stories is twice as good as one." "Well, I don't know," returned Mr. Munchausen. "You see the trouble is that in the first instance I could tell you only what a beautiful thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their lives in defence of their country. I'm not much of a poet and it takes a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so I should be afraid to try it. Besides it might sadden your little hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless number of heroes who let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in peace and happiness. I'd have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds of graves scattered over the battle fields that no one knows about, and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all, unless Nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot down and never heard of afterwards." "Does all heroes get killed?" asked Angelica. "No," said Mr. Munchausen. "I and a great many others lived through the wars and are living yet." "Well, how about the missionaries?" said Diavolo. "I didn't know they had Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands." "I didn't either until I got there," returned the Baron. "But they have and they have it in July instead of May. It was one of the most curious things I ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it they'd either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. I don't know whether I ever told you about my first experience with the cannibals--did I?" "I don't remember it, but if you had I would have," said Diavolo. "So would I," said Angelica. "I remember most everything you say, except when I want you to say it over again, and even then I haven't forgotten it." "Well, it happened this way," said the Baron. "It was when I was nineteen years old. I sort of thought at that time I'd like to be a sailor, and as my father believed in letting me try whatever I wanted to do I took a position as first mate of a steam brig that plied between San Francisco and Nepaul, taking San Francisco canned tomatoes to Nepaul and bringing Nepaul pepper back to San Francisco, making several dollars both ways. Perhaps I ought to explain to you that Nepaul pepper is red, and hot; not as hot as a furnace fire, but hot enough for your papa and myself when we order oysters at a club and have them served so cold that we think they need a little more warmth to make them palatable and digestible. You are not yet old enough to know the meaning of such words as palatable and digestible, but some day you will be and then you'll know what your Uncle means. At any rate it was on the return voyage from Nepaul that the water tank on the _Betsy S._ went stale and we had to stop at the first place we could to fill it up with fresh water. So we sailed along until we came in sight of an Island and the Captain appointed me and two sailors a committee of three to go ashore and see if there was a spring anywhere about. We went, and the first thing we knew we were in the midst of a lot of howling, hungry savages, who were crazy to eat us. My companions were eaten, but when it came to my turn I tried to reason with the chief. 'Now see here, my friend,' said I, 'I'm perfectly willing to be served up at your breakfast, if I can only be convinced that you will enjoy eating me. What I don't want is to have my life wasted!' 'That's reasonable enough,' said he. 'Have you got a sample of yourself along for me to taste?' 'I have,' I replied, taking out a bottle of Nepaul pepper, that by rare good luck I happened to have in my pocket. 'That is a portion of my left foot powdered. It will give you some idea of what I taste like,' I added. 'If you like that, you'll like me. If you don't, you won't.'" "That was fine," said Diavolo. "You told pretty near the truth, too, Uncle Munch, because you are hot stuff yourself, ain't you?" "I am so considered, my boy," said Mr. Munchausen. "The chief took a teaspoonful of the pepper down at a gulp, and let me go when he recovered. He said he guessed I wasn't quite his style, and he thought I'd better depart before I set fire to the town. So I filled up the water bag, got into the row-boat, and started back to the ship, but the _Betsy S._ had gone and I was forced to row all the way to San Francisco, one thousand, five hundred and sixty-two miles distant. The captain and crew had given us all up for lost. I covered the distance in six weeks, living on water and Nepaul pepper, and when I finally reached home, I told my father that, after all, I was not so sure that I liked a sailor's life. But I never forgot those cannibals or their island, as you may well imagine. They and their home always interested me hugely and I resolved if the fates ever drove me that way again, I would go ashore and see how the people were getting on. The fates, however, were a long time in drawing me that way again, for it was not until July, ten years ago that I reached there the second time. I was off on a yachting trip, with an English friend, when one afternoon we dropped anchor off that Cannibal Island. "'Let's go ashore,' said I. 'What for?' said my host; and then I told him the story and we went, and it was well we did so, for it was then and there that I discovered the new way the missionaries had of celebrating Decoration Day. "No sooner had we landed than we noticed that the Island had become civilised. There were churches, and instead of tents and mud-hovels, beautiful residences appeared here and there, through the trees. 'I fancy this isn't the island,' said my host. 'There aren't any cannibals about here.' I was about to reply indignantly, for I was afraid he was doubting the truth of my story, when from the top of a hill, not far distant, we heard strains of music. We went to see whence it came, and what do you suppose we saw? Five hundred villainous looking cannibals marching ten abreast along a fine street, and, cheering them from the balconies of the houses that fronted on the highway, were the missionaries and their friends and their children and their wives. "'This can't be the place, after all,' said my host again. "'Yes it is,' said I, 'only it has been converted. They must be celebrating some native festival.' Then as I spoke the procession stopped and the head missionary followed by a band of beautiful girls, came down from a platform and placed garlands of flowers and beautiful wreaths on the shoulders and heads of those reformed cannibals. In less than an hour every one of the huge black fellows was covered with roses and pinks and fragrant flowers of all kinds, and then they started on parade again. It was a fine sight, but I couldn't understand what it was all done for until that night, when I dined with the head missionary--and what do you suppose it was?" "I give it up," said Diavolo, "maybe the missionaries thought the cannibals didn't have enough clothes on." "I guess I can't guess," said Angelica. "They were celebrating Decoration Day," said Mr. Munchausen. "They were strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." "You didn't tell us about any graves," said Diavolo. [Illustration: "They were celebrating Decoration Day ... strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries." _Chapter IX._] "Why certainly I did," said the Baron. "The cannibals themselves were the only graves those poor departed missionaries ever had. Every one of those five hundred savages was the grave of a missionary, my dears, and having been converted, and taught that it was not good to eat their fellow-men, they did all in their power afterwards to show their repentance, keeping alive the memory of the men they had treated so badly by decorating themselves on memorial day--and one old fellow, the savagest looking, but now the kindest-hearted being in the world, used always to wear about his neck a huge sign, upon which he had painted in great black letters: HERE LIES JOHN THOMAS WILKINS, SAILOR. DEPARTED THIS LIFE, MAY 24TH, 1861. HE WAS A MAN OF SPLENDID TASTE. "The old cannibal had eaten Wilkins and later when he had been converted and realised that he himself was the grave of a worthy man, as an expiation he devoted his life to the memory of John Thomas Wilkins, and as a matter of fact, on the Cannibal Island Decoration Day he would lie flat on the floor all the day, groaning under the weight of a hundred potted plants, which he placed upon himself in memory of Wilkins." Here Mr. Munchausen paused for breath, and the twins went out into the garden to try to imagine with the aid of a few practical experiments how a cannibal would look with a hundred potted plants adorning his person. X MR. MUNCHAUSEN'S ADVENTURE WITH A SHARK Mr. and Mrs. Henry B. Ananias. _THURSDAYS._ _CIMMERIA._ This was the card sent by the reporter of the _Gehenna Gazette_, and Mrs. Ananias to Mr. Munchausen upon his return from a trip to mortal realms concerning which many curious reports have crept into circulation. Owing to a rumour persistently circulated at one time, Mr. Munchausen had been eaten by a shark, and it was with the intention of learning, if possible, the basis for the rumour that Ananias and Sapphira called upon the redoubtable Baron of other days. Mr. Munchausen graciously received the callers and asked what he could do for them. "Our readers, Mr. Munchausen," explained Ananias, "have been much concerned over rumours of your death at the hands of a shark." "Sharks have no hands," said the Baron quietly. "Well--that aside," observed Ananias. "Were you killed by a shark?" "Not that I recall," said the Baron. "I may have been, but I don't remember it. Indeed I recall only one adventure with a shark. That grew out of my mission on behalf of France to the Czar of Russia. I carried letters once from the King of France to his Imperial Coolness the Czar." "What was the nature of the letters?" asked Ananias. "I never knew," replied the Baron. "As I have said, it was a secret mission, and the French Government never took me into its confidence. The only thing I know about it is that I was sent to St. Petersburg, and I went, and in the course of time I made myself much beloved of both the people and his Majesty the Czar. I am the only person that ever lived that was liked equally by both, and if I had attached myself permanently to the Czar, Russia would have been a different country to-day." "What country would it have been, Mr. Munchausen," asked Sapphira innocently, "Germany or Siam?" "I can't specify, my dear madame," the Baron replied. "It wouldn't be fair. But, at any rate, I went to Russia, and was treated warmly by everybody, except the climate, which was, as it is at all times, very freezing. That's the reason the Russian people like the climate. It is the only thing the Czar can't change by Imperial decree, and the people admire its independence and endure it for that reason. But as I have said, everybody was pleased with me, and the Czar showed me unusual attention. He gave fêtes in my honour. He gave the most princely dinners, and I met the very best people in St. Petersburg, and at one of these dinners I was invited to join a yachting party on a cruise around the world. "Well, of course, though a landsman in every sense of the word, I am fond of yachting, and I immediately accepted the invitation. The yacht we went on was the Boomski Zboomah, belonging to Prince--er--now what was that Prince's name! Something like--er--Sheeroff or Jibski--or--er--well, never mind that. I meet so many princes it is difficult to remember their names. We'll say his name was Jibski." "Suppose we do," said Ananias, with a jealous grin. "Jibski is such a remarkable name. It will look well in print." "All right," said the Baron, "Jibski be it. The yacht belonged to Prince Jibski, and she was a beauty. There was a stateroom and a steward for everybody on board, and nothing that could contribute to a man's comfort was left unattended to. We set sail on the 23rd of August, and after cruising about the North coast of Europe for a week or two, we steered the craft south, and along about the middle of September we reached the Amphibian Islands, and anchored. It was here that I had my first and last experience with sharks. If they had been plain, ordinary sharks I'd have had an easy time of it, but when you get hold of these Amphibian sharks you are likely to get yourself into twenty-three different kinds of trouble." "My!" said Sapphira. "All those? Does the number include being struck by lightning?" "Yes," the Baron answered, "And when you remember that there are only twenty-four different kinds altogether you can see what a peck of trouble an Amphibian shark can get you into. I thought my last hour had come when I met with him. You see when we reached the Amphibian Islands, we naturally thought we'd like to go ashore and pick the cocoanuts and raisins and other things that grow there, and when I got upon dry land again I felt strongly tempted to go down upon the beautiful little beach in the harbour and take a swim. Prince Jibski advised me against it, but I was set upon going. He told me the place was full of sharks, but I wasn't afraid because I was always a remarkably rapid swimmer, and I felt confident of my ability, in case I saw a shark coming after me, to swim ashore before he could possibly catch me, provided I had ten yards start. So in I went leaving my gun and clothing on the beach. Oh, it was fun! The water was quite warm, and the sandy bottom of the bay was deliciously soft and pleasant to the feet. I suppose I must have sported in the waves for ten or fifteen minutes before the trouble came. I had just turned a somersault in the water, when, as my head came to the surface, I saw directly in front of me, the unmistakable fin of a shark, and to my unspeakable dismay not more than five feet away. As I told you, if it had been ten yards away I should have had no fear, but five feet meant another story altogether. My heart fairly jumped into my mouth. It would have sunk into my boots if I had had them on, but I hadn't, so it leaped upward into my mouth as I turned to swim ashore, by which time the shark had reduced the distance between us by one foot. I feared that all was up with me, and was trying to think of an appropriate set of last words, when Prince Jibski, noting my peril, fired one of the yacht's cannon in our direction. Ordinarily this would have been useless, for the yacht's cannon was never loaded with anything but a blank charge, but in this instance it was better than if it had been loaded with ball and shot, for not only did the sound of the explosion attract the attention of the shark and cause him to pause for a moment, but also the wadding from the gun dropped directly upon my back, so showing that Prince Jibski's aim was not as good as it might have been. Had the cannon been loaded with a ball or a shell, you can very well understand how it would have happened that yours truly would have been killed then and there." "We should have missed you," said Ananias sweetly. "Thanks," said the Baron. "But to resume. The shark's pause gave me the start I needed, and the heat from the burning wadding right between my shoulders caused me to redouble my efforts to get away from the shark and it, so that I never swam faster in my life, and was soon standing upon the shore, jeering at my fearful pursuer, who, strange to say, showed no inclination to stop the chase now that I was, as I thought, safely out of his reach. I didn't jeer very long I can tell you, for in another minute I saw why the shark didn't stop chasing me, and why Amphibian sharks are worse than any other kind. That shark had not only fins like all other sharks to swim with, but he had likewise three pairs of legs that he could use on land quite as well as he could use the fins in the water. And then began the prettiest chase you ever saw in your life. As he emerged from the water I grabbed up my gun and ran. Round and round the island we tore, I ahead, he thirty or forty yards behind, until I got to a place where I could stop running and take a hasty shot at him. Then I aimed, and fired. My aim was good, but struck one of the huge creature's teeth, broke it off short, and bounded off to one side. This made him more angry than ever, and he redoubled his efforts to catch me. I redoubled mine, until I could get another shot at him. The second shot, like the first, struck the creature in the teeth, only this time it was more effective. The bullet hit his jaw lengthwise, and knocked every tooth on that side of his head down his throat. So it went. I ran. He pursued. I fired; he lost his teeth, until finally I had knocked out every tooth he had, and then, of course, I wasn't afraid of him, and let him come up with me. With his teeth he could have ground me to atoms at one bite. Without them he was as powerless as a bowl of currant jelly, and when he opened his huge jaws, as he supposed to bite me in two, he was the most surprised looking fish you ever saw on land or sea to discover that the effect his jaws had upon my safety was about as great as had they been nothing but two feather bed mattresses." "You must have been badly frightened, though," said Ananias. "No," said the Baron. "I laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair, he rushed back into the sea again. I made the best time I could back to the yacht for fear he might return with assistance." "And didn't you ever see him again, Baron?" asked Sapphira. "Yes, but only from the deck of the yacht as we were weighing anchor," said Mr. Munchausen. "I saw him and a dozen others like him doing precisely what I thought they would do, going ashore to search me out so as to have a little cold Munch for dinner. I'm glad they were disappointed, aren't you?" "Yes, indeed," said Ananias and Sapphira, but not warmly. Ananias was silent for a moment, and then walking over to one of the bookcases, he returned in a moment, bringing with him a huge atlas. "Where are the Amphibian Islands, Mr. Munchausen?" he said, opening the book. "Show them to me on the map. I'd like to print the map with my story." "Oh, I can't do that," said the Baron, "because they aren't on the map any more. When I got back to Europe and told the map-makers about the dangers to man on those islands, they said that the interests of humanity demanded that they be lost. So they took them out of all the geographies, and all the cyclopædias, and all the other books, so that nobody ever again should be tempted to go there; and there isn't a school-teacher or a sailor in the world to-day who could tell you where they are." "But, you know, don't you?" persisted Ananias. "Well, I did," said the Baron; "but, really I have had to remember so many other things that I have forgotten that. All that I know is that they were named from the fact that they were infested by Amphibious animals, which are animals that can live on land as well as on water." "How strange!" said Sapphira. "It's just too queer for anything," said Ananias, "but on the whole I'm not surprised." And the Baron said he was glad to hear it. [Illustration: "I laughed in the poor disappointed thing's face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea." _Chapter X._] XI THE BARON AS A RUNNER The Twins had been on the lookout for the Baron for at least an hour, and still he did not come, and the little Imps were beginning to feel blue over the prospect of getting the usual Sunday afternoon story. It was past four o'clock, and for as long a time as they could remember the Baron had never failed to arrive by three o'clock. All sorts of dreadful possibilities came up before their mind's eye. They pictured the Baron in accidents of many sorts. They conjured up visions of him lying wounded beneath the ruins of an apartment house, or something else equally heavy that might have fallen upon him on his way from his rooms to the station, but that he was more than wounded they did not believe, for they knew that the Baron was not the sort of man to be killed by anything killing under the sun. "I wonder where he can be?" said Angelica, uneasily to her brother, who was waiting with equal anxiety for their common friend. "Oh, he's all right!" said Diavolo, with a confidence he did not really feel. "He'll turn up all right, and even if he's two hours late he'll be here on time according to his own watch. Just you wait and see." And they did wait and they did see. They waited for ten minutes, when the Baron drove up, smiling as ever, but apparently a little out of breath. I should not dare to say that he was really out of breath, but he certainly did seem to be so, for he panted visibly, and for two or three minutes after his arrival was quite unable to ask the Imps the usual question as to their very good health. Finally, however, the customary courtesies of the greeting were exchanged, and the decks were cleared for action. "What kept you, Uncle Munch?" asked the Twins, as they took up their usual position on the Baron's knees. "What what?" replied the warrior. "Kept me? Why, am I late?" "Two hours," said the Twins. "Dad gave you up and went out for a walk." "Nonsense," said the Baron. "I'm never that late." Here he looked at his watch. "Why I do seem to be behind time. There must be something wrong with our time-pieces. I can't be two hours late, you know." "Well, let's say you are on time, then," said the Twins. "What kept you?" "A very funny accident on the railroad," said the Baron lighting a cigar. "Queerest accident that ever happened to me on the railroad, too. Our engine ran away." The Twins laughed as if they thought the Baron was trying to fool them. "Really," said the Baron. "I left town as usual on the two o'clock train, which, as you know, comes through in half an hour, without a stop. Everything went along smoothly until we reached the Vitriol Reservoir, when much to the surprise of everybody the train came to a stand-still. I supposed there was a cow on the track, and so kept in my seat for three or four minutes as did every one else. Finally the conductor came through and called to the brakeman at the end of our car to see if his brakes were all right. "'It's the most unaccountable thing,' he said to me. 'Here's this train come to a dead stop and I can't see why. There isn't a brake out of order on any one of the cars, and there isn't any earthly reason why we shouldn't go ahead.' "'Maybe somebody's upset a bottle of glue on the track,' said I. I always like to chaff the conductor, you know, though as far as that is concerned, I remember once when I was travelling on a South American Railway our train was stopped by highwaymen, who smeared the tracks with a peculiar sort of gum. They'd spread it over three miles of track, and after the train had gone lightly over two miles of it the wheels stuck so fast ten engines couldn't have moved it. That was a terrible affair." "I don't think we ever heard of that, did we?" asked Angelica. "I don't remember it," said Diavolo. "Well, you would have remembered it, if you had ever heard of it," said the Baron. "It was too dreadful to be forgotten--not for us, you know, but for the robbers. It was one of the Imperial trains in Brazil, and if it hadn't been for me the Emperor would have been carried off and held for ransom. The train was brought to a stand-still by this gluey stuff, as I have told you, and the desperadoes boarded the cars and proceeded to rifle us of our possessions. The Emperor was in the car back of mine, and the robbers made directly for him, but fathoming their intention I followed close upon their heels. "'You are our game,' said the chief robber, tapping the Emperor on the shoulder, as he entered the Imperial car. "'Hands off,' I cried throwing the ruffian to one side. "He scowled dreadfully at me, the Emperor looked surprised, and another one of the robbers requested to know who was I that I should speak with so much authority. 'Who am I?' said I, with a wink at the Emperor. 'Who am I? Who else but Baron Munchausen of the Bodenwerder National Guard, ex-friend of Napoleon of France, intimate of the Mikado of Japan, and famed the world over as the deadliest shot in two hemispheres.' "The desperadoes paled visibly as I spoke, and after making due apologies for interfering with the train, fled shrieking from the car. They had heard of me before. "'I thank you, sir,' began the Emperor, as the would-be assassins fled, but I cut him short. 'They must not be allowed to escape,' I said, and with that I started in pursuit of the desperate fellows, overtook them, and glued them with the gum they had prepared for our detention to the face of a precipice that rose abruptly from the side of the railway, one hundred and ten feet above the level. There I left them. We melted the glue from the tracks by means of our steam heating apparatus, and were soon booming merrily on our way to Rio Janeiro when I was fêted and dined continuously for weeks by the people, though strange to say the Emperor's behaviour toward me was very cool." "And did the robbers ever get down?" asked the Twins. "Yes, but not in a way they liked," Mr. Munchausen replied. "The sun came out, and after a week or two melted the glue that held them to the precipice, whereupon they fell to its base and were shattered into pieces so small there wasn't an atom of them to be found when a month later I passed that way again on my return trip." "And didn't the Emperor treat you well, Uncle Munch?" asked the Imps. "No--as I told you he was very cool towards me, and I couldn't understand it, then, but I do now," said the Baron. "You see he was very much in need of ready cash, the Emperor was, and as the taxpayers were already growling about the expenses of the Government he didn't dare raise the money by means of a tax. So he arranged with the desperadoes to stop the train, capture him, and hold him for ransom. Then when the ransom came along he was going to divide up with them. My sudden appearance, coupled with my determination to rescue him, spoiled his plan, you see, and so he naturally wasn't very grateful. Poor fellow, I was very sorry for it afterward, because he really was an excellent ruler, and his plan of raising the money he needed wasn't a bit less honest than most other ways rulers employ to obtain revenue for State purposes." "Well, now, let's get back to the runaway engine," said the Twins. "You can tell us more about South America after you get through with that. How did the engine come to run away?" "It was simple enough," said the Baron. "The engineer, after starting the train came back into the smoking car to get a light for his pipe, and while he was there the coupling-pin between the engine and the train broke, and off skipped the engine twice as fast as it had been going before. The relief from the weight of the train set its pace to a mile a minute instead of a mile in two minutes, and there we were at a dead stop in front of the Vitriol Station with nothing to move us along. When the engineer saw what had happened he fainted dead away, because you know if a collision had occurred between the runaway engine and the train ahead he would have been held responsible." "Couldn't the fireman stop the engine?" asked the Twins. "No. That is, it wouldn't be his place to do it, and these railway fellows are queer about that sort of thing," said the Baron. "The engineers would go out upon a strike if the railroad were to permit a stoker to manage the engine, and besides that the stoker wouldn't undertake to do it at a stoker's wages, so there wasn't any help to be looked for there. The conductor happened to be nearsighted, and so he didn't find out that the engine was missing until he had wasted ten or twenty minutes examining the brakes, by which time, of course, the runaway was miles and miles up the track. Then the engineer came to, and began to wring his hands and moan in a way that was heart-rending. The conductor, too, began to cry, and all the brakemen left the train and took to the woods. They weren't going to have any of the responsibility for the accident placed on their shoulders. Whether they will ever turn up again I don't know. But I realised as soon as anybody else that something had to be done, so I rushed into the telegraph office and telegraphed to all the station masters between the Vitriol Reservoir and Cimmeria to clear the track of all trains, freight, local, or express, or somebody would be hurt, and that I myself would undertake to capture the runaway engine. This they all promised to do, whereupon I bade good-bye to my fellow-travellers, and set off up the track myself at full speed. In a minute I strode past Sulphur Springs, covering at least eight ties at a stretch. In two minutes I thundered past Lava Hurst, where I learned that the engine had twenty miles start of me. I made a rapid calculation mentally--I always was strong in mental arithmetic, which showed that unless I was tripped up or got side-tracked somewhere I might overtake the runaway before it reached Noxmere. Redoubling my efforts, my stride increased to twenty ties at a jump, and I made the next five miles in two minutes. It sounds impossible, but really it isn't so. It is hard to run as fast as that at the start, but when you have got your start the impetus gathered in the first mile's run sends you along faster in the second, and so your speed increases by its own force until finally you go like the wind. At Gasdale I had gained two miles on the engine, at Sneakskill I was only fifteen miles behind, and upon my arrival at Noxmere there was scarcely a mile between me and the fugitive. Unfortunately a large crowd had gathered at Noxmere to see me pass through, and some small boy had brought a dog along with him and the dog stood directly in my path. If I ran over the dog it would kill him and might trip me up. If I jumped with the impetus I had there was no telling where I would land. It was a hard point to decide either way, but I decided in favour of the jump, simply to save the dog's life, for I love animals. I landed three miles up the road and ahead of the engine, though I didn't know that until I had run ten miles farther on, leaving the engine a hundred yards behind me at every stride. It was at Miasmatica that I discovered my error and then I tried to stop. It was almost in vain; I dragged my feet over the ties, but could only slow down to a three-minute gait. Then I tried to turn around and slow up running backward; this brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a hay-stack at the side of the railroad just this side of Cimmeria. Then, of course, I was all right. I could sit down and wait for the engine, which came booming along forty minutes later. As it approached I prepared to board it, and in five minutes was in full control. That made it easy enough for me to get back here without further trouble. I simply reversed the lever, and back we came faster than I can describe, and just one hour and a half from the time of the mishap the runaway engine was restored to its deserted train and I reached your station here in good order. I should have walked up, but for my weariness after that exciting run, which as you see left me very much out of breath, and which made it necessary for me to hire that worn-out old hack instead of walking up as is my wont." [Illustration: "This brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile, which made it safe for me to run into a haystack." _Chapter XI._] "Yes, we see you are out of breath," said the Twins, as the Baron paused. "Would you like to lie down and take a rest?" "Above all things," said the Baron. "I'll take a nap here until your father returns," which he proceeded at once to do. While he slept the two Imps gazed at him curiously, Angelica, a little suspiciously. "Bub," said she, in a whisper, "do you think that was a true story?" "Well, I don't know," said Diavolo. "If anybody else than Uncle Munch had told it, I wouldn't have believed it. But he hates untruth. I know because he told me so." "That's the way I feel about it," said Angelica. "Of course, he can run as fast as that, because he is very strong, but what I can't see is how an engine ever could run away from its train." "That's what stumps me," said Diavolo. XII MR. MUNCHAUSEN MEETS HIS MATCH (Reported by Henry W. Ananias for the _Gehenna Gazette_.) When Mr. Munchausen, accompanied by Ananias and Sapphira, after a long and tedious journey from Cimmeria to the cool and wooded heights of the Blue Sulphur Mountains, entered the portals of the hotel where the greater part of his summers are spent, the first person to greet him was Beelzebub Sandboy,--the curly-headed Imp who acted as "Head Front" of the Blue Sulphur Mountain House, his eyes a-twinkle and his swift running feet as ever ready for a trip to any part of the hostelry and back. Beelzy, as the Imp was familiarly known, as the party entered, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen pitchers of iced-water upstairs to supply thirsty guests with the one thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at catching sight once again of his ancient friend the Baron, managed to drop two of the pitchers with a loud crash upon the office floor. This, however, was not noticed by the powers that ruled. Beelzy was not perfect, and as long as he smashed less than six pitchers a day on an average the management was disposed not to complain. "There goes my friend Beelzy," said the Baron, as the pitchers fell. "I am delighted to see him. I was afraid he would not be here this year since I understand he has taken up the study of theology." "Theology?" cried Ananias. "In Hades?" "How foolish," said Sapphira. "We don't need preachers here." "He'd make an excellent one," said Mr. Munchausen. "He is a lad of wide experience and his fish and bear stories are wonderful. If he can make them gee, as he would put it, with his doctrines he would prove a tremendous success. Thousands would flock to hear him for his bear stories alone. As for the foolishness of his choice, I think it is a very wise one. Everybody can't be a stoker, you know." At any rate, whatever the reasons for Beelzebub's presence, whether he had given up the study of theology or not, there he was plying his old vocation with the same perfection of carelessness as of yore, and apparently no farther along in the study of theology than he was the year before when he bade Mr. Munchausen "good-bye forever" with the statement that now that he was going to lead a pious life the chances were he'd never meet his friend again. "I don't see why they keep such a careless boy as that," said Sapphira, as Beelzy at the first landing turned to grin at Mr. Munchausen, emptying the contents of one of his pitchers into the lap of a nervous old gentleman in the office below. "He adds an element of excitement to a not over-exciting place," explained Mr. Munchausen. "On stormy days here the men make bets on what fool thing Beelzy will do next. He blacked all the russet shoes with stove polish one year, and last season in the rush of his daily labours he filled up the water-cooler with soft coal instead of ice. He's a great bell-boy, is my friend Beelzy." A little while later when Mr. Munchausen and his party had been shown to their suite, Beelzy appeared in their drawing-room and was warmly greeted by Mr. Munchausen, who introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Ananias. "Well," said Mr. Munchausen, "you're here again, are you?" "No, indeed," said Beelzy. "I ain't here this year. I'm over at the Coal-Yards shovellin' snow. I'm my twin brother that died three years before I was born." "How interesting," said Sapphira, looking at the boy through her lorgnette. Beelzy bowed in response to the compliment and observed to the Baron: "You ain't here yourself this season, be ye?" "No," said Mr. Munchausen, drily. "I've gone abroad. You've given up theology I presume?" "Sorter," said Beelzy. "It was lonesome business and I hadn't been at it more'n twenty minutes when I realised that bein' a missionary ain't all jam and buckwheats. It's kind o' dangerous too, and as I didn't exactly relish the idea o' bein' et up by Samoans an' Feejees I made up my mind to give it up an' stick to bell-boyin' for another season any how; but I'll see you later, Mr. Munchausen. I've got to hurry along with this iced-water. It's overdue now, and we've got the kickinest lot o' folks here this year you ever see. One man here the other night got as mad as hookey because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. Said two minutes was all that was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not understanding anything about the science of eggs in a country where hens feeds on pebbles." "Pebbles?" cried Mr. Munchausen. "What, do they lay Roc's eggs?" Beelzy grinned. "No, sir--they lay hen's eggs all right, but they're as hard as Adam's aunt." "I never heard of chickens eating pebbles," observed Sapphira with a frown. "Do they really relish them?" "I don't know, Ma'am," said Beelzy. "I ain't never been on speakin' terms with the hens, Ma'am, and they never volunteered no information. They eat 'em just the same. They've got to eat something and up here on these mountains there ain't anything but gravel for 'em to eat. That's why they do it. Then when it comes to the eggs, on a diet like that, cobblestones ain't in it with 'em for hardness, and when you come to bite 'em it takes a week to get 'em soft, an' a steam drill to get 'em open--an' this feller kicked at forty minutes! Most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because this iced-water ain't came; and it ain't more than two hours since he ordered it neither." "What an unreasonable gentleman," said Sapphira. "Ain't he though!" said Beelzy. "And he ain't over liberal neither. He's been here two weeks now and all the money I've got out of him was a five-dollar bill I found on his bureau yesterday morning. There's more money in theology than there is in him." With this Beelzebub grabbed up the pitcher of water, and bounded out of the room like a frightened fawn. He disappeared into the dark of the corridor, and a few moments later was evidently tumbling head over heels up stairs, if the sounds that greeted the ears of the party in the drawing-room meant anything. The next morning when there was more leisure for Beelzy the Baron inquired as to the state of his health. "Oh it's been pretty good," said he. "Pretty good. I'm all right now, barrin' a little gout in my right foot, and ice-water on my knee, an' a crick in my back, an' a tired feelin' all over me generally. Ain't had much to complain about. Had the measles in December, and the mumps in February; an' along about the middle o' May the whoopin' cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my life I oughtn't to kick about that." Here Beelzy looked gratefully at an invisible something--doubtless the recollection in the thin air of his departed case of whooping cough, for having rescued him from an untimely grave. "That is rather curious, isn't it?" queried Sapphira, gazing intently into the boy's eyes. "I don't exactly understand how the whooping cough could save anybody's life, do you, Mr. Munchausen?" "Beelzy, this lady would have you explain the situation, and I must confess that I am myself somewhat curious to learn the details of this wonderful rescue," said Mr. Munchausen. "Well, I must say," said Beelzy, with a pleased smile at the very great consequence of his exploit in the lady's eyes, "if I was a-goin' to start out to save people's lives generally I wouldn't have thought a case o' whoopin' cough would be of much use savin' a man from drownin', and I'm sure if a feller fell out of a balloon it wouldn't help him much if he had ninety dozen cases o' whoopin' cough concealed on his person; but for just so long as I'm the feller that has to come up here every June, an' shoo the bears out o' the hotel, I ain't never goin' to be without a spell of whoopin' cough along about that time if I can help it. I wouldn't have been here now if it hadn't been for it." "You referred just now," said Sapphira, "to shooing bears out of the hotel. May I inquire what useful function in the ménage of a hotel a bear-shooer performs?" "What useful what?" asked Beelzy. "Function--duty--what does the duty of a bear-shooer consist in?" explained Mr. Munchausen. "Is he a blacksmith who shoes bears instead of horses?" "He's a bear-chaser," explained Beelzy, "and I'm it," he added. "That, Ma'am, is the function of a bear-shooer in the menagerie of a hotel." Sapphira having expressed herself as satisfied, Beelzebub continued. "You see this here house is shut up all winter, and when everybody's gone and left it empty the bears come down out of the mountains and use it instead of a cave. It's more cosier and less windier than their dens. So when the last guest has gone, and all the doors are locked, and the band gone into winter quarters, down come the bears and take possession. They generally climb through some open window somewhere. They divide up all the best rooms accordin' to their position in bear society and settle down to a regular hotel life among themselves." "But what do they feed upon?" asked Sapphira. "Oh they'll eat anything when they're hungry," said Beelzy. "Sofa cushions, parlor rugs, hotel registers--anything they can fasten their teeth to. Last year they came in through the cupola, burrowin' down through the snow to get at it, and there they stayed enjoyin' life out o' reach o' the wind and storm, snug's bugs in rugs. Year before last there must ha' been a hundred of 'em in the hotel when I got here, but one by one I got rid of 'em. Some I smoked out with some cigars Mr. Munchausen gave me the summer before; some I deceived out, gettin' 'em to chase me through the winders, an' then doublin' back on my tracks an' lockin' 'em out. It was mighty wearin' work. "Last June there was twice as many. By actual tab I shooed two hundred and eight bears and a panther off into the mountains. When the last one as I thought disappeared into the woods I searched the house from top to bottom to see if there was any more to be got rid of. Every blessed one of the five hundred rooms I went through, and not a bear was left that I could see. I can tell you, I was glad, because there was a partickerly ugly run of 'em this year, an' they gave me a pile o' trouble. They hadn't found much to eat in the hotel, an' they was disappointed and cross. As a matter of fact, the only things they found in the place they could eat was a piano stool and an old hair trunk full o' paper-covered novels, which don't make a very hearty meal for two hundred and eight bears and a panther." "I should say not," said Sapphira, "particularly if the novels were as light as most of them are nowadays." "I can't say as to that," said Beelzy. "I ain't got time to read 'em and so I ain't any judge. But all this time I was sufferin' like hookey with awful spasms of whoopin' cough. I whooped so hard once it smashed one o' the best echoes in the place all to flinders, an' of course that made the work twice as harder. So, naturally, when I found there warn't another bear left in the hotel, I just threw myself down anywhere, and slept. My! how I slept. I don't suppose anything ever slept sounder'n I did. And then it happened." Beelzy gave his trousers a hitch and let his voice drop to a stage whisper that lent a wondrous impressiveness to his narration. "As I was a-layin' there unconscious, dreamin' of home and father, a great big black hungry bruin weighin' six hundred and forty-three pounds, that had been hidin' in the bread oven in the bakery, where I hadn't thought of lookin' for him, came saunterin' along, hummin' a little tune all by himself, and lickin' his chops with delight at the idee of havin' me raw for his dinner. I lay on unconscious of my danger, until he got right up close, an' then I waked up, an' openin' my eyes saw this great black savage thing gloatin' over me an' tears of joy runnin' out of his mouth as he thought of the choice meal he was about to have. He was sniffin' my bang when I first caught sight of him." "Mercy!" cried Sapphira, "I should think you'd have died of fright." [Illustration: "At the first whoop Mr. Bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards on the floor." _Chapter XII._] "I did," said Beelzy, politely, "but I came to life again in a minute. 'Oh Lor!' says I, as I see how hungry he was. 'This here's the end o' me;' at which the bear looked me straight in the eye, licked his chops again, and was about to take a nibble off my right ear when 'Whoop!' I had a spasm of whoopin'. Well, Ma'am, I guess you know what that means. There ain't nothin' more uncanny, more terrifyin' in the whole run o' human noises, barrin' a German Opery, than the whoop o' the whoopin' cough. At the first whoop Mr. Bear jumped ten feet and fell over backwards onto the floor; at the second he scrambled to his feet and put for the door, but stopped and looked around hopin' he was mistaken, when I whooped a third time. The third did the business. That third whoop would have scared Indians. It was awful. It was like a tornado blowin' through a fog-horn with a megaphone in front of it. When he heard that, Mr. Bear turned on all four of his heels and started on a scoot up into the woods that must have carried him ten miles before I quit coughin'. "An' that's why, Ma'am, I say that when you've got to shoo bears for a livin', an attack o' whoopin' cough is a useful thing to have around." Saying which, Beelzy departed to find Number 433's left boot which he had left at Number 334's door by some odd mistake. "What do you think of that, Mr. Munchausen?" asked Sapphira, as Beelzy left the room. "I don't know," said Mr. Munchausen, with a sigh. "I'm inclined to think that I am a trifle envious of him. The rest of us are not in his class." XIII WRIGGLETTO It was in the afternoon of a beautiful summer day, and Mr. Munchausen had come up from the simmering city of Cimmeria to spend a day or two with Diavolo and Angelica and their venerable parents. They had all had dinner, and were now out on the back piazza overlooking the magnificent river Styx, which flowed from the mountains to the sea, condescending on its way thither to look in upon countless insignificant towns which had grown up on its banks, among which was the one in which Diavolo and Angelica had been born and lived all their lives. Mr. Munchausen was lying comfortably in a hammock, collecting his thoughts. Angelica was somewhat depressed, but Diavolo was jubilant and all because in the course of a walk they had had that morning Diavolo had killed a snake. "It was fine sport," said Diavolo. "He was lying there in the sun, and I took a stick and put him out of his misery in two minutes." Here Diavolo illustrated the process by whacking the Baron over his waist-coat with a small malacca stick he carried. "Well, I didn't like it," said Angelica. "I don't care for snakes, but somehow or other it seems to me we'd ought to have left him alone. He wasn't hurting anybody off there. If he'd come walking on our place, that would have been one thing, but we went walking where he was, and he had as much right to take a sun-bath there as we had." "That's true enough," put in Mr. Munchausen, resolved after Diavolo's whack, to side against him. "You've just about hit it, Angelica. It wasn't polite of you in the first place, to disturb his snakeship in his nap, and having done so, I can't see why Diavolo wanted to kill him." "Oh, pshaw!" said Diavolo, airily. "What's snakes good for except to kill? I'll kill 'em every chance I get. They aren't any good." "All right," said Mr. Munchausen, quietly. "I suppose you know all about it; but I know a thing or two about snakes myself that do not exactly agree with what you say. They are some good sometimes, and, as a matter of fact, as a general rule, they are less apt to attack you without reason than you are to attack them. A snake is rather inclined to mind its own business unless he finds it necessary to do otherwise. Occasionally too you'll find a snake with a truly amiable character. I'll never forget my old pet Wriggletto, for instance, and as long as I remember him I can't help having a warm corner for snakes in my heart." Here Mr. Munchausen paused and puffed thoughtfully on his cigar as a far-away half-affectionate look came into his eye. "Who was Wriggletto?" asked Diavolo, transferring a half dollar from Mr. Munchausen's pocket to his own. "Who was he?" cried Mr. Munchausen. "You don't mean to say that I have never told you about Wriggletto, my pet boa-constrictor, do you?" "You never told me," said Angelica. "But I'm not everybody. Maybe you've told some other little Imps." "No, indeed!" said Mr. Munchausen. "You two are the only little Imps I tell stories to, and as far as I am concerned, while I admit you are not everybody you are somebody and that's more than everybody is. Wriggletto was a boa-constrictor I once knew in South America, and he was without exception, the most remarkable bit of a serpent I ever met. Genial, kind, intelligent, grateful and useful, and, after I'd had him a year or two, wonderfully well educated. He could write with himself as well as you or I can with a pen. There's a recommendation for you. Few men are all that--and few boa-constrictors either, as far as that goes. I admit Wriggletto was an exception to the general run of serpents, but he was all that I claim for him, nevertheless." "What kind of a snake did you say he was?" asked Diavolo. "A boa-constrictor," said Mr. Munchausen, "and I knew him from his childhood. I first encountered Wriggletto about ten miles out of Para on the river Amazon. He was being swallowed by a larger boa-constrictor, and I saved his life by catching hold of his tail and pulling him out just as the other was getting ready to give the last gulp which would have taken Wriggletto in completely, and placed him beyond all hope of ever being saved." "What was the other boa doing while you were saving Wriggletto?" asked Diavolo, who was fond always of hearing both sides to every question, and whose father, therefore, hoped he might some day grow up to be a great judge, or at least serve with distinction upon a jury. "He couldn't do anything," returned Mr. Munchausen. "He was powerless as long as Wriggletto's head stuck in his throat and just before I got the smaller snake extracted I killed the other one by cutting off his tail behind his ears. It was not a very dangerous rescue on my part as long as Wriggletto was likely to be grateful. I must confess for a minute I was afraid he might not comprehend all I had done for him, and it was just possible he might attack me, but the hug he gave me when he found himself free once more was reassuring. He wound himself gracefully around my body, squeezed me gently and then slid off into the road again, as much as to say 'Thank you, sir. You're a brick.' After that there was nothing Wriggletto would not do for me. He followed me everywhere I went from that time on. He seemed to learn all in an instant that there were hundreds of little things to be done about the house of an old bachelor like myself which a willing serpent could do, and he made it his business to do those things: like picking up my collars from the floor, and finding my studs for me when they rolled under the bureau, and a thousand and one other little services of a like nature, and when you, Master Diavolo, try in future to say that snakes are only good to kill and are of no use to any one, you must at least make an exception in favour of Wriggletto." "I will," said Diavolo, "But you haven't told us of the other useful things he did for you yet." "I was about to do so," said Mr. Munchausen. "In the first place, before he learned how to do little things about the house for me, Wriggletto acted as a watch-dog and you may be sure that nobody ever ventured to prowl around my house at night while Wriggletto slept out on the lawn. Para was quite full of conscienceless fellows, too, at that time, any one of whom would have been glad to have a chance to relieve me of my belongings if they could get by my watch-snake. Two of them tried it one dark stormy night, and Wriggletto when he discovered them climbing in at my window, crawled up behind them and winding his tail about them crept down to the banks of the Amazon, dragging them after him. There he tossed them into the river, and came back to his post once more." "Did you see him do it, Uncle Munch?" asked Angelica. "No, I did not. I learned of it afterwards. Wriggletto himself said never a word. He was too modest for that," said Mr. Munchausen. "One of the robbers wrote a letter to the Para newspapers about it, complaining that any one should be allowed to keep a reptile like that around, and suggested that anyhow people using snakes in place of dogs should be compelled to license them, and put up a sign at their gates: BEWARE OF THE SNAKE! "The man never acknowledged, of course, that he was the robber,--said that he was calling on business when the thing happened,--but he didn't say what his business was, but I knew better, and later on the other robber and he fell out, and they confessed that the business they had come on was to take away a few thousand gold coins of the realm which I was known to have in the house locked in a steel chest. "I bought Wriggletto a handsome silver collar after that, and it was generally understood that he was the guardian of my place, and robbers bothered me no more. Then he was finer than a cat for rats. On very hot days he would go off into the cellar, where it was cool, and lie there with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut, and catch rats by the dozens. They'd run around in the dark, and the first thing they'd know they'd stumble into Wriggletto's mouth; and he swallowed them and licked his chops afterwards, just as you or I do when we've swallowed a fine luscious oyster or a clam. "But pleasantest of all the things Wriggletto did for me--and he was untiring in his attentions in that way--was keeping me cool on hot summer nights. Para as you may have heard is a pretty hot place at best, lying in a tropical region as it does, but sometimes it is awful for a man used to the Northern climate, as I was. The act of fanning one's self, so far from cooling one off, makes one hotter than ever. Maybe you remember how it was with the elephant in the poem: "'Oh my, oh dear!' the elephant said, 'It is so awful hot! I've fanned myself for seventy weeks, And haven't cooled a jot.' "And that was the way it was with me in Para on hot nights. I'd fan and fan and fan, but I couldn't get cool until Wriggletto became a member of my family, and then I was all right. He used to wind his tail about a huge palm-leaf fan I had cut in the forest, so large that I couldn't possibly handle it myself, and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour, with the result that my house was always the breeziest place in Para." "Where is Wriggletto now?" asked Diavolo. "Heigho!" sighed Mr. Munchausen. "He died, poor fellow, and all because of that silver collar I gave him. He tried to swallow a jibola that entered my house one night on wickedness intent, and while Wriggletto's throat was large enough when he stretched it to take down three jibolas, with a collar on which wouldn't stretch he couldn't swallow one. He didn't know that, unfortunately, and he kept on trying until the jibola got a quarter way down and then he stuck. Each swallow, of course, made the collar fit more tightly and finally poor Wriggletto choked himself to death. I felt so badly about it that I left Para within a month, but meanwhile I had a suit of clothes made out of Wriggletto's skin, and wore it for years, and then, when the clothes began to look worn, I had the skin re-tanned and made over into shoes and slippers. So you see that even after death he was useful to me. He was a faithful snake, and that is why when I hear people running down all snakes I tell the story of Wriggletto." [Illustration: "He used to wind his tail about a fan and he'd wave it to and fro by the hour." _Chapter XIII._] There was a pause for a few moments, when Diavolo said, "Uncle Munch, is that a true story you've been giving us?" "True?" cried Mr. Munchausen. "True? Why, my dear boy, what a question! If you don't believe it, bring me your atlas, and I'll show you just where Para is." Diavolo did as he was told, and sure enough, Mr. Munchausen did exactly as he said he would, which Diavolo thought was very remarkable, but he still was not satisfied. "You said he could write as well with himself as you or I could with a pen, Uncle Munch," he said. "How was that?" "Why that was simple enough," explained Mr. Munchausen. "You see he was very black, and thirty-nine feet long and remarkably supple and slender. After a year of hard study he learned to bunch himself into letters, and if he wanted to say anything to me he'd simply form himself into a written sentence. Indeed his favourite attitude when in repose showed his wonderful gift in chirography as well as his affection for me. If you will get me a card I will prove it." Diavolo brought Mr. Munchausen the card and upon it he drew the following: [Illustration: A snake in the form of 'UncleMunch'] "There," said Mr. Munchausen. "That's the way Wriggletto always used to lie when he was at rest. His love for me was very affecting." XIV THE POETIC JUNE-BUG, TOGETHER WITH SOME REMARKS ON THE GILLYHOOLY BIRD "Uncle Munch," said Diavolo one afternoon as a couple of bicyclers sped past the house at breakneck speed, "which would you rather have, a bicycle or a horse?" "Well, I must say, my boy, that is a difficult question to answer," Mr. Munchausen replied after scratching his head dubiously for a few minutes. "You might as well ask a man which he prefers, a hammock or a steam-yacht. To that question I should reply that if I wanted to sell it, I'd rather have a steam-yacht, but for a pleasant swing on a cool piazza in midsummer or under the apple-trees, a hammock would be far preferable. Steam-yachts are not much good to swing in under an apple tree, and very few piazzas that I know of are big enough--" "Oh, now, you know what I mean, Uncle Munch," Diavolo retorted, tapping Mr. Munchausen upon the end of his nose, for a twinkle in Mr. Munchausen's eye seemed to indicate that he was in one of his chaffing moods, and a greater tease than Mr. Munchausen when he felt that way no one has ever known. "I mean for horse-back riding, which would you rather have?" "Ah, that's another matter," returned Mr. Munchausen, calmly. "Now I know how to answer your question. For horse-back riding I certainly prefer a horse; though, on the other hand, for bicycling, bicycles are better than horses. Horses make very poor bicycles, due no doubt to the fact that they have no wheels." Diavolo began to grow desperate. "Of course," Mr. Munchausen went on, "all I have to say in this connection is based merely on my ideas, and not upon any personal experience. I've been horse-back riding on horses, and bicycling on bicycles, but I never went horse-back riding on a bicycle, or bicycling on horseback. I should think it might be exciting to go bicycling on horse-back, but very dangerous. It is hard enough for me to keep a bicycle from toppling over when I'm riding on a hard, straight, level well-paved road, without experimenting with my wheel on a horse's back. However if you wish to try it some day and will get me a horse with a back as big as Trafalgar Square I'm willing to make the effort." Angelica giggled. It was lots of fun for her when Mr. Munchausen teased Diavolo, though she didn't like it quite so much when it was her turn to be treated that way. Diavolo wanted to laugh too, but he had too much dignity for that, and to conceal his desire to grin from Mr. Munchausen he began to hunt about for an old newspaper, or a lump of coal or something else he could make a ball of to throw at him. "Which would you rather do, Angelica," Mr. Munchausen resumed, "go to sea in a balloon or attend a dumb-crambo party in a chicken-coop?" "I guess I would," laughed Angelica. "That's a good answer," Mr. Munchausen put in. "It is quite as intelligent as the one which is attributed to the Gillyhooly bird. When the Gillyhooly bird was asked his opinion of giraffes, he scratched his head for a minute and said, "'The question hath but little wit That you have put to me, But I will try to answer it With prompt candidity. The automobile is a thing That's pleasing to the mind; And in a lustrous diamond ring Some merit I can find. Some persons gloat o'er French Chateaux; Some dote on lemon ice; While others gorge on mixed gateaux, Yet have no use for mice. I'm very fond of oyster-stew, I love a patent-leather boot, But after all, 'twixt me and you, The fish-ball is my favourite fruit.'" "Hoh" jeered Diavolo, who, attracted by the allusion to a kind of bird of which he had never heard before, had given up the quest for a paper ball and returned to Mr. Munchausen's side, "I don't think that was a very intelligent answer. It didn't answer the question at all." "That's true, and that is why it was intelligent," said Mr. Munchausen. "It was noncommittal. Some day when you are older and know less than you do now, you will realise, my dear Diavolo, how valuable a thing is the reply that answereth not." Mr. Munchausen paused long enough to let the lesson sink in and then he resumed. "The Gillyhooly bird is a perfect owl for wisdom of that sort," he said. "It never lets anybody know what it thinks; it never makes promises, and rarely speaks except to mystify people. It probably has just as decided an opinion concerning giraffes as you or I have, but it never lets anybody into the secret." "What is a Gillyhooly bird, anyhow?" asked Diavolo. "He's a bird that never sings for fear of straining his voice; never flies for fear of wearying his wings; never eats for fear of spoiling his digestion; never stands up for fear of bandying his legs and never lies down for fear of injuring his spine," said Mr. Munchausen. "He has no feathers, because, as he says, if he had, people would pull them out to trim hats with, which would be painful, and he never goes into debt because, as he observes himself, he has no hope of paying the bill with which nature has endowed him, so why run up others?" "I shouldn't think he'd live long if he doesn't eat?" suggested Angelica. "That's the great trouble," said Mr. Munchausen. "He doesn't live long. Nothing so ineffably wise as the Gillyhooly bird ever does live long. I don't believe a Gillyhooly bird ever lived more than a day, and that, connected with the fact that he is very ugly and keeps himself out of sight, is possibly why no one has ever seen one. He is known only by hearsay, and as a matter of fact, besides ourselves, I doubt if any one has ever heard of him." Diavolo eyed Mr. Munchausen narrowly. "Speaking of Gillyhooly birds, however, and to be serious for a moment," Mr. Munchausen continued flinching nervously under Diavolo's unyielding gaze; "I never told you about the poetic June-bug that worked the typewriter, did I?" "Never heard of such a thing," cried Diavolo. "The idea of a June-bug working a typewriter." "I don't believe it," said Angelica, "he hasn't got any fingers." "That shows all you know about it," retorted Mr. Munchausen. "You think because you are half-way right you are all right. However, if you don't want to hear the story of the June-bug that worked the type-writer, I won't tell it. My tongue is tired, anyhow." "Please go on," said Diavolo. "I want to hear it." "So do I," said Angelica. "There are lots of stories I don't believe that I like to hear--'Jack the Giant-killer' and 'Cinderella,' for instance." "Very well," said Mr. Munchausen. "I'll tell it, and you can believe it or not, as you please. It was only two summers ago that the thing happened, and I think it was very curious. As you may know, I often have a great lot of writing to do and sometimes I get very tired holding a pen in my hand. When you get old enough to write real long letters you'll know what I mean. Your writing hand will get so tired that sometimes you'll wish some wizard would come along smart enough to invent a machine by means of which everything you think can be transferred to paper as you think it, without the necessity of writing. But as yet the only relief to the man whose hand is worn out by the amount of writing he has to do is the use of the type-writer, which is hard only on the fingers. So to help me in my work two summers ago I bought a type-writing machine, and put it in the great bay-window of my room at the hotel where I was stopping. It was a magnificent hotel, but it had one drawback--it was infested with June-bugs. Most summer hotels are afflicted with mosquitoes, but this one had June-bugs instead, and all night long they'd buzz and butt their heads against the walls until the guests went almost crazy with the noise. "At first I did not mind it very much. It was amusing to watch them, and my friends and I used to play a sort of game of chance with them that entertained us hugely. We marked the walls off in squares which we numbered and then made little wagers as to which of the squares a specially selected June-bug would whack next. To simplify the game we caught the chosen June-bug and put some powdered charcoal on his head, so that when he butted up against the white wall he would leave a black mark in the space he hit. It was really one of the most exciting games of that particular kind that I ever played, and many a rainy day was made pleasant by this diversion. "But after awhile like everything else June-bug Roulette as we called it began to pall and I grew tired of it and wished there never had been such a thing as a June-bug in the world. I did my best to forget them, but it was impossible. Their buzzing and butting continued uninterrupted, and toward the end of the month they developed a particularly bad habit of butting the electric call button at the side of my bed. The consequence was that at all hours of the night, hall-boys with iced-water, and house-maids with bath towels, and porters with kindling-wood would come knocking at my door and routing me out of bed--summoned of course by none other than those horrible butting insects. This particular nuisance became so unendurable that I had to change my room for one which had no electric bell in it. "So things went, until June passed and July appeared. The majority of the nuisances promptly got out but one especially vigorous and athletic member of the tribe remained. He became unbearable and finally one night I jumped out of bed either to kill him or to drive him out of my apartment forever, but he wouldn't go, and try as I might I couldn't hit him hard enough to kill him. In sheer desperation I took the cover of my typewriting machine and tried to catch him in that. Finally I succeeded, and, as I thought, shook the heedless creature out of the window promptly slamming the window shut so that he might not return; and then putting the type-writer cover back over the machine, I went to bed again, but not to sleep as I had hoped. All night long every second or two I'd hear the type-writer click. This I attributed to nervousness on my part. As far as I knew there wasn't anything to make the type-writer click, and the fact that I heard it do so served only to convince me that I was tired and imagined that I heard noises. [Illustration: "Most singular of all was the fact that consciously or unconsciously the insect had butted out a verse." _Chapter XIV._] "The next morning, however, on opening the machine I found that the June-bug had not only not been shaken out of the window, but had actually spent the night inside of the cover, butting his head against the keys, having no wall to butt with it, and most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse which read: "'I'm glad I haven't any brains, For there can be no doubt I'd have to give up butting If I had, or butt them out.'" "Mercy! Really?" cried Angelica. "Well I can't prove it," said Mr. Munchausen, "by producing the June-bug, but I can show you the hotel, I can tell you the number of the room; I can show you the type-writing machine, and I have recited the verse. If you're not satisfied with that I'll have to stand your suspicions." "What became of the June-bug?" demanded Diavolo. "He flew off as soon as I lifted the top of the machine," said Mr. Munchausen. "He had all the modesty of a true poet and did not wish to be around while his poem was being read." "It's queer how you can't get rid of June-bugs, isn't it, Uncle Munch," suggested Angelica. "Oh, we got rid of 'em next season all right," said Mr. Munchausen. "I invented a scheme that kept them away all the following summer. I got the landlord to hang calendars all over the house with one full page for each month. Then in every room we exposed the page for May and left it that way all summer. When the June-bugs arrived and saw these, they were fooled into believing that June hadn't come yet, and off they flew to wait. They are very inconsiderate of other people's comfort," Mr. Munchausen concluded, "but they are rigorously bound by an etiquette of their own. A self-respecting June-bug would no more appear until the June-bug season is regularly open than a gentleman of high society would go to a five o'clock tea munching fresh-roasted peanuts. And by the way, that reminds me I happen to have a bag of peanuts right here in my pocket." Here Mr. Munchausen, transferring the luscious goobers to Angelica, suddenly remembered that he had something to say to the Imps' father, and hurriedly left them. "Do you suppose that's true, Diavolo?" whispered Angelica as their friend disappeared. "Well it might happen," said Diavolo, "but I've a sort of notion that it's 'maginary like the Gillyhooly bird. Gimme a peanut." XV A LUCKY STROKE "Mr. Munchausen," said Ananias, as he and the famous warrior drove off from the first hole at the Missing Links, "you never seem to weary of the game of golf. What is its precise charm in your eyes,--the health-giving qualities of the game or its capacity for bad lies?" "I owe my life to it," replied the Baron. "That is to say to my precision as a player I owe one of the many preservations of my existence which have passed into history. Furthermore it is ever varying in its interest. Like life itself it is full of hazards and no man knows at the beginning of his stroke what will be the requirements of the next. I never told you of the bovine lie I got once while playing a match with Bonaparte, did I?" "I do not recall it," said Ananias, foozling his second stroke into the stone wall. "I was playing with my friend Bonaparte, for the Cosmopolitan Championship," said Munchausen, "and we were all even at the thirty-sixth hole. Bonaparte had sliced his ball into a stubble field from the tee, whereat he was inclined to swear, until by an odd mischance I drove mine into the throat of a bull that was pasturing on the fair green two hundred and ninety-eight yards distant. 'Shall we take it over?' I asked. 'No,' laughed Bonaparte, thinking he had me. 'We must play the game. I shall play my lie. You must play yours.' 'Very well,' said I. 'So be it. Golf is golf, bull or no bull.' And off we went. It took Bonaparte seven strokes to get on the green again, which left me a like number to extricate my ball from the throat of the unwelcome bovine. It was a difficult business, but I made short work of it. Tying my red silk handkerchief to the end of my brassey I stepped in front of the great creature and addressing an imaginary ball before him made the usual swing back and through stroke. The bull, angered by the fluttering red handkerchief, reared up and made a dash at me. I ran in the direction of the hole, the bull in pursuit for two hundred yards. Here I hid behind a tree while Mr. Bull stopped short and snorted again. Still there was no sign of the ball, and after my pursuer had quieted a little I emerged from my hiding place and with the same club and in the same manner played three. The bull surprised at my temerity threw his head back with an angry toss and tried to bellow forth his wrath, as I had designed he should, but the obstruction in his throat prevented him. The ball had stuck in his pharynx. Nothing came of his spasm but a short hacking cough and a wheeze--then silence. 'I'll play four,' I cried to Bonaparte, who stood watching me from a place of safety on the other side of the stone wall. Again I swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face and what I had hoped for followed. The second attempt at a bellow again resulted in a hacking cough and a sneeze, and lo the ball flew out of his throat and landed dead to the hole. The caddies drove the bull away. Bonaparte played eight, missed a putt for a nine, stymied himself in a ten, holed out in twelve and I went down in five." "Jerusalem!" cried Ananias. "What did Bonaparte say?" [Illustration: "Again I swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature's face, and what I had hoped for followed." _Chapter XV._] "He delivered a short, quick nervous address in Corsican and retired to the club-house where he spent the afternoon drowning his sorrows in Absinthe high-balls. 'Great hole that, Bonaparte,' said I when his geniality was about to return. 'Yes,' said he. 'A regular lu-lu, eh?' said I. 'More than that, Baron,' said he. 'It was a Waterlooloo.' It was the first pun I ever heard the Emperor make." "We all have our weak moments," said Ananias drily, playing nine from behind the wall. "I give the hole up," he added angrily. "Let's play it out anyhow," said Munchausen, playing three to the green. "All right," Ananias agreed, taking a ten and rimming the cup. Munchausen took three to go down, scoring six in all. "Two up," said he, as Ananias putted out in eleven. "How the deuce do you make that out? This is only the first hole," cried Ananias with some show of heat. "You gave up a hole, didn't you?" demanded Munchausen. "Yes." "And I won a hole, didn't I?" "You did--but--" "Well that's two holes. Fore!" cried Munchausen. The two walked along in silence for a few minutes, and the Baron resumed. "Yes, golf is a splendid game and I love it, though I don't think I'd ever let a good canvasback duck get cold while I was talking about it. When I have a canvasback duck before me I don't think of anything else while it's there. But unquestionably I'm fond of golf, and I have a very good reason to be. It has done a great deal for me, and as I have already told you, once it really saved my life." "Saved your life, eh?" said Ananias. "That's what I said," returned Mr. Munchausen, "and so of course that is the way it was." "I should admire to hear the details," said Ananias. "I presume you were going into a decline and it restored your strength and vitality." "No," said Mr. Munchausen, "it wasn't that way at all. It saved my life when I was attacked by a fierce and ravenously hungry lion. If I hadn't known how to play golf it would have been farewell forever to Mr. Munchausen, and Mr. Lion would have had a fine luncheon that day, at which I should have been the turkey and cranberry sauce and mince pie all rolled into one." Ananias laughed. "It's easy enough to laugh at my peril now," said Mr. Munchausen, "but if you'd been with me you wouldn't have laughed very much. On the contrary, Ananias, you'd have ruined what little voice you ever had screeching." "I wasn't laughing at the danger you were in," said Ananias. "I don't see anything funny in that. What I was laughing at was the idea of a lion turning up on a golf course. They don't have lions on any of the golf courses that I am familiar with." "That may be, my dear Ananias," said Mr. Munchausen, "but it doesn't prove anything. What you are familiar with has no especial bearing upon the ordering of the Universe. They had lions by the hundreds on the particular links I refer to. I laid the links out myself and I fancy I know what I am talking about. They were in the desert of Sahara. And I tell you what it is," he added, slapping his knee enthusiastically, "they were the finest links I ever played on. There wasn't a hole shorter than three miles and a quarter, which gives you plenty of elbow room, and the fair green had all the qualities of a first class billiard table, so that your ball got a magnificent roll on it." "What did you do for hazards?" asked Ananias. "Oh we had 'em by the dozen," replied Mr. Munchausen. "There weren't any ponds or stone walls, of course, but there were plenty of others that were quite as interesting. There was the Sphynx for instance; and for bunkers the pyramids can't be beaten. Then occasionally right in the middle of a game a caravan ten or twelve miles long, would begin to drag its interminable length across the middle of the course, and it takes mighty nice work with the lofting iron to lift a ball over a caravan without hitting a camel or killing an Arab, I can tell you. Then finally I'm sure I don't know of any more hazardous hazard for a golf player--or for anybody else for that matter--than a real hungry African lion out in search of breakfast, especially when you meet him on the hole furthest from home and have a stretch of three or four miles between him and assistance with no revolver or other weapon at hand. That's hazard enough for me and it took the best work I could do with my brassey to get around it." "You always were strong at a brassey lie," said Ananias. "Thank you," said Mr. Munchausen. "There are few lies I can't get around. But on this morning I was playing for the Mid-African Championship. I'd been getting along splendidly. My record for fifteen holes was about seven hundred and eighty-three strokes, and I was flattering myself that I was about to turn in the best card that had ever been seen in a medal play contest in all Africa. My drive from the sixteenth tee was a simple beauty. I thought the ball would never stop, I hit it such a tremendous whack. It had a flight of three hundred and eighty-two yards and a roll of one hundred and twenty more, and when it finally stopped it turned up in a mighty good lie on a natural tee, which the wind had swirled up. Calling to the monkey who acted as my caddy--we used monkeys for caddies always in Africa, and they were a great success because they don't talk and they use their tails as a sort of extra hand,--I got out my brassey for the second stroke, took my stance on the hardened sand, swung my club back, fixed my eye on the ball and was just about to carry through, when I heard a sound which sent my heart into my boots, my caddy galloping back to the club house, and set my teeth chattering like a pair of castanets. It was unmistakable, that sound. When a hungry lion roars you know precisely what it is the moment you hear it, especially if you have heard it before. It doesn't sound a bit like the miauing of a cat; nor is it suggestive of the rumble of artillery in an adjacent street. There is no mistaking it for distant thunder, as some writers would have you believe. It has none of the gently mournful quality that characterises the soughing of the wind through the leafless branches of the autumnal forest, to which a poet might liken it; it is just a plain lion-roaring and nothing else, and when you hear it you know it. The man who mistakes it for distant thunder might just as well be struck by lightning there and then for all the chance he has to get away from it ultimately. The poet who confounds it with the gentle soughing breeze never lives to tell about it. He gets himself eaten up for his foolishness. It doesn't require a Daniel come to judgment to recognise a lion's roar on sight. "I should have perished myself that morning if I had not known on the instant just what were the causes of the disturbance. My nerve did not desert me, however, frightened as I was. I stopped my play and looked out over the sand in the direction whence the roaring came, and there he stood a perfect picture of majesty, and a giant among lions, eyeing me critically as much as to say, 'Well this is luck, here's breakfast fit for a king!' but he reckoned without his host. I was in no mood to be served up to stop his ravening appetite and I made up my mind at once to stay and fight. I'm a good runner, Ananias, but I cannot beat a lion in a three mile sprint on a sandy soil, so fight it was. The question was how. My caddy gone, the only weapons I had with me were my brassey and that one little gutta percha ball, but thanks to my golf they were sufficient. "Carefully calculating the distance at which the huge beast stood, I addressed the ball with unusual care, aiming slightly to the left to overcome my tendency to slice, and drove the ball straight through the lion's heart as he poised himself on his hind legs ready to spring upon me. It was a superb stroke and not an instant too soon, for just as the ball struck him he sprang forward, and even as it was landed but two feet away from where I stood, but, I am happy to say, dead. "It was indeed a narrow escape, and it tried my nerves to the full, but I extracted the ball and resumed my play in a short while, adding the lucky stroke to my score meanwhile. But I lost the match,--not because I lost my nerve, for this I did not do, but because I lifted from the lion's heart. The committee disqualified me because I did not play from my lie and the cup went to my competitor. However, I was satisfied to have escaped with my life. I'd rather be a live runner-up than a dead champion any day." "A wonderful experience," said Ananias. "Perfectly wonderful. I never heard of a stroke to equal that." "You are too modest, Ananias," said Mr. Munchausen drily. "Too modest by half. You and Sapphira hold the record for that, you know." "I have forgotten the episode," said Ananias. "Didn't you and she make your last hole on a single stroke?" demanded Munchausen with an inward chuckle. "Oh--yes," said Ananias grimly, as he recalled the incident. "But you know we didn't win any more than you did." "Oh, didn't you?" asked Munchausen. "No," replied Ananias. "You forget that Sapphira and I were two down at the finish." And Mr. Munchausen played the rest of the game in silence. Ananias had at last got the best of him. * * * * * Transcriber�s note: Spellings were left as found. Illustrations were moved when they interrupted paragraphs. 
15002	----	Proofreading Team All Aboard or Life on the Lake A Sequel to "The Boat Club" By Oliver Optic CHICAGO: M.A. DONOHUE & CO. PREFACE. "ALL ABOARD" was written to gratify the reasonable curiosity of the readers of "THE BOAT CLUB" to know what occurred at Wood Lake during the second season; and, though it is a sequel, it has no direct connection with its predecessor. The Introduction, in the first chapter, contains a brief synopsis of the principal events of the first season; so that those who have not read "The Boat Club," will labor under no disadvantage on that account. The _story_ of each book is entirely distinct from that of the other. As the interest of the first centers in Tony Weston, so that of the second does in Charles Hardy. I have tried to make the boys believe that the path of truth and rectitude is not only the safest, but the pleasantest path; and the experience of Charles with the "Rovers" illustrates and supports the position. Perhaps some of the older readers of these books will think that, in providing the boys at Wood Lake with a whole fleet of boats, with bands of music, with club rooms, libraries, and apparatus, I have furnished them with very magnificent recreations; and that I might as well have told a "fairy tale" while I was about it. The only excuse I can offer for this extravagance is, that it would have been a pity to spoil a splendid ideal, when it could be actualized by a single stroke of the pen; besides, I believe that nothing is too good for good boys, especially when it is paid for out of the pocket of a _millionaire_. The author, grateful to his young friends for the kind reception given to "The Boat Club," hopes that "All Aboard" will not only please them, but make them wiser and better. WILLIAM T. ADAMS. DORCHESTER, October 25, 1855. CONTENTS. CHAPTER. I. Introduction II. The New Member III. All Aboard! IV. The Fraternal Hug V. Up the River VI. Hurrah for Tony! VII. Commodore Frank Sedley VIII. The Race IX. Little Paul X. A Unanimous Vote XI. Better to Give than Receive XII. First of May XIII. The Lighthouse XIV. The Conspiracy XV. The "Rovers" XVI. The Camp on the Island XVII. The Escape XVIII. Wreck of the Butterfly XIX. The Cruise of the Fleet XX. The Hospitalities of Oaklawn XXI. Conclusion CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. It can hardly be supposed that all the boys who take up this book have read the Boat Club; therefore it becomes necessary, before the old friends of the club are permitted to reunite with them, to introduce whatever new friends may be waiting to join them in the sports of the second season at Wood Lake. However wearisome such a presentation may be to those who are already acquainted, my young friends will all allow that it is nothing more than civility and good manners. Frank Sedley is the only son of Captain Sedley, a retired shipmaster, of lofty and liberal views, and of the most estimable character. He is not what some people would call an "old fogy," and likes to have the boys enjoy themselves in everything that is reasonable and proper; but not to the detriment of their manners or morals, or to the neglect of their usual duties. Having been a sailor all his life, he has none of that fear of boats and deep water which often haunts the minds of fond parents, and has purchased a beautiful club boat for the use of his son and other boys who live in the vicinity of Wood Lake. Some fathers and mothers may think this was a very foolish act on the part of Captain Sedley, that the amusement he had chosen for his son was too dangerous in itself, and too likely to create in him a taste for aquatic pursuits that may one day lead him to be a sailor, which some tender mothers regard as "a dreadful thing," as, indeed, it is, under some circumstances. But it must be remembered that Captain Sedley had been a sailor himself; that he had followed the seas from early youth; and that he had made his fortune and earned his reputation as a wise, good, and respectable man, on the sea. So, of course, he could not sympathize with the general opinion that a ship must necessarily be a "sink of iniquity," a school of vice, and that nothing good can be expected of a boy who is sent to sea. He believes that the man will grow out of the boy; and to his parental duty he applies the apostolic maxim, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." The club boat and the boat club, as means of instruction and discipline, as well as of amusement, were suggested by an accidental occurrence. The "Bunkers of Rippleton," a set of idle and dissolute boys, had constructed a rude raft, upon which they paddled about on the lake, and appeared to enjoy themselves very much. Captain Sedley, who had forbidden his son to venture upon the lake on the raft, or even in a boat, without permission, overheard Charles Hardy, the intimate friend of Frank, remark that the "Bunkers" had a much better time than they had, and that boys who did not obey their parents often enjoyed themselves more than those who did. A few days after, the boys discovered the club boat, the light and graceful Zephyr, resting like a fairy shell upon the lake, and in its use the argument of Charles was effectually refuted. A club was formed of the boys in the neighborhood, and under the instruction of Uncle Ben, an old sailor who lived with Captain Sedley, soon became very expert in the management of the boat. A building was erected for the use of the association, in which, besides the boat-house, was a club room containing a library, and furnished with conveniences for holding meetings for mutual instruction and recreation. A constitution for the government of the club was adopted, in which the object of the association was declared to be "the instruction and amusement of the members, and the acquiring of good morals, good manners, and good habits in general." It defined and prohibited a great many vices and bad habits common among boys, so that the tendency of the organization was to make them better, wiser, and happier. Their experience upon the lake, while the influence of the association stimulated them to the strict performance of their ordinary duties, was both varied and useful. Inasmuch as it reduced their recreation to a system, the laws of the club acting as a salutary check upon the waywardness of youth, it afforded an excellent discipline for the mind and heart, as well as for the muscles. Among the members of the club was an honest, noble-hearted youth, the son of a poor widow, by the name of Tony Weston. In an affray upon Center Island, Tony had taken the part of Frank Sedley against Tim Bunker, and had thus obtained the ill will of the leader of the "Bunkers," and is accused of stealing a wallet, which is afterwards proved to have been taken by the "Bunker" himself. The theft is proved upon the graceless scamp, and he is sent to the house of correction, while Tony is borne in triumph by the club to his home. Near the close of the story, Tony's brother, who has long been mourned as dead, returns home from California, with a large fortune in his possession. The brother, George Weston, builds a fine house for his mother, and, impelled by a warm admiration for Tony's noble character, purchases a splendid club boat for him, of the size and model of the Zephyr, which is named the Butterfly. Tony is a boy whom all my readers will like, and though he is really no better boy than Frank Sedley, the humble circumstances of his mother before George returned required a great deal of sacrifice on his part, and called into action a great many noble traits of character. His life was a struggle, and his character a triumph over the perils to which poverty exposed him. His experience seemed to exemplify the truths of Christianity. He could forgive his enemy, as when, at the risk of his own life, he plunged into the lake and rescued Tim Bunker from a watery grave, though Tim was even then laboring to ruin him. He loved to sacrifice his own comfort to that of others and found his greatest pleasure in making others happy. He and Frank are the unconscious exemplars of the boat club--the "men of character and influence" in their embryo world. Charles Hardy is a boy of another stamp--one who does things "to be seen of men." He is sometimes selfish and ambitious; though the beneficent influence of the organization is working miracles in the transformation of his character. The Butterfly was launched in the month of April. The liberality of George Weston had provided for her a boat-house, similar to that of the Zephyr, and, like that, furnished with a club room and library, and all the means for promoting the objects of the organization. And now, with my old friends refreshed in memory by this review of the first season, and my new ones put in possession of all that is necessary to a proper understanding of the situation of the boat club, we are ready to proceed with our story. CHAPTER II. THE NEW MEMBER. "Order!" said Frank Sedley, as he seated himself in the arm-chair, at the head of the table in the club room. At a meeting the preceding week, Frank had again been chosen coxswain of the club for the first official term. This had been done, not only in compliment to the noble boy to whose father the members were indebted for the privileges they enjoyed, but in anticipation of an exciting time on the lake, in a proposed race with the Butterfly. Frank was acknowledged to be the most skilful boatman among them, and under his direction they expected to accomplish all that they and the Zephyr could possibly attain. They had already learned that mere muscle was not all that was required to insure their success. Skill, forethought, and the ability to take advantage of favoring circumstances, were discovered to be even more desirable than great power. "Order!" repeated Frank, rapping smartly on the table. The members suspended their conversation, and all eyes were fixed upon the president. The affairs of the club, in connection with the Butterfly, had been freely discussed for several weeks, and everything had been arranged for the opening of the "summer campaign," as Charles Hardy rather facetiously called it. "There are two questions to be submitted for the action of the club at this meeting," continued Frank, with more than his usual gravity. "They are questions of momentous consequence, and I have felt the need of counsel from our director; but my father declines giving me any advice, and says he prefers that we should discuss the questions independently; though, as you all know, if our final action is wrong, he will--he will--" "Veto it," added Fred Harper. "Yes, he will not permit us to do a wrong, though he wants us to think for ourselves, and do the best we can." "Precisely so; he wants--" Charles Hardy begun. "Order!" said Frank, with gentle firmness. "The first question is this: Tim Bunker, who has recently been discharged from the house of correction, has applied to be admitted as a member of the club, in place of Tony Weston, resigned. Shall he be admitted?" "Mr. President, I move that he be not admitted," said Charles. "Is the motion seconded?" There was no response. The members all felt that it was a very delicate matter, and that it required careful deliberation. "The motion is not seconded, and, of course, cannot be entertained," continued the president. "I move that he be admitted," said Fred Harper. "Second the motion," added William Bright. Charles Hardy felt a little nettled, and his first impulse was, to rise and express his astonishment, as Squire Flutter had done in the "March meeting," at the motion of his friend on the other side of the table: but the impulsive youth had learned quite recently that a second thought is oftentimes much better than a first, and he reserved the expression of his surprise till a later stage of the debate. As no one seemed disposed to open the discussion, Frank requested Fred Harper to take the chair, while he temporarily assumed the position of one of the disputants. "Mr. Chairman," said he, "I rise to offer a few remarks in favor of the motion which is now before the club. Perhaps I cannot better introduce my own views upon the subject than by relating the substance of the conversation that occurred when Tim applied to me for admission to the club. He said that he had had a hard time of it in the house of correction; but he hoped his long confinement had done him good. He had firmly resolved to be a good boy. 'But,' said he, 'what can I do? If I go with the fellows I used to associate with, how can I keep my resolution? I know I have been a very bad boy, and I want to do what is right.' I told him that our rules were very strict; that no fellow was allowed to swear or to use bad language of any kind and that every member was required to keep straight himself, and help keep the others straight. He would agree to all this, would sign the constitution, and my father and the club would soon see that he meant all he said. I confess that I felt for him. What he said about keeping company with the 'Bunkers'--I suppose we must drop that name now--was true. He could not be a good fellow with such as they are. Now it won't do any harm to try him, and he may be saved from the error of his ways. As it is, he has got a hard name, and people will shun him: and, being discouraged, he may plunge deeper into vice than ever. This is about all I have to say." Frank resumed the chair, and several of the members, perceiving the force of the president's reasoning, expressed themselves in favor of admitting Tim; when Charles Hardy rose and "plumed himself for a speech." "Mr. President: I confess my surprise at the direction this debate has taken. There's a _destiny_ that shapes our ends--" "A what?" asked Fred Harper, with a roguish smile. "I beg the member on the other side will not interrupt me," replied Charles, with offended dignity. "I quote the line as John Adams used it, in his celebrated speech, 'Sink or swim.'" "Who?" "John Adams." "I beg the member's pardon, but John Adams never made any such speech," answered Fred who, it must be confessed, was rather too fond of tantalizing the ambitious youth. "Really, Mr. President, I am surprised that the member should deny what we all know. Why, the piece is in our reading book." "Daniel Webster put the speech into the mouth of Adams," added Frank; "and the patriot is only supposed to have made it." "It amounts to the same thing," continued Charles, with a slight blush. "But your quotation was not correct," said Fred. "Perhaps the member will give me the correct reading of the passage." "With pleasure; the lines are from Shakspeare:-- 'There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, Roughhew them as we will.' I fancy the lines will not suit the member now," continued Fred, as he cast a mischievous glance at the discomfited speech-maker. "Go on, if you please," said Frank to Charles. "As I was saying, Mr. President, 'There's a Divinity that shapes our ends'--" "You were not saying so," interposed Fred. "Order!" said the chairman. "Proceed." But Charles Hardy could not proceed. Undoubtedly, when he rose to speak, he had an idea in his head; but it had fled, and he could not at once recall it. In vain he scratched his head, in vain he thrust his hands into his pockets, as if in search of the lost idea; it would not come. "You were speaking of Tim Bunker," said Frank, suggestively. "I was; and I was about to say that--that--" Some of the boys could no longer suppress their mirth, and, in spite of the vigorous pounding which the chairman bestowed upon the innocent table, in his attempts to preserve order, they had their laugh out. But the pleasantry of the members, and a sense of the awkwardness of his position, roused Charles to a more vigorous effort, and as he was about to speak of another topic, the lost idea came like a flood of sunshine. "'There's a Divinity that shapes our ends.' Tim Bunker has chosen the path he will tread, and does anybody suppose he will ever abandon it? He will certainly die in the State Prison or on the gallows--my father says so. We all know what his habits are, and it is as easy for an Ethiopian to change his _spots_--" "Skin," said Fred. "To change his skin, as for such a fellow to be like us. He will lie, swear,--" "The chair thinks the member's remarks are not strictly in order," interposed Frank, who was much pained to hear his friend use such violent language. He saw that Charles was smarting under the effects of the ridicule which his companions had cast upon him, and that, in his struggle to make a speech, and thus redeem himself from the obloquy of a failure, he had permitted his impulses to override his judgment. "I forbear, then," continued the speaker. "But I beg the club to consider the probable consequences of admitting such a fellow into the association. We have thus far enjoyed a good reputation, and we ought to be very careful how we tamper with our respectability." "Ahem!" said Fred. "Order!" "A good name is rather to be chosen than--than _purple and fine linen_." "Than what!" exclaimed Fred. "Great riches," added Frank, with a smile, and even he was forced to admit "that the member was singularly unfortunate in his quotations." "You have my opinion, gentlemen," said Charles, "and I don't know that I have any thing more to say at present;" and, much disconcerted, he sat down. But though cast down, he was not destroyed; and in justice to his companions, it must be remarked that he had frequently annoyed the club by his attempts to make speeches more learned and ornate than his capacity would allow. Frank had reasoned with him on his propensity to "show off," but without effect, so that he did not feel so much sympathy for him at the present time as he would have felt under other circumstances. "The question is still open for discussion," said the chairman. No one, however, seemed disposed to speak. "Question!" called Fred Harper. "Question!" repeated several others. "Are you ready for the question?" continued the chairman. "Question!" "All those in favor of admitting Tim Bunker as a member of the club will signify it in the usual way." Ten hands were raised. "Contrary minded." Charles, feeling that he was on the wrong side, did not vote against the measure, and it was declared to be a unanimous vote. "The other matter, requiring the action of the club, relates to the proposed race between the Butterfly and the Zephyr. Several gentlemen of Rippleton feel a deep interest in the two boat clubs, and have proposed to put up a prize to be awarded to the successful club. I understand that fifty dollars have been subscribed for this purpose. The question is, Shall we pull for this prize?" "When?" asked Fred. "The clubs may choose their own time." "It wouldn't be fair till the Butterfly has had a chance to practise a while." "Of course not; the Butterfly may accept the proposition or not, and the club can select their own time." "I move you that the offer be accepted," said William Bright. "Second the motion," added James Vincent. "I make the motion, Mr. President, for the purpose of bringing the question properly before the club. I have not thought enough about the matter yet to decide whether I am in favor of it or not," continued William Bright. "It is generally supposed that the one who makes a motion is in favor of it; but we won't mind that now," said Frank, with a smile. "Mr. President, I must say, I think the proposition looks a little like gambling," suggested Charles Hardy. "So I was thinking," added a little fellow, near the foot of the table. "Suppose we take an informal vote," proposed Charles, who was determined to get on the right side this time, if possible. So an informal vote _was_ taken, and every member voted against the proposition. Frank Sedley was surprised at this result. Probably he was the only one who had given any earnest thought to the subject, though the offer was known to all the boys. Captain Sedley, who watched over the welfare of the club with paternal interest, had endeavored, during the winter that was now past, to render it effectual in developing the moral and mental capacities of the members. He had given such a direction to the exercises in Zephyr Hall as he thought would best attain this end. One of the greatest difficulties with which he had been obliged to contend was the want of individuality in the boys. Each was disposed to "pin his faith" upon others. They would not think for themselves, and exercise an independent judgment. Like thousands in the great world, they "went with the crowd;" thought, acted, voted, with the majority. Frank saw the operation of this motive in the "informal vote" which had just been taken; and he was tolerably certain that he could bring them all over to the other side, by indicating his own preference. Calling Fred Harper to the chair again, he opened the discussion by offering a simile, which, being a parallel case, certainly gave the question an entirely new aspect. "At the Rippleton Academy three gold medals and three silver medals are awarded, every year, for the best scholarship and deportment. Is that gambling?" "No," replied half a dozen voices. "Well, we are to row, in like manner for a prize. We don't put up money as a stake; the party that gets beaten does not lose anything." "That makes a difference," added Charles. "But the prizes in the Academy are given to make the scholars get their lessons well--to stimulate them in doing their duty," said William Bright. "Very true;" and Frank saw, in the faces of the members, that the current had again set in another direction. "But we only want to prove that rowing for the prize is not gambling." "That's all," said Charles. "The Agricultural Society offers premiums for the best horses, cows, oxen." "That's to improve stock," answered William. "Boat racing can only be for amusement." "The Horticultural Society gives premiums for the prettiest flowers," added Frank; "and my father got one of them last summer." The boys were staggered again. "Flowers are cultivated for amusement; at any rate, we don't eat them, or drink them, or sleep on them," continued Frank. "Your bed shall be roses, besprinkled with dew." added Fred, who never missed his joke. "Besides, we sleep on poppies. They are a sleepy plant, you know." "But the real question," said Frank, "is, whether racing for a prize will not excite hard and envious feelings in the members of the two clubs. I hope we shall think well of it before we vote; and for that purpose, Mr. Chairman, I move a recess of half an hour." The motion was carried, and the boys talked the matter over till the meeting was called to order again. "Question!" called several voices. The vote was immediately taken, and it stood nine in favor and two opposed to the proposition. And so, on the part of the Zephyr, the offer was accepted. The club then adjourned for an excursion on the lake. CHAPTER III. ALL ABOARD! The club had taken their seats in the boat, and were waiting the orders of the coxswain to haul her out of her berth, when Captain Sedley made his appearance. "You are short-handed, Frank," said he, as he observed Tony's vacant seat. "Yes, sir; but we have elected a member to fill that place," replied Frank, as he jumped out of the boat, and hastened to inform his father of what the club had done. The members all felt a deep interest in the result of this conference; and though this was the first excursion of the season, they forgot for the time the pleasure before them in their desire to know whether the "director" would approve their action in relation to the new member and the prize. Frank and his father entered the club-room together. "Now, my son, what have you done?" asked Captain Sedley. "We have discussed both questions to the best of our ability," replied Frank, with some hesitation. "Well, what was the result?" "We have elected Tim to fill Tony's place." "Indeed!" "We have; and we await your sanction to our doings." "Did you think I would sanction such a choice as that?" "I didn't know. We have fairly considered the matter; have faithfully examined both sides of the question. If we have done wrong, you know, father, that you have a veto upon our doings." Captain Sedley smiled at the matter-of-fact, business-like earnestness of his son. He felt quite as much interest in the action of the boys as they did to learn his opinion of it. "Tim is a very bad boy," said he. "He _was_; but he has solemnly promised to amend, and become a good boy," answered Frank, warmly. "Not much dependence can be placed upon the promises of such boys as Tim." "But if no one encourages him to become better, he will not be likely to improve much, especially when everybody despises and shuns him." "There is danger that he may corrupt the rest of the club." "He must obey the requirements of the constitution, or he cannot long continue to be a member." "You are right, Frank; I approve your action in this matter, but I should like to know the grounds upon which you admitted him." Frank gave him a brief synopsis of the debate, and the anxious father expressed himself well pleased with the liberal views of the club. "Men might be oftener reformed in the great world, if people would only give them a chance to be respectable, as you have done with Tim," said Captain Sedley. "But what have you done about the prize?" "We have voted to accept the offer of the gentlemen," answered Frank, rather doubtfully, as he looked earnestly into the face of his father, to discover the effect of his intelligence. "I hope you looked on both sides of this question, as well as the other." "We did, father." Frank stated the different opinions that had been expressed by the members during the debate, and the fact that they had informally given a unanimous vote against it. Captain Sedley was much amused by the narration, in spite of the disappointment he felt at the ill success of his efforts to make the boys reason for themselves. "I think your view is correct, Frank; though I am aware that many mature minds would arrive at a different conclusion. As you say, the envy and ill will which the contest may excite are the evils most to be dreaded." "Then you approve our decision?" "I do." Frank felt as happy at that moment as though he had been a general of division, and had won a great victory. The consciousness of having arrived, unaided by mature minds, at a correct conclusion, was a triumph in itself. He had exercised his thought, and it had borne him to a right judgment. He was proud of his achievement, and hastened back to the boat with the intelligence of the approval. "What does he say?" asked half a dozen of the members. "Let us get off first, and then we will talk about it," replied Frank. "Bowman, let go the painter; cast off the stern lines, there. Now, back her--steady." "Tell us about it, Frank," said Charles Hardy, as the Zephyr glided clear of the boat-house, out upon the deep waters of the lake. "Ready--up!" continued Frank, and the eleven oars were poised perpendicularly in the air. "Down!" The members had already begun to feel the inspiration of their favorite amusement, and there appeared to have been nothing lost by the season of inactivity which had passed away. They were as prompt and as perfect in the drill as though they had practised it every day during the winter. Although it was a moment of excitement, there was no undue haste; every member seemed to be perfectly cool. "Ready--pull!" And the broad blades dipped in the water, and bent before the vigorous arms of the youthful oarsmen. "Starboard oars, cease rowing--back!" continued the coxswain, with admirable dignity and self-possession; and the Zephyr, acted upon by this maneuver, came about as though upon a pivot, without going either backward or forward. "Starboard oars, steady--pull!" and the rowers indicated by this command caught the stroke, and the light bark shot ahead, with her wonted speed, in the direction of Rippleton village. "Zephyr, ahoy!" shouted some one from the shore. "Tim Bunker--ain't it?" asked Charles. "Yes." "Humph! he needn't hail us like that. I was sure your father would never permit him to join the club," continued Charles, who fancied that he read in Frank's expression the disapproval of his father. "You are in the wrong, Charley." "Am I?" "You are; my father cordially approved our action. Now, Zephyrs, I am going up to Flat Rock to take him aboard; and I hope every fellow will treat him well--just as though he had never done anything out of the way. What do you say?" "We will," they replied, with one voice. "And then, if he does not walk straight, it will not be our fault. Treat him as though he was the best fellow among us. Let nothing tempt us to forget it." Frank headed the boat towards the rock in the grove, and in a moment the bow touched it. Without waiting for an invitation, Tim jumped into the boat, and took the vacant seat. Frank did not much like this forwardness: it was a little too "brazen" to comport with his ideas of true penitence. But he did not care to humble the "Bunker;" so he said nothing that would wound his feelings. "We are glad to see you, Tim; the club has this day elected you a member, and our director has approved the vote," said Frank. "Has he?" replied Tim, with a broad grin. "And, if you like, we will go up to the boat-house, where you may sign the constitution." "Yes, I'll sign it," answered Tim, more as though it would be conferring a favor on the club than as a duty he owed to his new friends. Frank gave the necessary orders to get the boat under way again. Tim handled his oar with considerable skill, and before they reached the boat-house, he had learned to time his stroke with that of his companions. When they landed, Captain Sedley took Tim apart with him, and very kindly told him what would be expected of him in his new relation, urging him to be true to his good resolution, and assuring him that he should never want for substantial encouragement so long as he persevered in well doing. Tim hung his head down while he listened to this kind advice; his answers were short, but they were all satisfactory, so far as words could be taken as the index of his intentions. Frank then read the constitution, and the new member listened to it with attention. The stringent provisions of the sixth article, which forbade swearing, indecent language, and other boyish vices, brought a scarcely visible smile to his lips, and excited a doubt as to the success of the experiment in the mind of the director. "Now, Tim, you can sign it," said Frank. "It's pretty strict--ain't it?" added Tim, with one of his peculiar grins, as he took the pen that was handed to him. "You know I ain't used to being quite so strained up as you fellers, and I may kinder break through afore I know it." "If you do, you shall be judged kindly and charitably," said Captain Sedley. "Well. I'll sign it." But it was not quite so easy a thing for Tim to sign; at least, to perform the mechanical part of the act, for he had been to school but little, and good penmanship was not one of his accomplishments. However, he succeeded in getting over the form, though it would have puzzled the secretary to read it, if he had not known what it was. "Now, Zephyrs, Tim is one of us," said Frank. "He hasn't got any uniform," suggested Charles. "He shall have one," replied Captain Sedley, as he wrote an order on Mr. Burlap, the tailor, to supply him with a uniform. "All aboard!" shouted Frank. "We will pull up the lake, and see how the Butterfly gets along. They have been practising for a fortnight, and they ought to be able to row pretty well by this time." "With Uncle Ben to show them how," added Fred Harper. Again the Zephyrs were in their seats, and the boat was backed out into the lake. The flags were unrolled, and put in their places. The graceful barge was nicely trimmed, so as to rest exactly square in the water, and everything was ready for a sharp pull. The weather was cool, and the boys required some pretty vigorous exercise to keep them warm. The various commands were given and executed with the usual precision, only that Tim, who was not thoroughly "broken in," made some blunders, though, considering his short service, his proficiency was decidedly creditable. The Zephyr darted away like an arrow, and the slow, measured, musical stroke of the oars was pleasant and exciting to the rowers. "You haven't told us about the other matter yet, Frank," said Charles, as the boat skimmed along over the little waves of the lake. "Let us know about it," added Fred. "About what?" asked Tim Bunker, whose modesty in his new position did not seem to cause him much trouble. "We are to have a race with the Butterfly, when Tony gets things to his mind," replied Frank. "That'll be fun! Are ye going to put up anything?" "Put up anything?" "Yes; what's going to be the stakes?" "I don't know what you mean, Tim." "When they race horses, each man bets on his own." "We are not going to bet; that would be contrary to the constitution." "Would it? I didn't hear nothing about betting." "Article second says that one of the objects of the association shall be the acquiring of good habits in general; and I am sure betting is a very bad habit." "Well, I s'pose it is." "But several gentlemen of Rippleton have subscribed fifty dollars as a prize to the winner of the race," added Frank; "just as they give medals in school, you know." "Well, of course you will win." "I don't know." "You are used to your boat, and them fellers ain't." "We can't tell yet; perhaps the Butterfly will prove to be a faster boat than the Zephyr, and some of Tony's members are a good deal larger and stouter than ours. I think the chances are about equal." "I think likely. What are you going to do with the money if you win?" "I don't know; we haven't thought of that yet," replied Frank, not particularly pleased with the question. "Divide it among the fellers, I s'pose." "I think not; we had better apply it to some useful purpose,--that is, if we win it,--such as enlarging our library, buying some philosophical instruments--" "What's them?" "An air pump, and other apparatus of the kind." Tim did not comprehend the nature of the mystical implements any better than before; but as his mind was fixed upon something else, he did not demand further explanation. "Fifty dollars," said he; "how much will that be apiece. Thirteen into fifty; can any of you fellers cipher that up in your heads?" "Three and eleven thirteenths dollars each," said William Bright, who pulled the next oar forward of Tim. "Three dollars and eighty-five cents--isn't it?" "Eighty-four and a fraction," replied Fred, with schoolboy accuracy. "A feller could have a good time on that, I'll bet," ejaculated Tim. "And many a poor man would like it to buy bread for his family," added Frank. "But there is the Butterfly!" Tim Bunker dropped his oar at this announcement, and was on the point of rising to get a better view of the Zephyr's rival, when the handle of William Bright's oar gave him a smart rap in the back. "Mind out!" said Tim. "Don't you know any better than to hit a feller in that way?" "Cease--rowing!" called Frank, as he saw Tim's first involuntarily double up, and his eye flash with anger. "It was your fault, Tim, and you must not blame him," added the coxswain, mildly, but firmly. "My fault!" and Tim added an expression which I cannot put upon my page. "Such language as that is contrary to the constitution," continued Frank. "You stopped rowing without orders." "What if I did!" "You should not have done so. No member can do, or cease to do, without orders; that's our discipline." Tim cooled off in a moment, made a surly apology for his rudeness, and the Zephyr continued on her course. CHAPTER IV. THE FRATERNAL HUG. The incident which had just occurred gave Frank considerable uneasiness. Tim was naturally quarrelsome, and his former mode of life had done nothing to improve his disposition. He had never been taught that self-restraint is necessary to preserve social harmony. If anything did not suit him, he was not disposed to argue the matter in a conciliatory manner, but to right his wrongs, whether real or imaginary, by physical force. In this manner he had obtained his reputation as a "good fighter." Frank began to fear that Tim had come into the club without a proper understanding of its duties and requirements. Though he had, with an ill grace, apologized for his conduct, he seemed to feel no compunction on account of it; but, on the contrary, he every moment grew more overbearing and insolent. He could not speak to his companions in a gentlemanly manner, as they had been accustomed to be addressed. He was course, rude, and vulgar; and the members, who had received him among them in the best spirit possible, began to feel some repugnance towards him. But what could be expected of him in so short a time? They had no reason to believe that a boy who had always been a desperado would suddenly become a gentle and kind-hearted person. His nature wanted refining, and such a work could not be done in a moment. These reflections came to Frank's relief, when he had become well-nigh discouraged at the idea of reforming Tim--discouraged more by thinking of the vast chasm that yawned between what he was and what he ought to be. Like the pendulum in the story, he was crowding the work of months and years into a single instant. A little sober thought in the proper direction set him right. The Butterfly was darting out of "Weston Bay" as they approached. "Cease--rowing!" said Frank. "Now, my lads, let us give them three rousing cheers. All up! One!" "Hurrah!" "Two." "Hurrah!" "Three." "Hurrah!" And then the Zephyrs clapped their hands, long and loudly, and this was the greeting which the old club gave to the new one. The compliment was heartily returned by the Butterfly, and then the cheers were repeated again and again. Every member seemed to glow with kindly feeling towards the others. Even Tim Bunker for the time laid aside his morose look, and joined in the expression of good will with as much zeal as his companions. "Now man your oars, Zephyrs," said Frank. "What ye going to do now?" asked Tim, as he grasped his oar with the others. "You shall know in due time," replied the coxswain. Here was another thing which Tim had yet to learn--not to ask questions of the commander. It was a part of the discipline of the club to obey without stopping to argue the point. Captain Sedley himself had suggested this idea, and it had been thoroughly carried out on board the Zephyr. It was an established principle that "the coxswain knew what he was about," and that he alone was responsible for the guidance and the safety of the boat. Tim did not seem to fancy this kind of discipline. He evidently felt that he had been born to command, and not to obey. But the consciousness that he was in the minority induced him to yield whatever convictions he might have had of his own superiority to the will of the "powers that be," and he followed the example of the others. "Ready--pull!" continued Frank. He and Tony had arranged a little system of "fleet maneuvers," to be carried out when the two boats met. To the surprise of all on board,--for they were not "posted up" in regard to these tactics,--Frank put the Zephyr about. "Cease--rowing!" said he, when the boat was headed in the opposite direction. To the further surprise of the Zephyrs, they discovered that the Butterfly had executed a similar maneuver, and that the two boats lay at the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile apart, the bow of one pointing directly east, and the other directly west. "Ready to back her!" said Frank, and the boys all pulled their oar handles close to their breasts, ready at the word to take the reverse stroke. "Back her!" The Butterfly did the same thing exactly, and the two boats rapidly approached each other, stern first. Tony had certainly made the most of the time which had been allotted to him for drilling his crew, and they worked together almost as well as the Zephyrs, who were a little embarrassed at each new movement by the awkwardness of Tim Bunker. "Steady--slow," continued Frank, as the two boats came nearer together. "That will do; cease--rowing. Ready--up!" and the twelve oars gleamed in the sunshine. The sterns of the two boats came together, and Frank threw Tony a line, which the latter made fast. "Ready--down!" said Tony and Frank, almost in the same breath; and the oars were deposited in their places on the thwarts. The two clubs were facing each other as they sat in their seats, with the respective coxswains standing in the stern sheets. "Mr. Coxswain of the Butterfly," said Frank, as he removed his hat, and gracefully bowed to Tony, "in behalf of the members of the Zephyr Boat Club, of which you were so long a cherished member, I welcome you and your club, and the beautiful craft in which you sail, to these waters. May the Zephyr and the Butterfly cruise together in entire harmony; may no hard words or hard thoughts be called forth by either, but may all be peace and good-will." This little speech was received with a burst of applause by Tony's club, and the boats interchanged volleys of cheers. "Mr. Coxswain of the Zephyr," Tony began, in reply to his friend's speech, "I am much obliged to you and your companions for the kind words you have spoken for yourself and for them. I am sure there will never be any hard feelings between us, and I assure you if any fellow in our club attempts to make a row, we will turn him out. Won't we, fellows?" "Ay, ay! That we will," replied the club, with one voice. "If we get beaten in a race, we will bear our defeat like men. Won't we, boys?" "That we will." Tony wound up by saying he was not much at making speeches, but he was ready to do everything he could to make things go off right and pleasantly. Three cheers more were given on each side, and the crews were ordered into their seats. "Starboard oars, ready--up!" said Frank. "Larboard oars, ready--up!" said Tony. "Ready--down!" was then given by one, and repeated by the other. And then, "Ready--pull!" followed, in like manner. My reader will readily perceive that the effect of this maneuver was to turn the boats round in opposite directions, so that they came alongside of each other, after a few strokes of the oars. The painter of the Butterfly was thrown on board the Zephyr, and made fast to the bow ring. The boys were now all brought together, and the discipline of the clubs was relaxed so as to permit the members to enjoy a few moments of social recreation. The Butterfly, as we have said in the introduction, was of the same size and model as the Zephyr, and, except that the former was painted in gayer colors, to represent the gaudy tints of the butterfly, the two boats were exact counterparts of each other. Her crew had already procured their uniform, and wore it on the present occasion. It was a pair of white pants, made "sailor fashion," with a short red frock, and a patent-leather belt. These garments, owing to the coldness of the weather, were worn over their usual clothes. The hat was a tarpaulin, with the name of the club in gilt letters on the front, and upon the left breast of the frock was a butterfly, worked in colors. The Butterfly, like her rival, carried an American flag at the stern, and a blue silk fly, with the letter "B" on it, at the bow. "This is glorious, isn't it, Frank?" said Tony, as he took his friend's hand and warmly pressed it. "First rate! There is fun before us this season; and if nothing happens to mar the harmony which now prevails, we shall enjoy ourselves even more than we did last summer." "Nothing can happen--can there?" replied Tony, glancing involuntarily at Tim Bunker, who seemed to be so amazed at the good will that prevailed around him as to be incapable of saying anything. "I hope not; but, Tony, what about the race? Has your club voted on the question of the prize?" "Yes." "What did you do?" "What have you done, Frank?" asked Tony. There was not the slightest doubt as to his Yankee paternity. "We voted to accept the offer." "So did we, though our members were so afraid of doing something wrong, that George had to come into the meeting and argue the question with them. We accepted the offer on condition that you did so." "Then it is all arranged." "Yes, except the time." "We shall leave that all to you." "We are ready now," replied Tony, with a smile. "Name the day, then." "Next Wednesday afternoon." "Very well." "Who shall be the judges? We have chosen your father for one." "And we shall choose Uncle Ben for another." "Let us choose the other together." "Agreed." The two clubs were then called to order, and Frank, at Tony's request, stated the business to them. "Please to nominate," said he. "Mr. Hyde, the schoolmaster," exclaimed a dozen voices. It was a unanimous vote, and the judges were all elected. "Now, Tony, let us have some fun." "We will try our fleet tactics a little more, if you like." "So I say." "We will go down the lake with the 'fraternal hug.'" "The what!" exclaimed Charles Hardy. "We call our present position the 'fraternal hug.'" "Hurrah for the fraternal hug!" shouted Charles, and all the boys laughed heartily. "Nothing bearish about it, I hope," added Fred Harper. "We have no bears," replied Frank, as he ordered out his starboard oars. Tony in like manner got out his larboard oars. "Now, Frank," said he, "as you are a veteran in the service, you shall be commodore, and command the allied squadron." A burst of laughter greeted this sally; but Frank was too modest to accept this double command, and would only do so when a vote had been passed, making him "commodore." Fenders--a couple of cushions, which Frank, in anticipation of this maneuver, had provided--were placed between the two boats to keep them from injuring each other, and the order was given to pull. As but six oars were pulled in each boat, their progress was not very rapid. No one, however, seemed to care for that. The joining of the two boats in the "fraternal hug" was emblematic of the union that subsisted in the hearts of their crews, and all the members of each club seemed better satisfied with this symbolical expression of their feelings than though they had won a victory over the other. When they came abreast of the Zephyr's boat-house, they discovered that Uncle Ben was on board the Sylph, which lay moored at a short distance from the shore. Bang! went the cannon which the veteran had again rigged on the bow of the sail-boat. And as they passed down the lake, Uncle Ben blazed away in honor of the fraternal hug between the two clubs. CHAPTER V. UP THE RIVER. At the end of the lake the boats separated, after giving each other three hearty cheers. "Where are you going now?" asked Tim Bunker. "We will go up the lake again." "Suppose we try a race?" suggested Fred Harper. "There will be no harm in it, I suppose," replied Frank, glancing at the Butterfly. "Zephyr, ahoy!" shouted Tony. "We will pull up together, if you like." "Agreed." The two boats were then drawn up alongside of each other, ready to start when the word should be given. "Say when you are ready," shouted Tony. The rowers in each boat were all ready to take the first stroke. "Ready--pull!" said Frank; and the crews bent to the work. "Now give it to 'em!" shouted Tim Bunker, as he struck out with his oar. "Steady, Tim," said Frank. "Be very careful, or you will lose the stroke." "No, I won't. Put 'em through by daylight!" And Tim, without paying much attention to the swaying of the coxswain's body, by which his stroke should have been regulated, redoubled his exertions. He was very much excited, and the next moment the handle of his oar hit the boy in front of him in the back. Then the boy behind hit him, and a scene of confusion immediately ensued. Of course no boy could pull his stroke except in unison with the others; so the whole were compelled to cease rowing. "We have lost it," said Frank, good-naturedly. The boys, seeing how useless it was to attempt to row in the midst of such confusion, were obliged to wait till order had been restored. "No, we hain't; pull away!" replied Tim, as He seized his oar, and began to row with all his might. "Cease rowing!" said Frank. "Catch your oars, you sleepies, or they will get in first!" exclaimed Tim, who continued to struggle with his oar in defiance of the order. He had already pulled the boat half round. "I guess the fifty dollars won't come to this crew," added Tim, contemptuously. "It certainly will not, if you don't obey orders better than that," replied Frank. "I don't want to have the club beat so easy as that." "But it is all your fault, Tim." "You lie!" "What! what!" exclaimed Frank. "We cannot have such language as that. If you don't conform to the constitution you have signed, you shall be put on shore at the nearest land." "Well, I ain't a going to have it laid to me, when I hain't done nothing. Didn't I pull with all my might and main? and if the other fellers had done so too, we should have been ahead of 'em afore this time," answered Tim, somewhat tamed by the threat of the coxswain. "We will not talk about that until you say whether you intend to conform to the rules of the club, or not," added Frank, firmly. "Of course I do." Tim was still gruff in his tones; but it was evident that he wanted to conform to the rules, and that his obstinacy was still struggling for expression. "You must not tell the coxswain, or any other member, that he lies, Tim," continued Frank. "That was a slip of the tongue." The Bunker tried to laugh it off, and declared that he was so used to that form of expression he could not leave it off at once. This was regarded as a great concession by all. "Very well; if you will promise to do your best to obey the rules, we will say no more about it." "Of course I will," replied Tim, with a laugh, which was equivalent to saying, "If any of you think I am yielding too much, why, I am only joking." "Now, Tim, that point being settled, I repeat that our mishap was caused by you, though we don't blame you for it. You meant to do your best, but you didn't go to work in the right way." "What's the reason I didn't?" "You broke up the stroke." "The fellers ought to have pulled faster, then, so as to keep up with me; if they had, we should have done well enough." "That is not the way. The coxswain is to judge how fast you may pull with safety." "Just as you like. All I wanted was to win the race." "I understand you; but we can do nothing if the discipline of the club is not observed." "I didn't know about that." "Let us understand one another for the future. You must regulate your stroke by the motion of my body. You are to see nothing but me; and whatever happens, you must obey orders." "Let's try it again. I will do as you say," replied Tim, with a great deal more gentleness than he had before shown. "Ready--pull!" said Frank. And away darted the Zephyr up the lake. Tim pulled very steadily now, and showed a disposition to do as the others did, and to obey orders. Frank was pleased with the result of the conference, and began to entertain strong hopes of the ultimate reformation of the Bunker. But the race was lost; the Butterfly was almost at the head of the lake. "There's a chance for the Butterflies to crow over us," said Tim, after a silence of several moments. "There is to be no crowing. If we had beaten them, I should not have permitted a word to be spoken that would create a hard feeling in the minds of any of them," replied Frank. "And I know that Tony is exactly of my mind." "It is no great credit to them to have beaten us under these circumstances," added Fred. "Each club must be responsible for its own discipline. No excuses are to be pleaded. Good order and good regulations will prevent such accidents as just befell us." "That is what discipline is for," said William Bright. "Exactly so. Don't you remember what Mr. Hyde told me when I tried to excuse myself for not having my sums done with the plea that I had no pencil?" asked Charles Hardy. "He said it was as much a part of our duty to be ready for our work as it was to do it after we were ready." "That's good logic," put in Fred. "If the engine companies did not keep their machines in good working order, of course they would render no service at the fire. You remember Smith's factory was burnt because 'No. 2's' suction hose leaked, and the 'tub' couldn't be worked." "That's it; in time of peace prepare for war." "Where's the Butterfly now?" asked Tim, who did not feel much interest in this exposition of duty. "She is headed up to Rippleton River," replied Frank. "I hope she does not mean to venture among the rocks." Rippleton River was a stream which emptied into the lake at its eastern extremity. Properly speaking, Wood Lake was only a widening of this river, though the stream was very narrow, and discharged itself into the lake amid immense masses of rock. The mouth of this river was so obstructed by these rocks, that Captain Sedley had forbidden the boys ever to venture upon its waters; though, with occasional difficulties in the navigation, it was deep enough and wide enough to admit the passage of the boat for several miles. A wooden bridge crossed the stream a little way above the lake--an old, decayed affair which had frequently been complained of as unsafe. "Tony knows the place very well," said Charles. "He will not be rash." "But there he goes right in amongst the rocks, and the Butterflies are pulling with all their might. He is crazy," added Frank, his countenance exhibiting the depth of his anxiety. "Let Tony alone; he knows what he is about," responded Fred. "Heavens!" exclaimed Frank, suddenly, as he rose in his place. "There has been an accident at the bridge! I see a horse and chaise in the river." Tim dropped his oar, and was turning round to get a view of the object, when Frank checked him. So strict was the discipline of the club, that, notwithstanding the excitement which the coxswain's announcement tended to create, not another boy ceased rowing, or even missed his stroke. "Keep your seat," said Frank to Tim. "Take your oar." "I want to see what's going on," replied Tim. "Keep your seat," repeated Frank, authoritatively. Tim concluded to obey; and without a word resumed his place, and commenced pulling again. "Tony is after them; if you obey orders we may get there in season to render some assistance," continued Frank. "Don't balk us now, Tim." "I won't, Frank; I will obey all your orders. I didn't think when I got up," replied Tim, with earnestness, and withal in such a tone that Frank's hopes ran high. "Will you cross the rocks, Frank?" asked Charles Hardy. "Certainly." "But you know your father told us never to go into the river." "Circumstances alter cases." "But it will be disobedience under any circumstances." "We won't argue the point now," answered the bold coxswain, quickening the movements of his body, till the crew pulled with their utmost strength and speed, and the Zephyr flew like a rocket over the water. "I don't like to go, Frank, and though I will obey orders, I now protest against this act of disobedience," replied Charles, who was sure this time that Captain Sedley would commend and approve his inflexible love of obedience. "Pull steady, and mind your stroke," added Frank, whose eye was fixed upon the chaise in the water. "We may strike upon the rocks and be dashed to pieces," suggested Charles. "If you are afraid--" "O, no! I'm not afraid; I was thinking of the boat." "If it is dashed to pieces in a good cause, let it be so." "Good!" ejaculated Fred Harper. "That's the talk for me!" "The water in the lake is very high, and I know exactly where the rocks lie. Keep steady; I will put you through in safety." "Where is the Butterfly now, Frank?" asked William Bright. "Wait a minute.--There she goes! Hurrah! she has passed the reefs safely. They pull like heroes. There! Up go her oars--they are in-board. There are a man and a woman in the water, struggling for life. The man is trying to save the woman. The chaise seems to hang upon a rock, and the horse is kicking and plunging to clear himself. Steady--pull steady." "Tony will save them all," said Fred. "Hurrah! there he goes overboard, with half a dozen of his fellows after him! There are six left in the boat, and they are working her along towards the man and woman. They have them--they are safe. Now they pull the lady in--hah--all right! I was afraid they would upset the boat. They have got her in, and the man is holding on at the stern. Tony has got a rope round the horse's neck, and the fellows are clearing him from the chaise." The Zephyr was now approaching the dangerous rocks, and Frank was obliged to turn his attention to the steering of the boat through the perilous passage. "Steady," said he, "and pull strong. All right; we are through. We are too late to do anything. They have landed the man and woman, and now they are towing the horse ashore. Tony's a glorious fellow! He is worth his weight in solid gold!" "Can't we save the chaise?" asked Tim Bunker. "We can try." "Hurrah for the chaise then!" "Bowman, get the long painter ahead," continued Frank. "Ay, ay." The coxswain of the Zephyr steered her towards the vehicle, which still hung to the rock, and, by a skilful maneuver, contrived to make fast the line to one of the shafts of the chaise. "Ready--pull!" said Frank, as he passed the line over one of the thwarts. The crew pulled with a will, and the jerk disengaged the chaise, and they succeeded in hauling it safely to the shore, and placing it high and dry upon the rocks. CHAPTER VI. HURRAH FOR TONY! Tony and his six companions, who had been with him in the river, stood on the rocks shivering with cold, when the Zephyr's crew landed. The rest of her boys had been sent to conduct the lady and gentleman to the nearest house, and render them such assistance as they might require. "You are a brave fellow, Tony!" said Frank, warmly, as he grasped the wet hand of his friend. "I am very wet and cold, whatever else I may be," replied Tony, trying to laugh, while his teeth chattered so that he could hardly speak. "You had better go home; you will catch cold," continued Frank. "We must wait for the fellows." "No, you shall take six of the Zephyr's crew, and pull home as fast as you can, and we will wait for the rest." "We can do no more good here; so we may as well go. Thank you for your offer, Frank, and I will accept it. If you like I will take Fred Harper to steer down, for I should like to pull an oar myself to warm up with." "Certainly;" and Frank detailed six of his club, including Fred, who seated themselves in the Butterfly. "I don't know about those rocks, Tony," said Fred, as he grasped the tiller ropes. "The water is so high, that there is no danger, I will have an eye to the passage when we get to it," replied Tony, as he took his old place at the bow oar. The Butterfly pushed off, and in a few moments after passed the dangerous rocks in safety. Her crew pulled with energy, and it is quite likely that they got warm before they reached the boat-house. It was some time before the rest of the Butterfly's crew returned to the rocks where they had landed. "Where's Tony?" asked one of them, a boy of fourteen, but so small in stature that his companions had nicknamed him "Little Paul," of whom we shall have more to say by and by. "They have gone home; we sent six of our fellows with them. They were too wet and cold to stay here," replied Frank. "You can return in our boat." "The gentleman wants to see Tony very much." "Who is he?" "His name is Walker; it would do your heart good to hear him speak of Tony." "I dare say; but Tony is worthy of all the praise that can be bestowed upon him. How is the lady?" "She is nicely, and _she_ thinks Tony is an angel. She declares that a dozen strong men could have done no more for them." "She is right; you did all that could have been done by any persons. The Butterfly's first laurel is a glorious one, and I can congratulate you on the honors you have won." "Thank you, Frank," said Little Paul, modestly. "I am sorry you were not with us to share the honors." "We should have been, if it hadn't been for Tim Bunker," said Charles Hardy, a little sourly. Tim had gone with the Butterfly, or Charles would not have dared to make such a remark. "And if you had had your way, we shouldn't have come when we did," added William Bright, smartly. "What do you mean, Bill?" "Didn't you protest against passing the rocks." "I did, because it was directly in opposition to Captain Sedley's orders." "Never mind, fellows," interposed Frank; "for my part, I am glad the Butterfly had it all to herself. She has just come out, and it will be a feather in her cap." "But we saved the chaise," said Charles. "We pulled it ashore; it was safe enough where it was. The Butterfly saved the lives of the man and woman, and of the horse. They would have drowned, and all the glory consisted in saving them. Tony and his crew deserve all the credit, and I, for one, am happy to accord it to them." "That's just like you, Frank!" exclaimed Little Paul. "I believe, if the two boats had changed places, you would have given us all the credit." "You behaved nobly." "Just as you would have done if you had been in Tony's place." "We will talk that over some other time. We are ready to return when you are." "I suppose there is nothing more to be done." They were about to embark, when they discovered a party of men approaching the place, several of them carrying ropes and poles. "Hold on;" shouted Farmer Leeds, to whose house the boys had conducted the lady and gentleman. "We want your boat to get the chaise out of the river with." "It is out now," replied Little Paul. The boys waited till the party reached the river. A clump of trees had prevented them from seeing the chaise till they had got almost to the shore; and, as Little Paul expressed it afterwards, "they looked surprised enough, to see it high and dry upon the rocks." "I must say one thing, Mr. Leeds," began Mr. Walker; "and that is, you have smart boys in this vicinity." "Toler'ble," replied the farmer, with a smile. "They are men in noble deeds." "This boating business turns the boys into men; and though, in my opinion, it would be just as well to set 'em to work in the cornfields, there is no denying that it brings 'em out, and makes 'em smart." "My wife would certainly have been drowned without their help." "I daresay." "But where is the little fellow that commanded the boat?" asked Mr. Walker, scrutinizing the faces of the boys. "He has gone home, sir; he was wet and cold." "That is right; I am glad he has; I shall go and see him by and by. And these are the boys that brought the chaise ashore?" "Yes, sir," replied Little Paul. "This is Frank Sedley, the coxswain of the Zephyr." "Well, Master Sedley, I am under great obligations to you." "Not at all to me, sir. Tony Weston saved you. We only pulled the chaise ashore." "But you shall not be forgotten. The other boat is gone, you say?" "Yes, sir. Tony Weston is the coxswain of the Butterfly." "And a noble fellow he is, too. He will be a great man one of these days. It did my heart good to see how cool and collected he was; how skilfully he managed the boat, when it came down upon us like a race horse. He gave off his orders like a hero, and they were obeyed with a promptness and precision that would have been creditable to the crew of a man-of-war, after a three years' cruise. And then, when he ordered six of the boys to stay in the boat, and the rest to follow him into the water, it was really heroic. Over he went, with his crew after him, as though they had been so many ducks. And in the water, they worked with as much coolness and courage as though it had been their native element. I would give half my fortune to be the father of such a son." "I would give all of mine," added Farmer Leeds. "You don't know half his worth yet. But there is nothing for us to do here; the men shall haul your chaise up to the house, and as we walk along I will tell you about Tony." "Master Sedley, I shall see you again to-day or to-morrow. Tell Tony how highly I value his noble service, and tell him I shall call upon him this evening," said Mr. Walker, as he went away with Farmer Leeds. "My father would be very happy to have you stop at his house while you remain in Rippleton," continued Frank, who was not sure that the farmhouse would accommodate him. "As to that," interposed Farmer Leeds, "I can't offer you so grand a house as Captain Sedley's, but such as it is, you are welcome to it." "Thank you, Master Sedley, for your hospitable invitation; but I think I will remain with my good friend here." And he departed with the farmer. "All aboard!" said Frank, and the boys tumbled into the boat, and grasped their oars. The Zephyr pushed off, and her cheerful crew pulled merrily down the river. Frank was conscious that the organization of the boat clubs had been the means of accomplishing the good work which the crew of the Butterfly had just achieved. He was aware that some of the people in the vicinity had cherished strong objections to the clubs, and that Tony had had considerable difficulty in persuading the parents of his crew to allow their sons to join. The adventure at the bridge, he thought, would have a tendency to reconcile them, and to elevate and dignify boating. At any rate a good deed had been done, and the parents of those who had taken part in it could not but be proud of the laurels their sons had earned. The Zephyr, under Frank's skilful pilotage passed the rocks in safety, though, as they darted through the narrow channel, he could see their sharp edges only a little way below the surface of the clear water. They had scarcely entered the open lake before they perceived the Sylph, under full sail with a smashing breeze, close aboard of them. "Frank!" shouted Captain Sedley, who was at the helm, while Uncle Ben was gazing at them with a very sorrowful face from the half deck. "Ay, ay, sir!" replied Frank, as he laid the Zephyr's course towards the sailboat. Though his father had only spoken his name, there was something in the tone which could not be misapprehended; but it did not occur to him, he was so engaged in thinking of the incidents at the bridge, that he had disobeyed his father's command in passing into the river. As the Zephyr approached, the Sylph luffed, and came up into the wind, to wait for her. Frank brought his boat round under the stern of the sailboat, and "lay to" an oar's length from her. "Frank," said his father, sternly, "I am surprised that you should venture among those rocks, when I have expressly forbidden you ever to go into the river." "But, father, there was--" "How could you do such a thing, after I had so carefully warned you--so positively interdicted it? Suppose your boat had been dashed in pieces," continued Captain Sedley, who, though deeply grieved at his son's apparent disobedience, was too indignant to hear an excuse; for such he supposed Frank was about to offer--one of those silly, frivolous excuses which boys sometimes seize upon to palliate their misconduct. "I protested against it!" said Charles Hardy, rising from his seat. "Shut up!" exclaimed Little Paul, his cheek glowing with indignation, as he pulled Charles back into his seat. "I went to save life, father," replied Frank, almost choked by his emotions, a flood of tears springing in his eyes and well-nigh blinding him. "To save life!" said Captain Sedley, touched by the reply, and far more by Frank's emotion. He saw that he had spoken too quick--that his son had not passed the rocks without a good and sufficient reason. "Yes, sir," replied Frank, struggling to master his feelings; and then he related all that had occurred at the bridge; how Tony had saved the lady and gentleman, and the horse; and how his crew had pulled the chaise ashore. "You did right, Frank; forgive my hasty words," said Captain Sedley, with deep feeling. "Good, my hearty!" exclaimed Uncle Ben, clapping his hands. A heavy load had been removed from the mind of the veteran, who had almost come to believe that Frank _could_ do no wrong. "Tony's a hero; and shiver my timbers, if he oughtn't to be president of the United States, when he's old enough," exclaimed Uncle Ben. "He is a brave fellow. You have done well, both of you. However strict our orders are, no person should be a machine. Orders should be obeyed with judgment," continued Captain Sedley. "That's a fact. I could tell a yarn about that," added Uncle Ben. "When I was in the old Varsayles, bound round the Horn--" "Another time we will hear your yarn, Ben," interposed Captain Sedley. "We will go over and see Tony now, and congratulate him on the honors the Butterfly has won. Haul in the gib sheet, Ben." "Ready--pull!" said Frank. "Who protested now, Master Charles Hardy?" asked Little Paul, as he good-naturedly punched the forward youth in the ribs. "Circumstances alter cases," replied Charles, sagely, as he bent on his oar. "Fact! but they altered them when the deed was done, not now, when you have found out that it was all right." CHAPTER VII. COMMODORE FRANK SEDLEY. For a few days all Rippleton rang with the praises of Tony and his companions. All the particulars of the affair at the bridge had been given in the Rippleton Mercury, and the editor was profuse in his commendations of the skill and courage of the Butterfly Boat Club; and he did not withhold from the Zephyr the credit which was justly due. Tony was a hero, and his fame extended for many miles around. Mr. Walker and his lady, who had been rescued from the river, visited Captain Sedley and the Weston family the next day. I need not tell my young readers how earnest he was in the expression of his admiration and gratitude. He was a wealthy merchant, and resided in a neighboring town. Being as warm-hearted and generous as he was just and discriminating, it was quite natural that he should give his feelings expression in some substantial token of his gratitude. Before he left Rippleton, a check for five hundred dollars was placed in the hands of George Weston, with directions to give four hundred of it to the Butterfly, and one hundred to the Zephyr. In the division of the Butterfly's share, Mr. Walker desired that one hundred dollars should be given to Tony, and twenty-five dollars apiece to the crew; consenting, however, to let the whole sum be common property if the club desired. This liberality was certainly munificent, princely; but Mr. Walker's wealth was quite sufficient to enable him to gratify his generous impulses. Tony said he felt a little "ticklish" about taking it, at first; but George assured him that Mr. Walker would feel hurt if he did not, and he concluded to accept it. "But what shall we do with it, George?" asked the young hero, who was not a little embarrassed by the possession of so much money. "That is for you to decide." "What _can_ we do with it?" "It will buy heaps of candy," suggested George, with a smile. "Candy!" said Tony, contemptuously. "You can make a fund of it if you like." "What for?" "For any purpose you may wish. By and by, you may want money for something." "What shall we do with it?" "Put it in the Savings Bank." "But the next thing is, shall we divide it? or let it remain as the property of the club? I suppose the fellows will all do just as I do." "Perhaps the money would do the parents of some of them a great deal of good." "I think very likely; we will let them vote upon it. Here comes Frank. I wonder what they are going to do with theirs." "How do you do, Tony? I have come over to talk with you about the race. Next Wednesday is the day, you know." "I had forgotten all about the race in the excitement of the bridge affair." "I don't wonder." "What are you going to do with your money, Frank?" asked Tony. "Your club met last evening, I believe." "We voted to buy some philosophical apparatus with it." "Good! Did Tim Bunker vote for that?" "He didn't vote at all. He wanted the money divided; but the vote was unanimous for spending it as I said. By the way, Mr. Walker was liberal--wasn't he?" "Princely. He ought to have given you more and us less, though." "No; he did perfectly right. We did not deserve even what we got." "Just like you! But come into the club room--Butterfly Hall--and we will fix things for the race." Frank and Tony discussed the details of the race, and at the end of an hour everything was arranged to the satisfaction of both. There was no difference of opinion except as to the length of the race. Tony, thought that twice up and down the lake, making an eight-mile race, would be best; but Frank felt sure that it was too long, and that it would tire the boys too much. So it was finally agreed that they should pull only once up and down, making about four miles. As the Butterfly club were to meet that evening, Frank departed earlier than he otherwise would have done, so as not to be considered an intruder. Tony's club were in high spirits that evening. The praise bestowed upon them had created a strong feeling of self-reliance in their minds. Their discipline had passed through a severe ordeal, and it was pronounced perfectly satisfactory by all concerned. They had done hard work, and done it well. Their success was the result of their excellent discipline. It would have been in vain that they had as good a commander as Tony, if promptness and obedience had been wanting. "Now, boys," said Tony, when he had called the meeting to order, "we have arranged all the details of the race, and if you like, I will tell you about it." "Tell us," said several. The chairman proceeded to give them the substance of his conversation with the coxswain of the Zephyr; and the rules they had adopted were of course agreed to by all present. The Butterfly boys, elated with the results of the bridge affair, were confident that they should win the race. Tony, however, was not so sanguine. He knew, better than they, how skilful Frank was; and, if the Zephyr had not labored under the disadvantage of having a new member, he would have been sure of being beaten. "There is another subject which comes up for consideration to-night--I mean the gift of Mr. Walker. He has left it so that it may be divided among us, or held and used as common property," continued Tony. The boys looked at each other, as if to pry into the thoughts of their neighbors. There was a long silence, and it was in vain that Tony called for the opinions of the members; they did not seem to have any opinions on the subject. "We will do just as you say, Mr. Chairman," said Little Paul. "So we will," added Henry Brown. "I shall not say," replied Tony. "It is a matter for you to decide. George says we can put it in the Savings Bank, if we don't divide it, and keep it till we find a use for it. Perhaps, though, some of your parents may want it. If they do, we had better give each his share." "Let us put it in the Savings Bank," said Dick Chester. But Henry Brown looked at Little Paul, whose father was a very poor man, and had not been able to work for several months. "Perhaps we had better divide it," suggested he. "If you agree to divide it, each member shall have a thirteenth part of the whole four hundred dollars," added Tony. "That wouldn't be right," replied Little Paul. "He gave a hundred to you; and certainly you are better entitled to a hundred than we are to a penny apiece." "I will not take more than my share." "We will only take what Mr. Walker awarded us," said Henry. "That we won't," added several members. "No!" shouted the whole club. "But you _shall_, my lads," said Tony, stoutly. "George and I have agreed to that." "But the commander of the ship ought to have a bigger share than the crew; besides, what could we have done without you?" argued Little Paul. "And what could I have done without you?" "It was your skill and courage, as the Mercury says, which did the business." "It was your prompt obedience that crowned our labors with success. I tell you, boys, it is just as broad as it is long. The money shall be equally divided." "Then we won't divide it," said Henry Brown. "Very well; I will agree to that. We shall be equal owners then," replied Tony, with a smile of triumph; for in either case his point was gained. "But what shall we do with it? Four hundred dollars is a heap of money. What's the use of saving it up without having some idea of what we mean to do with it?" "We can put it to a dozen uses." "What, for instance?" "Why, enlarging our library; buying an apparatus, as the Zephyrs are going to do; giving it to the poor," replied Tony. "But I was thinking of something before the meeting." The boys all looked at the chairman with inquiring glances. "Out with it," said several of them. "There are lots of fellows round here who would like to get into a boat club." "More than twenty," added Little Paul. "We have money enough to buy another boat." "Hurrah!" exclaimed several of the members, jumping out of their chairs in the excitement of the moment. "Let us buy another boat!" "What shall we call her?" added Dick Chestor. Several of the boys began to exercise their minds on this important question, without devoting any more attention to the propriety or the practicability of procuring another boat. That question was regarded as already settled. "Ay, what shall we call her?" repeated Joseph Hooper. "What do you say to the 'Lily?'" "The 'Water Sprite?'" "The 'Go-ahead?'" "Name her after Mr. Walker." "No; after Tony Weston." "You are counting the chickens before they are hatched," added Tony, laughing heartily. "The--the--the 'Red Rover,'" said Joseph Hooper. "That's too piratical," replied Little Paul. "I wouldn't say anything about the name at present," suggested Tony. "Wouldn't it be fine, though, to have three boats on the lake?" exclaimed Henry. "Glorious! A race with three boats!" "Who would be coxswain of the new boat?" "Fred Harper," said little Paul. "The fellows say he is almost as good as Frank Sedley." "If we had another boat we should want a commodore," continued Tony. "And I was thinking, if we got another, that Frank would be the commodore, and command the fleet. Then there would be a coxswain to each boat besides." "That would be first rate." "Let us have the other boat." "Hurrah! so I say." "I suppose we could buy two six-oar boats for our money," added Tony. "And have four in the fleet?" "Perhaps three four-oar boats." "Five boats in the fleet! That would be a glorious squadron!" The boys could hardly repress the delight which these air castles excited, and several of them kept jumping up and down, they were so nervous and so elated. "Come, Tony, let us settle the business, and order the boats at once," said Dick Chester. "We had better think a while of it. Something else may turn up which will suit us even better than the fleet. Of course we must consult Captain Sedley and George before we do anything," replied Tony. "They will be willing." "Perhaps they will, and perhaps they won't." "I know they will," said Dick. "We will consult them, at any rate. It is necessary to take a vote concerning the division of the money." Of course the club voted not to divide; and it was decided that the money should remain in the hands of George Weston until the fleet question should be settled. "Now, boys," said Tony, "next Monday is town meeting day, and school don't keep. We will meet at nine o'clock and practise for the race, which comes off on Wednesday afternoon, at three o'clock. Let every fellow be on hand in season." The club adjourned, and the boys went off in little parties, discussing the exciting topic of a fleet of five boats, under the command of Commodore Frank Sedley. CHAPTER VIII. THE RACE. The day appointed for the race between the Zephyr and the Butterfly had arrived, and the large number of people congregated on the shores of Wood Lake testified to the interest which was felt in the event. Probably the exciting incident at the bridge, which had been published in the newspaper, imparted a greater degree of interest to the race than it would otherwise have possessed. It was a beautiful afternoon, mild and pleasant for the season, which favored the attendance of the ladies, and the lake was lined with a row of cheerful faces. "All aboard!" said Frank, as he dissolved a meeting of the Zephyrs, which he had called in order to impart whatever hints he had been able to obtain from his father and others in regard to their conduct. Above all, he had counseled them, in case they were beaten, to cherish no hard feelings towards their rivals. Not a shadow of envy or ill-will was to obscure the harmony of the occasion. And if they were so fortunate as to win the race they were to wear their honors with humility; and most especially, they were not to utter a word which could create a hard feeling in the minds of their competitors. Whatever the result, there was to be the same kindness in the heart, and the same gentlemanly deportment in the manners, which had thus far characterized the intercourse of the two clubs. "All aboard!" The Zephyrs were more quiet and dignified in their deportment than usual. There was no loud talk, no jesting; even Fred Harper looked thoughtful and serious. Each member seemed to feel the responsibility of winning the race resting like a heavy burden upon his shoulders. The boat was hauled out into the lake, and once more Frank cautioned them to keep cool and obey orders. "Don't look at the Butterfly after we get started," said he. "You must permit me to keep watch of her. Keep both eyes on me, and think only of having your stroke perfectly accurate, perfectly in time with the others. Now, remember, don't look at the Butterfly; if you do, we shall lose the race. It would distract your attention and add to your excitement. If she gets two or three lengths ahead of us, as I think she will on the first mile, don't mind it. Pull your best, and leave the rest with me." "Ay, ay!" replied several, quietly. "Do you think we shall win, Frank?" asked Charles, who had put the same question a dozen times before. "We must _think_ that we shall," replied Frank, with a smile. "Here comes the Butterfly. Now, give her three cheers. One!" "Hurrah!" "Two!" "Hurrah!" "Three!" "Hurrah!" This compliment was promptly returned by the Butterfly, as she came alongside the Zephyr. "Quarter of three, Frank," said Tony. "Time we were moving then," replied Frank, as he ordered the oars out, and the boats started for the spot where the Sylph, the judges' boat, had taken position. They pulled with a very slow stroke, and not only did the respective crews keep the most exact time, but each timed its stroke with the other. It was exhibition day with them, and they were not only to run the race, but to show off their skill to the best advantage. Hundreds of people, their fathers and their mothers, their sisters and their brothers, were observing them from the shore, and this fact inspired them to work with unusual care. It was a very beautiful sight, those richly ornamented boats, their gay colors flashing in the bright sunshine, with their neatly uniformed crews, their silken flags floating to the breeze, and their light, graceful oars dipping with mechanical precision in the limpid waters. As they glided gently over the rippling waves, like phantoms, to the middle of the lake, a long and deafening shout from the shore saluted their ears. The white handkerchiefs of the ladies waved them a cheerful greeting, and the Rippleton Brass Band, which had volunteered for the occasion, struck up Hail Columbia. "Cease--rowing!" said Frank, as he rose in his seat. Tony followed his example, though this movement had not been laid down in the program. Frank then took the American flag which floated at the stern, and Tony did the same. "All up!" said he. "Let us give them three cheers." "Mind the coxswain of the Zephyr," added Tony, "and let them be all together and with a will." "Hats off, and swing them as you cheer." The cheers were given with all the vigor which stout lungs could impart, and the flags waved and the hats swung. The salute was reiterated from the shore, and above the martial strains of the band rose the deafening hurrahs. "Ready--pull!" and the boats resumed their slow and measured stroke, and the band changed the tune to the Canadian Boat Song. When they reached the judges' boat, the two coxswains drew lots for the choice of "position," and the Butterfly obtained this advantage. The two boats then took their places, side by side, about two rods apart, ready to commence the race. "Tony," said Frank, rising, "before we start I have a word to say. Whatever may be the result of the race, for myself and my crew, I pledge you there shall be no hard feeling among the Zephyrs." "No, no, no!" added the club, earnestly. "If you beat, it shall not impair our friendship; there shall be no envy, no ill-will. Do you all say so, Zephyrs?" "Ay, ay!" The Butterflies clapped their hands vigorously, in token of their approbation of the pledge, and Tony promised the same thing for his club. "Now we are ready," added Frank. "Keep perfectly cool, and mind all I have said. Ready!" Uncle Ben stood in the bow of the Sylph, with a burning slow match in his hand, ready to discharge the cannon which was to be the signal for starting. It was a moment of intense excitement, not only to the crews of the boats, but to hundreds of spectators on the shore. It was undeniably true that the Zephyrs, in spite of the warnings which Frank had given them, were very much excited, and various were the expedients which the boys used to calm their agitation, or at least to conceal it. But it was also true that the Butterflies were much more excited. Discipline and experience had not schooled them in the art of "being mere machines," and they found it much more difficult than the Zephyrs to subdue their troublesome emotions. The eventful moment had come. The oarsmen were bent forward ready to strike the first stroke, and the coxswains were leaning back ready to time the movement. Captain Sedley was gazing intently at the dial of his "second indicator," prepared to give Uncle Ben the word to fire. "Ready, Ben--fire!" Bang! went the cannon. "Pull!" shouted Frank and Tony in the same breath. Fortunately every oarsman in both boats hit the stroke exactly, and away leaped the gallant barks. As Frank had deemed it probable, the Butterfly shot a length ahead of her rival after pulling a few strokes; but though the noise of the oars informed his crew of their relative positions, not an eye was turned from him, not a muscle yielded in the face of the dispiriting fact, and not a member quickened his stroke in order to retrieve the lost ground. Even Tim Bunker, who was supposed to have more feeling in regard to the race than the others, maintained an admirable self-possession. However much the hearts of the crew beat with agitation, they were outwardly as cool as though the Butterfly had been a mile behind them. It is true, some of the Zephyrs, as they continued to gaze at Frank's calm and immovable features, wondered that he did not quicken the stroke; but no one for an instant lost confidence in him. "Frank knew what he was about." This was the sentiment that prevailed, and each member looked out for himself, leaving all the rest to him. The Butterflies were quickening their stroke every moment, and consequently were continuing to increase the distance between the two boats. Every muscle was strained to its utmost tension. Every particle of strength was laid out, until Tony, fearful that some of the weaker ones might "make a slip," dared require no more of them. But they were already more than two boats' lengths ahead of their rival, and he had everything to hope. Still the Zephyr pulled that same steady stroke. As yet she had made no extraordinary exertion. Her crew were still fresh and vigorous, while those of her rival, though she was every moment gaining upon her, were taxing their strength to the utmost. They rounded the stake boat, which had been placed nearly opposite the mouth of the Rippleton River, and the Butterfly was still three lengths ahead. They had begun upon the last two miles of the race. Though the Zephyr still pursued her former tactics, her rival was no longer able to gain upon her. The latter had thus far done her best, and for the next half mile the boats maintained the same relative positions. Frank was still unmoved, and there was some inward grumbling among his crew. An expression of deep anxiety had begun to supplant the look of hope and confidence they had worn, and some of them were provoked to a doubt whether Frank, in the generosity of his nature, was not intending to let Tony bear off the honors. "Come, Frank, let her have, now!" said Tim, who could no longer restrain his impatience. "Silence! Not a word!" said the self-possessed coxswain. It was in the "order of the day" that no member should speak during the race; and none did, except Tim, and he could easily have been pardoned under the circumstances. Not yet did Frank quicken the stroke of the Zephyr, though at the end of the next half mile she was only two boats' lengths astern of her competitor, which had lost this distance by the exhaustion of her crew. They had pulled three miles with the expenditure of all their strength. They lacked the power of endurance, which could only be obtained by long practice. "It is the last pound that breaks the camel's back;" and it was so with them. With a little less exertion they might have preserved some portion of their vigor for the final struggle, which was yet to come. They had begun upon the last mile. The crew of the Butterfly were as confident of winning the race as though the laurel of victory had already been awarded to them; and though their backs ached and their arms were nearly numb, a smile of triumph rested on their faces. "Now for the tug of war," said Frank, in a low, subdued tone, loud enough to be heard by all his crew, but so gentle as not to create any of that dangerous excitement which is sometimes the ruin of the best laid plans. As he spoke the motions of his body became a little quicker, and gradually increased in rapidity till the stroke was as quick as was consistent with perfect precision. The result of this greater expenditure of power was instantly observed, and at the end of the next quarter of a mile the boats were side by side again. "They are beating us!" said Tony, in a whisper. "Dip a little deeper--pull strong!" The exciting moment of the race had come. The spectators on the shore gazed with breathless interest upon the spectacle, unable, though "Zephyr stock was up," to determine the result. Not a muscle in Frank's face moved, and steadily and anxiously his crew watched and followed his movements. "Steady!" said he, in his low, impressive tone, as he quickened a trifle more the stroke of the crew. The Butterflies were "used up," incapable of making that vigorous effort which might have carried them in ahead of the Zephyr. "A little deeper," continued Frank. "Now for it!" As he spoke, with a sudden flash of energy he drove his oarsmen to their utmost speed and strength, and the Zephyr shot by the judges' boat full a length and a half ahead of the Butterfly. "Cease--rowing!" said he. "Ready--up!" The Butterfly came in scarcely an instant behind, and her oars were poised in air, like those of her rival. A long and animating shout rang along the shore, when the result of the race was apparent, and the band struck up "See the conquering hero comes." CHAPTER IX. LITTLE PAUL. "You have won the race, Frank, and I congratulate you," said Tony Weston, as the Butterfly came alongside the Zephyr. "Thank you, Tony; that is noble and generous," replied Frank. "But it is the feeling in our club--isn't it, fellows?" "Ay, ay, that it is!" shouted Little Paul. "Let us give them three cheers, to show the folks on shore that there are no hard feelings." The cheers were given lustily--at least, as lustily as the exhausted condition of the Butterflies would permit. Each member of the defeated club seemed to feel it his duty to banish even the semblance of envy; and it was pleasant to observe how admirably they succeeded. I do not wish my young readers to suppose that Tony's crew felt no disappointment at the result; only that there were no hard feelings, no petty jealousy. They had confidently expected to win the race, even up to the last quarter of a mile of the course; and to have that hope suddenly dashed down, to be beaten when they felt sure of being the victors, was regarded as no trivial misfortune. But so thoroughly had Tony schooled them in the necessity of keeping down any ill will, that I am sure there was not a hard feeling in the club. Perhaps they displayed more disinterestedness in their conduct after the race than they really felt. If they did, it was no great harm, for their motives were good, and they were all struggling to feel what their words and their actions expressed. "Zephyr, ahoy!" hailed Mr. Hyde, from the Sylph. "Ay, ay, sir!" "The prize is ready for the winner." The oars were dropped into the water again, and the Zephyr pulled up to the judges' boat. "You have won the prize handsomely, Frank, and it affords me great pleasure to present it to you," said Mr. Hyde, as he handed him a purse containing the prize. "After the noble expressions of kindness on the part of your rival, I am sure the award will awaken no feeling of exultation in the minds of the Zephyrs, and none of envy in the Butterflies. I congratulate you on your victory." Frank bowed, and thanked the schoolmaster for his hopeful words; and the Butterflies gave three cheers again as he took the prize. The Zephyr was then brought alongside her late rival. "Starboard oars--up!" said Frank. "Larboard oars--up!" added Tony. "What now, I wonder?" queried Fred Harper. "Forward oarsman, step aboard the Butterfly," continued Frank. "Forward oarsman, step aboard the Zephyr," said Tony. Then the next member in each boat was passed over to the other, and so on, till the whole starboard side of the Zephyr was manned by Butterflies, and the larboard side of the Butterfly by Zephyrs. "Ready--up!" said the coxswains, as they proceeded to get under way again. Thus, with the two clubs fraternally mingled, they slowly pulled towards the nearest shore, while the band played its sweetest strains. The spectators still lingered; and as the boats neared the land, they were greeted with repeated cheers. Then, side by side, they pulled slowly along the shore, within a few rods of the lake's bank, till they reach the Butterflies' house, where they all landed. And thus ended the famous boat race, over which the boys had been thinking by day and dreaming by night for several weeks. The occasion had passed; and if it was productive of any evil effects in the minds of those who engaged in it, they were more than balanced by the excellent discipline it afforded. They had learned to look without envy upon those whom superior skill or good fortune had favored, and to feel kindly towards those over whom they had won a victory. It was a lesson which they would all need in the great world, where many a race is run, and where the conqueror is not always gentle towards the conquered--where defeat generates ill-will, envy, and hatred. "A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another," said Jesus--not only love one another when the sky is clear, and the waters are smooth, but when the clouds threaten, and the stormy sea lashes with its fury; not only when the arm of friendship and kindness holds us up, but when all hearts seem cold, when all hands are closed, and all faces frown upon us. It was this divine command that the circumstances of the boat race tended to exemplify; and I am sure that both the conquerors and the conquered were better prepared for the duty of life than if they had had no such experience. I do not mean to say that every boat race is a good thing, most especially when it is made to be a gambling speculation by staking money on the result--only that this one was, because those who conducted it made it subservient to the moral progress of the boys. "Well, Frank, I am glad you won the race," said Tony, with a smile which testified to his sincerity. "Fortune favored us at the bridge, and gave us the opportunity of winning the honors." "And the profits too, Tony. Fifty dollars is nothing to us now," added Fred, with a laugh. "Thank you, Tony," replied Frank. "You are so noble that you almost make me regret we won. But, my dear fellow, you have won a greater victory in your own heart. I can envy you the possession of such noble feelings." "Pooh, Frank!" "I am sure I don't value the victory, because it has been won over you." "We trained ourselves to _feel right_ about the matter whichever way the race went." "Your heart is so near right that you don't need much training. But it is time for us to return home." "How about that picnic on the first of May?" "My father has consented to it." "So have our folks; we will have a glorious time of it. On Saturday afternoon, if you say so we will visit Center Island, and set the May pole." "Agreed." "But, Frank, school keeps--don't it?" "Whew! does it?" "It did last year; but the committee have talked of giving us the day. I hope they will. Ask your father; he is one of them." "I will. We can get the point settled before Saturday." "I guess so." "All aboard!" The Zephyrs hastened on board, and in a few minutes were out of sight. The Butterfly was hauled into her berth, everything was made "snug" and tidy, and the boys hastened to their several homes. Of course it was not easy for them to drive out of their minds the exciting events of the day, and while all of them, except Tony, were sorry they had lost the race, they had much to console them. They had won a victory over themselves; and the consciousness of this triumph compensated for their disappointment. Each of them, adopting the sentiment of their heroic young leader, thought what a good fellow Frank Sedley was, and _tried_ to feel glad that he had won. There was one of them, however, who did not think much about it after he separated from his companions. Other considerations claimed his attention; and before he reached his humble home, the race was banished from his mind. He had a sick father, and the family had hard work to get along. This was Little Paul. His mother insisted upon sending him to school while there was anything left to procure the necessaries of life; and as there was little for him to do at home, he was allowed to join the club, because his parents knew how much he loved the sports on the lake, and that nothing but good influences would be exerted upon him in the association. Paul Munroe was a good boy, in every sense of the word; and though he had never been able to do much for his parents, they regarded him none the less as one of their choicest blessings. As Tony expressed it, Little Paul's heart was in the right place; and it was a big heart, full of warm blood. His father sat in an easy-chair by the kitchen stove as he entered, and a smile played upon his pale blue lips as his eyes met the glance of his loving son. "Well, Paul, did you win the race?" he asked, in feeble tones. "No, father; the Zephyrs beat. Frank Sedley rather outgeneraled Tony, and his crew were more used to pulling than we. But Frank is a first-rate fellow." "Isn't Tony?" "That he is! They are both first-rate fellows; I don't know where there are two other such fellows in the world." "You are right, Paul; they are good boys, and we shall be sorry to take you away from them." Little Paul looked inquiringly at his father. He had more than once begged to be allowed to work in the Rippleton factories, that he might earn something towards supporting the family; but his parents would never consent to take him away from school and confine him in the noisy, dusty rooms of the mills. His father's words suggested the idea that they had consented to his request, and that he was to be allowed to work for a living. "'Squire Chase has been here to-day," added Mr. Munroe, sadly. "Has he? What did he say?" asked Paul, a shade of anxiety gathering upon his fine, manly face. "We must leave our house, my son," replied the father, with a sigh. "Won't he wait?" "No." "How did he act while he was here?" "He was very harsh and unfeeling." "The villain!" exclaimed Paul, with emphasis, as his check reddened with indignation. "He is a hard man, Paul; but reproaches are of no use. The note is due on the first of May; I cannot pay it, so we must leave the house." "Where are we to go, father?" "Your grandfather, who has a large farm in Maine, has written for me to come there; and your mother and I have decided to go." Paul looked sad at the thought of leaving the pleasant scenes of his early life, and bidding farewell to his cherished friends; but there was no help for it, and he cheerfully yielded to the necessity. It was of no use to think of moving the heart of 'Squire Chase--it was cold, hard, and impenetrable. He was a close-fisted lawyer, who had made a handsome fortune in the city by taking advantage of the distresses of others, and it was not likely that he, having thus conquered all the nobler impulses of his nature, would have any sympathy for Mr. Munroe in his unfortunate condition. The poor man had bought the little place he occupied a few years before for seven hundred dollars--paying two hundred down, and giving his note, secured by a mortgage, for the rest. The person of whom he had purchased the place, whose lands joined it, had sold his estate to 'Squire Chase, to whom, also, he had transferred the mortgage. The retired lawyer was not content to remain quiet in his new home, and there repent of his many sins, but immediately got up an immense land speculation, by which he hoped to build a village on his grounds, and thus make another fortune. Mr. Munroe's little place was in his way. He wanted to run a road over the spot where the house was located, and had proposed to buy it and the land upon which it stood. He offered seven hundred and fifty dollars for it; but it was now worth nine hundred, and Mr. Munroe refused the offer. The 'Squire was angry at the refusal, and from that time used all the means in his power to persecute his poor neighbor. Then sickness paralyzed the arm of Mr. Munroe, and he could no longer work. The money he had saved to pay the note when it should become due was expended in supporting his family. With utter ruin staring him full in the face, he sent for 'Squire Chase, and consented to his offer; but the malicious wretch would not give even that now; and the land was so situated as to be of but little value except to the owner of the Chase estate. The 'Squire was a bad neighbor, and no one wanted to get near him; so that Mr. Munroe could not sell to any other person. The crafty lawyer knew that the poor man was fully in his power, and he determined to punish him, even to his ruin. He hated him because he was an honest, good man; because his life, even in his humbler sphere, was a constant reproach to him. The note would be due on the first of May, and he had determined to take possession in virtue of the mortgage. Poor Paul shed many bitter tears upon his pillow that night; and from the depths of his gentle heart he prayed that God would be very near to his father and mother in the trials and sorrows that were before them. CHAPTER X. A UNANIMOUS VOTE. On the following day Little Paul was missed at school, and some anxiety was felt by his companions concerning him. It was feared that the exertion of the race had proved too great for him, and that he was too ill to come out. All the other boys appeared as usual, and none of them seemed to be the worse for the violent exercise they had taken. Before night, however, they learned that Little Paul was quite well, and had been detained at home to assist his mother. This intelligence removed their anxiety, and their fears lest boat racing should be deemed an improper recreation, and dangerous to the health of the boys. Friday and Saturday passed, and he did not appear at school; but it was said that his mother was very busy, and nothing was thought of the circumstance. On Saturday afternoon the Butterfly club had assembled in their hall, and were talking over the affairs of the association until the time appointed for the excursion to Center Island. Little Paul had not come yet, and the boys began to fear that they should be obliged to make the excursion with only five oars on one side. "What do you suppose is the reason?" asked Dick Chester. "I have no idea; I hope nothing has happened, for Little Paul has not been absent from school before this season," replied Tony. "I hope not," added Henry Brown. "Suppose we send a committee to inquire after him." This was deemed an excellent suggestion, and Henry and Dick were immediately appointed a committee of two, by the "chair," to attend to the matter. They departed upon their mission, and after the boys had wondered a while longer what kept Paul away, another topic was brought up--a matter which was of the deepest interest to the young boatmen, and which had claimed their attention during all their leisure moments for several days. I say their leisure moments; for the affairs of the club were not permitted to interfere with any of the usual duties of the members. At home and at school, it was required that everything should be done well and done properly. As may be supposed, this was not an easy matter for boys whose heads were full of boats and boating; and about once a week the coxswains found it advisable to read a lecture on the necessity of banishing play during work hours. "Whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with all thy might," was a text so often repeated that it had virtually become one of the articles of the constitution. The boys felt the necessity of following this precept. They realized enough of the law of cause and effect to be aware that, if their home and school duties were neglected, or slovenly done, boating would soon obtain a bad reputation; so both parents and teacher found that the clubs were a great help rather than a hindrance in the performance of their several functions. So strongly were the Zephyrs impressed with the necessity of not permitting the club to interfere with home and school duties, that, at the latter part of their first season, they had established a rule by which any member who wilfully neglected his duties should be, for a certain time, excluded from the club. And this rule was not a dead letter. One Wednesday forenoon Charles Hardy had wasted his time in school, and failed in his lessons. On his slate was found a drawing of a club boat, manned by certain ill-looking caricatures, which explained the cause of the defection. An excursion had been planned for that afternoon, and when Charles presented himself at the boat-house, he was politely informed that he could not go. In vain he pleaded; Fred Harper, who was coxswain at the time, was very civil and very gentle, but he was inflexible. And the culprit had the satisfaction of sitting upon a rock on shore, and seeing what a fine time the fellows were having. The effect was decidedly salutary, and another case of such discipline did not again occur. The boys, zealous to keep their favorite sport in good repute, adopted the regulation for the present year, in both clubs. Without such precautions as these it was plain that boating would soon become a nuisance, which neither parents nor teachers would tolerate. Therefore the members of the clubs made it a point to keep their "voyages," their plans and schemes, out of their minds at times when their heads should be filled with, other matters. It was astonishing to what an extent they succeeded; and boys would often be surprised to see how well they can do, if they would only set about it earnestly and with a determination to succeed. The notable scheme which just now engrossed the attention of the Butterflies was no less than the establishment of a "fleet of boats" upon the lake. The dream of half a dozen boats, under command of Commodore Frank Sedley, maneuvering on the water, performing beautiful evolutions, and doing a hundred things which they could not then define, was so pleasant, so fascinating, that they could not easily give it up. There would be the commodore in his "flag boat," signalizing the fleet, now bidding them pull in "close order," now ordering a boat out on service, and now sending one to examine a bay or a harbor. And then, if they could only get leave to explore Rippleton River, how the commander of the squadron would send out a small craft to sound ahead of them, and to buoy off the rocks and shoals, and how the people on the banks of the stream would stare when they saw them moving in sections against the sluggish current! Ah, a fleet of boats was such a brilliant ideal, that I will venture to say more than one of the boys lay awake nights to think about it. I will not attempt to tell my young friends all the queer fancies concerning the squadron in which they indulged. They were essentially air castles, very beautiful structures, it is true, but as yet they rested only on the clouds. But the means of realizing this magnificent ideal was within their grasp. They had the money to buy the boats, and the only question was, whether George Weston, the "director" of the club, would permit the purchase. "What have you done about the fleet, Tony?" asked Joseph Hooper. "I have spoken to my brother about it," replied Tony, with a smile. "What did he say?" "He had no objection." "Hurrah! We shall have the fleet then! And Tony, we shall go in for having you commodore part of the time." "That we will!" echoed half a dozen voices. "You would make as good a commodore as Frank," added Joseph. "I guess not," answered Tony, modestly. "Didn't you see how slick Frank beat us in the race? If I had followed his tactics, we might have stood some chance, at least." "Some chance! Didn't we keep ahead of him till we had got almost home?" "Yes; but that was a part of Frank's tactics. He let us get tired out, and then beat us. But we haven't got the fleet yet, fellows, and we are a pack of fools to count the chickens before they are hatched." "You said George has no objections," replied Joseph, glancing anxiously at Tony. "He has not, but he wants to consult Captain Sedley before he consents." The boys looked a little disconcerted at this intelligence, and a momentary silence ensued. "Do you think he will object, Tony?" asked one. "I am pretty sure he will not." "Have you said anything to Frank about it?" "Yes; and he says the Zephyrs will put their money with ours, if we get the fleet." "Hurrah! I _know_ his father will consent!" "I have even got a hint from him that he should not object," added Tony, very quietly. "That is glorious! We shall certainly have the fleet then!" shouted Joseph Hooper. "I am pretty sure there will be no trouble about it. Almost everybody is willing to admit now that the clubs are a good thing; that they keep the fellows out of mischief, and stimulate them to do their duty at home and at school. So much for our strict regulations. If we can get more boats, and form more clubs, everybody concerned will be the better for it." "That's the idea." "We can get four small boats for our money--can't we?" asked one of the boys. "Frank thought we had better get different sized boats," replied Tony. "For different kinds of service," added Joseph, demurely. "Say, one eight-oar boat, one six-oar, and two four-oar," said Tony. "That would be first rate! Then we could take in twenty-two fellows." "Twenty-three; the commodore would not be the coxswain of any boat, but command the whole." The boys grew so nervous and excited during this fine discussion, that they could hardly keep their seats. In imagination the fleet was already afloat, and the broad pennant of Commodore Sedley was flying on board the Zephyr. "How long before we can get the boats, Tony?" asked a little fellow, his eyes snapping with delight at the glorious anticipation. "Perhaps they can be bought ready made. We need not wait for new ones. In a few weeks, at least before vacation---- Hallo, Paul! I am glad you have come." Little Paul looked very sad as he entered Butterfly Hall. With a faint smile he received the greetings of his friends. "All aboard!" shouted Tony, as he rose front his chair. "You haven't got your uniform on, Paul." "I can't go with you, Tony," replied Little Paul, in a gloomy tone. "Not go with us! Why not? What is the matter?" "I must leave the club too," he added, in a husky voice. "Leave the club!" "We are going to move Down East." "That's too bad!" All the boys gathered round Little Paul, and there was a troubled look upon their countenances. "We cannot stay here any longer," continued the poor boy, as he dashed a tear from his eye. It was evident to all that some misfortune had overtaken the Munroe family, and Little Paul's sorrows excited the deepest interest and sympathy. Without any solicitation on the part of his companions, the little fellow told them the story of his father's trials, and the reason why he was compelled to leave Rippleton. "When is the money due, Paul?" asked Tony. "On the first of May. My father has no money end he cannot pay the note." "How much did you say it was?" "Five hundred dollars. It is a great sum for us." "My father says 'Squire Chase is not any better than he ought to be," added Dick Chester, who had returned with Little Paul. "He is a very hard man," replied Paul. "But I must go home again. I shall see you before I leave town;" and the poor fellow turned away to hide his tears. "Poor Little Paul!" said Tony, when he had gone. "How I pity him!" added Henry Brown. "So do I," reiterated Joseph Hooper. "How much do you pity him, fellows?" asked Tony, seating himself in his arm-chair. "So much that we would help him if we could," answered Henry. "You can help him." A deep silence ensued. "Have you the nerve to make a great sacrifice, Butterflies?" exclaimed Tony with energy. "We have." "I move you, Mr. Chairman, that our four hundred dollars be applied to the relief of Little Paul's father," said Henry Brown, catching Tony's idea. "Second the motion," added Dick Chester, promptly. "Bravo!" shouted Tony, slapping the table with his fist. "That's what I call noble! But before we do it, just think what a fine thing the fleet would be. It is a great sacrifice." "Question!" called Joseph Hooper. "Think well, fellows," said Tony. "Any remarks upon the subject will be in order. It is a great question, and ought not to be hastily decided." "Question!" shouted the whole club, wildly. "Those in favor of applying the four hundred dollars to the relief of Mr. Munroe will signify it," said Tony. "All up!" "_It is a unanimous vote!_" CHAPTER XI. BETTER TO GIVE THAN RECEIVE. "All aboard!" shouted Tony, as soon as he had declared the vote: and the boys hurried into the boat to be in readiness to join the Zephyr, which was already upon the lake. Tony's spirits were unusually buoyant. The sympathy and co-operation of the club in regard to Little Paul's father was in the highest degree grateful to his feelings. Perhaps his companions did not so cheerfully resign the project of the fleet; perhaps they had acted upon the impulse of the moment; but they were all to experience the benefit of doing a good deed, and sacrificing their own gratification for the happiness of others. Tony felt better for the sacrifice they had made, and probably the rest of them shared his feelings. He was satisfied that they did not fully realize what they had done, and with the determination to take a fit opportunity to talk over the matter with them, he took his place in the boat. The Zephyrs were laying on their oars, waiting for the Butterfly when she backed out of the boat house. "You are late, Tony, which is rather odd for you," said Frank. "We had a little business to attend to, which detained us," replied Tony; "and while we are here we may as well tell you about it. We have voted our money away." "For the fleet?" "No; we have given that up." "Indeed! Given it up?" exclaimed Frank, not a little surprised at this declaration. "Fact, Frank!" "Something new has turned up, then?" "Let us lash boats to keep us from drifting apart, and I will tell you all about it." The two boats were fastened together fore and aft, and Tony proceeded to tell the story of Little Paul's father. He spoke loud enough for all the Zephyrs to hear him, and as his heart warmed towards Mr. Munroe in his misfortunes, his eyes dilated, and his gestures were as apt and energetic as though he had been an orator all his lifetime. "I see what you have done with your money," said Frank, as the speaker paused at the close of the narrative. "It was like you, Tony--noble and generous!" "We gave all our money for the relief of Mr. Munroe; but I didn't even suggest the thing to the fellows. Henry Brown made the motion, and it was a unanimous vote." "Bravo, Butterflies!" "Have you given up the fleet?" asked Tim Bunker, whose face was the only one which did not glow with satisfaction. "Yes." "There is more fun in helping a poor man out of trouble than in working a fleet," added Henry Brown. "So I say," put in Dick Chester. "Humph!" grunted Tim. "But, Tony, you said the note was five hundred dollars--didn't you?" asked Frank. "I did." "And you have only four hundred?" "That's all;" and Tony's eyes rekindled with delight at the anticipation of what the Zephyrs would do. "You hear that, fellows." "Would a motion be in order now?" asked Charles Hardy. "Hold your tongue, you fool!" said Tim Bunker, in a low tone. "We can get another boat with our money, and you shall be coxswain of it." Charles looked at him. "A motion would be in order; at least we can _make_ it in order," replied Frank. But Charles hesitated. The tempting offer of Tim, the absurdity of which he did not stop to consider, conquered his first impulse. "I move you we appropriate one hundred dollars to put with the Butterfly's money for Mr. Munroe," said William Blight, and Charles had lost the honor of making the motion. "Second the motion," added Fred Harper. Those in favor of giving our money to Mr. Munroe will signify it." "Vote against it," said Tim, and Charles accepted the suggestion. "Ten; it is a vote, though not unanimous," continued Frank, as he cast a reproachful glance at his friend who had voted against the proposition. He was not surprised to see Tim Bunker vote against it; but that Charles should receive the advice of such a counselor, and such advice, too, was calculated to alarm him. His friend had but little firmness, and was perhaps more likely to be led away by bad influence than any other member of the club. He was sorry to see Tim exhibiting his dogged disposition, but more sorry to see Charles so much under his control. "Hurrah!" shouted Tony, when the vote was declared. "Let us send up to Mr. Munroe, and tell him what we have done, and get little Paul. They won't want him now." "But, Tony, you forget that our doings must be approved by our directors," said Frank. "I'll risk them." "It would be better to have everything right before we promise Mr. Munroe." "So it would. Is your father at home?" "I believe so." "George is, and it won't take five minutes to obtain his consent. Let go the fasts forward," said Tony, as he cast off the line astern. "We will go ashore and try to find my father," added Frank. "Ready--pull!" Away dashed the Zephyr towards her boat house, while the Butterfly came about so that Tony could leap on shore. Of course both Captain Sedley and George Weston were surprised at the sudden action of the clubs; but the deed was too noble, too honorable to their kind hearts to want their sanction, and it was readily given. In less than half an hour the boats were pulling towards a convenient landing-place near Mr. Munroe's house. The poor man was confounded when the committee of two from each club waited upon him and stated their business. His eyes filled with tears, and he and Little Paul wept together. But Mr. Munroe could not think of taking the money at first. He declared that he would suffer anything rather than deprive the boys of the gratification which their money would purchase. "We are a little selfish about it, sir," said Tony. "We want to keep Paul among us." "That's the idea," added Henry Brown, who was his colleague on the committee. "I can't take your money, boys," replied Mr. Munroe, firmly. "You will oblige us very much by taking it. My brother and Captain Sedley both know what we are about. I am sure we shall feel happier in letting you have this money than we should be made by anything it will buy. It was a unanimous vote in our club." "Noble little fellows!" exclaimed Mr. Munroe, with a fresh burst of tears, as he grasped the hand of Tony. The matter was argued for some time longer, and finally compromised by Mr. Munroe's agreeing to accept the money as a loan. The notes were drawn up and signed by the poor man, whose heart was filled to overflowing with gratitude at this unexpected relief. "Now you will let Paul come with us--won't you, Mr. Munroe?" asked Tony. "Certainly; and I shall never cease to thank God that he has found such noble and true friends," replied the poor man; and as they took their leave, he warmly pressed the hands of each member of the committee. "Cheer up, Paul; don't be downhearted. It is all right now," said Tony. "I can't be lively," replied Little Paul, whose sadness cast a shade upon the enjoyment of the others. "Why not, Paul?" "I feel so sad; and your goodness to my poor father overcomes me." "Never mind that, Paul; cheer up, and we will have a glorious time." But Little Paul's feelings were too strong and deep to be easily subdued. His pride seemed to be wounded by the events of the day, and when they reached Center Island, he told Tony how badly he felt about his father being the recipient of their charity, as he called it. "Charity, Paul!" exclaimed the noble little fellow. "Look here;" and he pulled the note he had received from Mr. Munroe out of his pocket. "Do you call this charity?" "Perhaps he can never pay you; at least it will be a long time." "No matter; it is a fair trade. We lent him the money." And Tony argued the point with as much skill as a lawyer would have done, and finally so far succeeded in convincing Paul, that his face brightened with a cheerful smile, and he joined with hearty zest in the preparations for the May-day picnic. A long spruce pole, which had been prepared for the occasion by Uncle Ben, was towed to the island by the Zephyr, and erected in a convenient place. The brushwood in the grove was cleared from the ground, the large stones were rolled out of the way, and were used in constructing a pier for convenience in landing. When their labors were concluded it was nearly dark, and the boats pulled for home, each member of the clubs anticipating a glorious time on the approaching holiday, for such the committee had decided the First of May should be. CHAPTER XII. FIRST OF MAY. May day came--warm, bright, and beautiful. At six o'clock in the morning the Zephyr and the Butterfly were manned, and the boys went over to the island to trim the May-pole with evergreen and flowers. The Sylph was degraded for the time into a "freighting vessel," and under command of Uncle Ben conveyed to the island chairs and settees for the use of the guests, tables for the feast, music stands for the band, and other articles required for the occasion. About nine o'clock the guests began to arrive, and were conveyed to the island by the two club boats--the Sylph having gone down to Rippleton after the band. The Sedleys, the Westons, Mr. Hyde, the parents of all the members of the clubs who could attend, all the boys and girls of the school, and a few gentlemen and ladies from the village who had manifested a warm interest in the welfare of the two associations, composed the party; and before ten they were all conveyed to the scene of the festival. "Have you got them all, Frank?" asked Captain Sedley, as the coxswain was ordering his crew ashore. "All but the Munroes, and the Butterflies are going for them by and by." "Tom is hoisting the signal," added Captain Sedley, pointing to a blue flag on the shore, which the gardener had been directed to hoist when anyone wished to go to the Island. "We will go, Frank," said Tony; and away dashed the boat towards the main shore. "Ah, my Butterflies," said a voice, as they approached the landing. "Mr. Walker!" exclaimed Tony. "Ready--up! Now let us give him three cheers. I was afraid he would not come." The salute was given, and acknowledged by Mr. Walker. "I am glad to see you again, my brave boy," said the gentleman, as he grasped Tony's hand. "I was afraid you would not deem our invitation worth accepting." "I would not have missed of coming for the world, my young friend. Here is Mrs. Walker; you know her." Tony shook hands with the lady, and she said a great many very pretty things to him, which made the gallant little hero blush like a rose in June, and stammer so that he could hardly make them understand him. "Shall I help you into the boat, Mrs. Walker?" said Tony. "You shall, my little gallant; though I shall not be so glad to get into it as I was the other day." The boat put off again, and Mr. and Mrs. Walker were filled with admiration of the excellent discipline of the rowers. They were warmly greeted by the party at the island, and lustily cheered by the crew of the Zephyr, which was again manned for the purpose of giving their liberal friend this complimentary salute. "Off again, my lads?" asked Mr. Walker, as the Butterflies prepared to go for the Munroe family. Captain Sedley explained to him the nature of their present errand; and, of course, the warm-hearted gentleman found renewed occasion to applaud the nobleness of Tony and his companions. He could hardly find terms sufficiently strong to express his sense of admiration, especially when he learned the sacrifice which they had made. "A fleet of boats!" exclaimed he. "If it would raise up such boys as these, it ought to be procured at the public expense. Thank God! I am rich." "I understand you, Mr. Walker," replied Captain Sedley; "but I beg you will not let your generosity do anything more for the boys." "Captain Sedley, I _love_ those boys! They are good boys, and good boys are a scarcity nowadays. There is nothing too good for them." "You are enthusiastic." "But I tell you, sir, there are no such boys as those in the world!" exclaimed Mr. Walker, with a gesture of earnestness. "O, yes, sir; I presume, under the same discipline, other boys would be the same." "Then let them have the same discipline." "It would cost a fortune. It is a very extravagant recreation, this boating." "But it makes men of them. I read the constitution of the clubs, and Tony tells me it is carried out to the fullest extent." "No doubt of it. There are boys among them, who, under other circumstances, would be bad boys. I am satisfied the club keeps them true to themselves and their duty." "That's just my idea; and these noble-hearted little fellows have bestowed the money I gave them in such a commendable manner, I mean to give them as much more." "That was my own feeling about the matter; but I do not think it is a good plan to make good all they sacrifice. This fleet scheme was a cherished project, and it was noble in them to give it up that they might do a good deed." "Noble! It was heroic--I was just going to use a stronger word." "It is good for them to practise self-denial. That is all that makes the deed a worthy one." "Exactly so." "Therefore, my friend, we will not say anything more about the fleet at present." "But if they bear it well, if they don't repent what they have done, why, I should not value one or two thousand dollars. Besides, it might be the means of bringing a large number of boys within the pale of good influences." "That is my own view; and by and by we will talk more of the matter." Captain Sedley then introduced Mr. Walker to the company, and the benevolent gentleman took a great deal of pains to inform himself in relation to the influence of the boat clubs upon the boys. He asked a great many questions of their parents, and of Mr. Hyde, the teacher. They all agreed that the young men were the better for the associations; that the discipline was very useful, and the physical exercise very healthy; but some of them were afraid their sons would acquire such a taste for the water as to create a desire to follow the seas. But few of them considered boating, under the discipline of the clubs, a dangerous recreation; so that the only real objection was the tendency to produce longings for "A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep." Mr. Walker tried to make the sceptical ones believe that Wood Lake was so entirely different from the "rolling deep" as scarcely to suggest the idea of a ship, or of the ocean. But the disadvantages were trivial compared with the benefits which all acknowledged to have derived from the associations, even independently of the libraries, the lectures, and the debating societies at the halls. Tony and his companions soon returned with the Munroe family, who were cordially received by the guests. Captain Sedley expressed his sympathy for the poor man, regretting that he had not known his situation before. "I would have bought your place myself rather than have had you sacrifice your property to the cupidity of such a man," said he. "You are very good, sir," replied Mr. Munroe; "but I had not the courage to state my circumstances to anybody. 'Squire Chase is a very hard man; even when I paid him the money, which the kindness of the boys enabled me to do, he was so angry that he could scarcely contain himself. He swore at me, and vowed he would have vengeance." "He must be a very disagreeable neighbor." "He is, indeed." "On with the dance!" shouted Frank, in the most exuberant spirits; and the rich and the poor man dropped the subject. The boys and girls had formed a line round the May-pole, and the band commenced playing a very lively air. As the inspiring notes struck their ears, they began to jump and caper about, taking all sorts of fantastic steps, which it would have puzzled a French dancing master to define and classify. Most of the boys and girls knew nothing of dancing, as an art; but I venture to say they enjoyed themselves quite as much as though they had been perfectly proficient in all the fashionable waltzes, polkas, and redowas. Their hearts danced with gladness, and their steps were altogether _impromptu_. Then came the ceremony of crowning the Queen of May, in the person of Mary Weston, which was performed in the most gallant style by Frank Sedley. Another dance succeeded, and then came the feast. A great many good things were eaten, a great many fine things said, and a great many patriotic and complimentary toasts were drank. The band played "Hail Columbia," "Yankee Doodle," and many other spirited tunes, and Mr. Walker was very much astonished, as well as amused, to hear some of the boys make speeches, flowery and fine, which had evidently been prepared for the occasion, when they were "called up" by the toasts. After the feast was over, the party divided itself into little knots for social recreation. Frank and Mary Weston took a walk on the beach, and the rest of the boys and girls climbed over the rocks, amused themselves in the swing which Uncle Ben had put up, or wandered in the grove. Boys and girls always enjoy themselves at such seasons, and my young readers need not be told that they all had a "first-rate time." I do not mean all; for two members of the Zephyr Club had wandered away from the rest of the party to the north side of the island. They were concealed from view by a large rock; but if any one had observed them, he could not have failed to see that they were exceptions to the general rule--that they were not happy. The two boys were Charles Hardy and Tim Bunker. Frank had been pained to notice that an unnatural intimacy had been growing up between them for several days; and he had already begun to fear that it was in the heart of Tim to lead his weak-minded associate astray. "Now, let's see how much there is in it," said Tim. "I am afraid to open it," replied Charles, as he glanced nervously over the rocks. "Git out!" "I am doing wrong, Tim; I feel it here." And Charles placed his hand upon his heart. "Humph!" sneered Tim. "Give it to me, and I will open it." "We ought not to open it," replied Charles, putting his hand into his pocket, and again glancing over the top of the rocks. "Besides, Tim, you promised to be a good boy when we let you into the club." "I mean to have a good time. We might have had if you fellows hadn't given away all that money." "I didn't do it." "I know you didn't, but the rest on 'em did; so it's all the same. They are a set of canting pups, and for my part I'm tired on 'em. Frank Sedley don't lord it over me much longer, you better believe! And you are a fool if you let him snub you as he does every day." "I don't mean to," answered Charles. "I believe the fellows all hate me, or they would have made me coxswain before this time." "Of course they would. They hate you, Charley: I heard Frank Sedley say as much as that the other day." "He did?" "Of course he did." "I wouldn't have thought that of him," said Charles, his eye kindling with anger. "Let's have the purse, Charley." Charles hesitated; but the struggle was soon over in his bosom, and he took from his pocket a silken purse and handed it to Tim. "We are doing wrong, Tim," said he, as a twinge of conscience brought to his mind a realizing sense of his position. "Give me back the purse, and I will try to find the owner." "No, you don't!" replied Tim, as he opened one end of the purse and took therefrom a roll of bank bills, which he proceeded to count. "Do give it back to me! I am sure the owner has missed it by this time." "No matter if he has; he won't get it again in a hurry," answered the Bunker, coolly. "Sixty dollars in bills! Good!" "Give it to me, or I will go to Captain Sedley and tell him you have it." "Will you?" "I will." "If you do, I'll smash your head," said Tim, looking fiercely at him. "Don't be a fool! With this money we can have a first-rate time, and nobody will be any the wiser for it." "I am afraid we shall be found out." Probably Charles was more afraid of that than of the wicked act which he had permitted himself to think of doing. He had found the purse on the beach a little while before. When he had told Tim of it, the reckless fellow, still the same person as before, notwithstanding his promises and his altered demeanor, had led him over to this retired spot in order to get possession of the purse. "Nonsense! Nobody will suspect you," replied Tim, as he poured out the silver and gold in the other end of the purse. "I never did such a thing in my life." "No matter; there must be a beginning to everything." "What would my mother say?" "She will say you are a clever fellow if you don't get found out. Eleven dollars and a quarter in specie! That makes seventy-one twenty-five--don't it?" "Yes." "All right! We will just dig a little hole here, and put the purse into it," continued Tim, as he scooped out a hole in the sand, and dropped the ill-gotten treasure into it. Filling up the hole, he placed a large flat stone upon the spot, which further secured the purse, and concealed the fact that the sand had been disturbed. "I am sure we shall get found out," said Charles, trembling with apprehension. "Nonsense! Keep a stiff upper lip; don't stop to think, and all will go well. But, my hearty, if you peach on me, I give you my word, I will take your life before you are one month older--do you hear?" And Tim's fierce looks gave force to his words. "Now, we will go back to the rest on 'em before they miss us. Mind you don't say anything, nor look anything." Charles followed Tim back to the other side of the island, and both of them joined the sports of the day. The afternoon passed away, and nothing was said of the purse. The owner had not missed it, and Tim congratulated himself on the circumstance. Charles tried to be joyous, and though he did not feel so, he acted it so well that no one suspected him of harboring so vile a sin within his bosom. "All aboard!" said Frank, and the band commenced playing "Home, Sweet Home." In due time the party were all transported to the shore, and everybody went home highly delighted with the day's amusements. The Zephyr was housed, and the crew dismissed, but not a word was said about the purse. CHAPTER XIII. THE LIGHTHOUSE. During the month of May, the members of the two clubs continued to spend many of their leisure hours on the lake; but my young friends must not suppose that life was to them a continuous holiday; and, because these books are devoted chiefly to their doings on the water, that boating was the only, or the principal business that occupied them. They had their school duties to perform, their errands to do, wood to split, yards to sweep; in short, they had to do just like other boys. A portion of Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and of their other holidays, was given to these aquatic sports; so that they were really on the lake but a small part of the time. Probably, if they had spent all their leisure in the boats, the exercise would have lost its attractions, besides interfering very much with their home and school affairs. Pleasures, to be enjoyed, should be partaken of in moderation. Boys get sick of most sports in a short time, because they indulge in them too freely. Nothing specially worthy of note occurred in either club till near the end of the month of May. The intimacy between Charles Hardy and Tim Bunker was observed to increase, though no one had any suspicion of the secret which had cemented the bond of their union. The lost purse was the property of Mr. Walker. At a subsequent visit to Rippleton, he had mentioned his loss, but he had no idea where he had dropped it. Tim congratulated his still unwilling confederate on the success of his villainy. Mr. Walker did not even know whether he had lost his money in the town or not; so, of course, he had no suspicion of them. "You are a first-rate fellow, Charley, but you are too chickenish by half," said Tim Bunker. "I don't feel right about it, and I wish I had given up the purse when I found it." "Pooh!" "I meant to do so." "I know you did. You were just fool enough to do such a thing. If it hadn't been for me, you would have done it." "O, I wish I had!" "Don't be a fool, Charley." "I would give the world to feel as I felt before I did this thing." "Don't think any more about it." "I can't help thinking. It worries me nights." "Go to sleep then." "I can't. What would Frank say if he knew it?" "Humph! Frank again!" "They would turn me out of the club." "You are no worse than any of the rest of them." "They wouldn't steal," replied Charles, warmly. "Don't you believe it. If I should tell all I know about some of them, they wouldn't be safe where they are, let me tell you." "What do you know, Tim?" "I don't choose to tell." Charles found some satisfaction in this indefinite accusation; but it was not enough to quiet his troubled conscience. Life seemed different to him since he had stolen the purse--he had not got far enough in wickedness yet to believe that it was _not_ stolen. He felt guilty, and his sense of guilt followed him wherever he went. He could not shake it off. Everybody seemed to look reproachfully at him. He avoided his companions in the club when not on duty with them. He began to hate Frank Sedley, though he could not tell the reason. William Bright, who was now the coxswain, Frank's term having expired, was a very strict disciplinarian, and the guilty boy had grown very impatient of restraint. He was surly and ill-natured when the coxswain rebuked him, even in the kindest tones. Everything went wrong with him, for the worm was gnawing at his heart. "Won't you tell _me_, Tim?" asked he, in reply to Tim's remark. "Not now, Charley; one of these days you shall know all about it." "I am afraid we shall both get turned out of the club." "No we shan't; if we do---- But no matter.' "What would you do, Tim?" "Never mind now, Charley. I have a plan in my head. Captain Sedley told me the other day if I didn't behave better I should be turned out." "Then you will be." "I don't care if I am. If they turn me out, they will make a mistake; that's all." There was something mysterious in the words of the Bunker which excited the curiosity of Charles. He could not help wondering what he would do. Tim had so much resolution he was sure it was not an idle boast. "I know what I am about," continued Tim, with a wise look. "Captain Sedley says you still associate with your old companions," added Charles. "What if I do?" "That would be ground enough for turning you out." "Would it? They are better fellows than you long faces, and you will say so when you know them," replied Tim, speaking as though it were a settled fact that he would know them by and by. This conversation occurred one Wednesday afternoon, as the two boys were on their way to the boat-house. On their arrival, Tim was informed by Captain Sedley, who was apparently there for that purpose, that he was expelled from the club. It was sudden and unexpected, and had been done by the director without any action on the part of the club. "What for?" asked Tim, in surly tones. "I find that you still associate with your old companions, which is sufficient proof that you don't mean to reform," answered the director. "I don't care," growled Tim, as he turned on his heel and walked out of the hall. Charles Hardy was then called aside by Captain Sedley, who kindly pointed out to him the danger he incurred in associating with such a boy as Tim. "I would not have kept company with him if he had not been a member of the club," replied Charles. "He was admitted to the club on the supposition that he intended to be a better boy." "I was opposed to admitting him," answered Charles, rather sulkily. "I was very willing the boy should have a fair chance to reform; but when it became apparent that he did not mean to do better, I could no longer permit him to endanger the moral welfare of the club. We have been satisfied for some time; and most of the boys, after giving him a fair trial, avoided him as much as possible when they saw what he meant. But you have been growing more and more intimate with him every day. Why, it was only last night that he was seen with some twenty or thirty of his old companions. They seemed to be in consultation about something. Perhaps you were with them." "No, sir; I was not." "I am glad you were not. I caution you to avoid them." "I will, sir," replied Charles, meekly; and he meant what he said. "I am glad to hear you say so: I was afraid you had known too much of Tim Bunker," said the director, as he walked towards his house. Charles entered the hall, and took his seat. "Those in favor of admitting Samuel Preston to the club will signify it," said William, as soon as he was in his place. Eleven hands were raised, and the new member, who stood by the window waiting the result, was declared to be admitted. The constitution was then read to him, and he signed it; after which the club embarked for an excursion up to the strait, where they had agreed to meet the Butterfly. The particular object of this visit was to erect a lighthouse on Curtis Island, a small, rocky place, separated from the main shore by "Calrow Strait," which the readers of "The Boat Club" will remember. The navigation of this portion of the lake was considered very difficult, especially through the narrow passage, and it was thought to be absolutely necessary to have a lighthouse, mauger the fact that the boats always sailed by day. But as neither craft was insured, it was necessary to use extraordinary precautions! A working party of half a dozen was detailed from each boat, consisting of the stoutest boys, who were landed upon the island. Materials were immediately gathered and the foundation laid. The structure was to be a simple round tower, as high as the patience of the workmen would permit them to build it. In a short time all the rocks on the island had been used up, and the lighthouse was only two feet high; but this contingency had been anticipated, and provisions made for supplying more stone. A large rock was attached to the long painter of the Butterfly, and she was moored at a safe distance from the island, while her remaining crew were transferred to the Zephyr. A rude raft, which had been provided by Tony, was towed to the shore, where an abundance of rocks were to be had. It was their intention to load it with "lighthouse material," and tow it to the island. It required all their skill to accomplish this object, for the raft was a most ungainly thing to manage. The Zephyr was so long that they could not row round so as to bring the raft alongside the bank, and when they attempted to push it in, the paint, and even the planks of the boat, were endangered. "Can't get it in--can we?" said Charles Hardy, after several unsuccessful attempts. "There is no such word as fail," replied William. "Bring me the long painter." The coxswain unfastened the tow line of the raft, and tied the painter to it. "Bowman, stand by with the boat-hook, ready to land." "Ay, ay!" "Now, pull steady; be careful she does not grind on the rocks; easy, there. Four of you jump ashore." The four forward rowers obeyed the command. "Now pass this line ashore, and let them pull in on the raft," continued William. "Hurrah! there she is!" shouted Frank. "That was done handsomely!" "We could have done it before, if we had only thought of it," replied William, laughing. "Now put out the fenders, and haul the boat alongside the raft." Four more of the boys were sent on shore to help roll down the rocks, and two were ordered upon the raft to place them. A great deal of hard work was done in a very short time; but, as it was play, no one minded it, as probably some of them would if the labor had been for any useful purpose. In due time the raft was loaded with all it would carry, and the boys were ordered into the boat again. The raft proved to be a very obstinate sailer. After a deal of hard tugging at the oars, they succeeded in getting it under a tolerable headway; but the tow line was not properly attached, and it "heeled over" so as to be in danger of "spilling" its load into the lake. Prudence and good management, however, on the part of the coxswain, conveyed it in safety to the island, and its freight soon became "part and parcel" of the lighthouse. Two or three loads more were brought, after the lesson of experience obtained in getting the first, with but comparatively little difficulty; and at six o'clock the tower received its capstone at a height of six feet from the ground, and twelve from the water. The lighthouse was then inaugurated by a volley of cheers. A hollow pumpkin of last year's growth, containing a lighted candle, was placed upon the apex; and then the boats departed for home. At eight o'clock, when the darkness had gathered upon the lake, they saw the light from their homes, and had the satisfaction of knowing that the light-keeper was watchful of the safety of vessels in those waters. As Charles Hardy passed through the grove on his way home, after the club separated, he met Tim Bunker, who was apparently awaiting his coming. CHAPTER XIV. THE CONSPIRACY. "Well, Charley, my pipe is out," said Tim Bunker, as he joined his late associate in the club. "It was rather sudden," replied Charles, disconcerted by the meeting, for he had actually made up his mind to keep out of Tim's way. "I didn't expect any such thing." "I did; I knew old Sedley meant to get rid of me." Tim always knew everything after it was done. He was a very profound prophet, but he had sense enough to keep his predictions to himself. "You did not say so," added Charles, who gave the Bunker credit for all the sagacity he claimed. "It was no use; it would only have frightened you, and you are chickenish enough without any help. But no matter, Charley; for my part, I am glad he turned me out. He only saved me the trouble of getting out myself." "Did you really mean to leave?" "To be sure I did." "What for?" "Because I didn't like the company, to say nothing of being nosed round by Frank Sedley, Bill Bright, or whoever happened to be coxswain. If you had been coxswain, Charley, I wouldn't minded it," replied Tim, adroitly. "But I wouldn't nose the fellows round," replied Charles, tickled with Tim's compliment. "I know you wouldn't; but they wouldn't make you the coxswain. They hate you too much for that." "It is strange they haven't elected me," said Charles, musing. "That's a fact! You know more about a boat than three quarters of them." "I ought to." "And you do." Charles had by this time forgotten the promise he had made to Captain Sedley--forgotten the good resolution he had made to himself. Tim's flattery had produced its desired effect, and all the ground which the Bunker had lost was now regained. "I am sorry they turned you out, Tim," said he. "I am glad of it. They will turn you out next, Charley." "Me!" "Yes." "Why should they?" "Because they don't like you." "They wouldn't do that." "Don't you believe it," replied Tim, shaking his head, and putting on a very wise look. "I'll bet they'll turn you out in less than a month." "Do you know anything about it?" "Not much." They had now reached the end of the grove, and Tim suggested that they should take seats and "talk over matters." Charles readily assented, and they seated themselves by the margin of the lake. "What do you know, Tim?" asked Charles, his curiosity very much excited. "I only know that they don't like you, and they mean to turn you out." "I don't believe it." "Do you mean to tell me I lie?" "No, no; only I can't think they would turn _me_ out." "I heard Frank say as much," replied Tim, indifferently. "Did you." "To be sure I did." Charles stopped to think how mean it was of Frank to try to get him out of the club; how hypocritical he was, to treat him as a friend when he meant to injure him. It did not occur to him that Tim had told a falsehood, though it was generally believed that he had as lief tell a lie as the truth. "You are a fool if you let them kick you out, as they did me," continued Tim. "What can I do?" "Leave yourself." "Next week is vacation; and we have laid out some first-rate fun." "There will be no fun, let me tell you." "What do you mean, Tim?" "If you want to be the coxswain of a boat as good as the Zephyr next week, only say the word," replied Tim, slapping him on the back. "How can that be?" asked Charles, looking with surprise at his companion. "And you shall have as good a crew as the Zephyr; better fellers than they are, too." "I don't understand you." "You shall in due time." "Tell me what you mean, Tim." "Will you join us?" "Tell me about it, first." "And let you blow the whole thing?" "I won't say a word." "Will you promise not to say anything?" "Yes." "Will you swear it?" Tim had read a great many "yellow-covered" books in his time, in which tall buccaneers with long beards and bloodshot eyes required their victims to "swear," and he seemed to attach some importance to the ceremony. Charles "swore," though with considerable reluctance, not to reveal the secret, when it should be imparted to him. "You must join our society, now." "Society?" "Yes; we meet to-night at eight o'clock, in the woods back of my house." "What sort of a society is it, Tim?" asked Charles, with a great many misgivings. "That you shall learn when we meet. Will you come?" "My father won't let me go out in the evening." "Run out, then." Tim suggested various expedients for deceiving his parents, and finally Charles promised to attend the meeting. "You haven't told me the secret yet." "The society is going to camp on Center Island next week, and we are going to take the Zephyr and the Butterfly along with us." "Take them? How are you going to get them?" "Why, take them, you fool!" "Do you mean to steal them?" "Humph! We mean to _take_ them." "But do you suppose Captain Sedley and George Weston will let you keep them?" "They can't help themselves. We shall take the Sylph, and every other boat on the lake, with us, so that no one can reach us. Do you understand it?" "I do; but how long do you mean to stay there?" "All the week." "And sleep on the ground?" "We can have a tent." "How will you live?" "We shall carry off enough to eat beforehand." Then you see, we can sail as much as we please, and have a first-rate time on the island. I shall be coxswain of one boat, and you shall of the other if you like." "But we shall have to come home some time." "In about a week." "What would my father do to me then?" "Nothing, if you manage right. If he offers to, just tell him you will run away and go to sea. He won't do nothing then." "I don't know about that." "He won't kill you, anyhow. And you will have a week's fun, such as you never had before in your life." "The Zephyrs won't have anything to do with me after that." "They hate you, Charley, and all they want is to get you out of the club. You are a fool if you don't leave yourself!" Charles paused to consider the precious scheme which had thus been revealed to him. To spend a week on the island, and not only to be his own master for that time, but command one of the boats, pleased him very much. It was so romantic, and so grateful to his vanity, that he was tempted to comply with the offer. But then the scheme was full of peril. He would "lose caste" with the Zephyrs; though, if Tim's statement was true, he was already sacrificed. His father would punish him severely; but perhaps Tim's suggestion would be available, and he knew his mother would be so glad to see him when he returned, that she would save him from the effects of his father's anger. His conscience assured him, too, that it would be wrong for him to engage in such a piece of treachery towards his friends; but Tim declared they were not his friends--that they meant to ruin him. Thus he reasoned over the matter, and thus he got rid of the objections as fast as they occurred to him. While he was thinking about it, Tim continued to describe in glowing colors the fun they could have; occasionally relating some adventure of "Mike Martin," "Dick Turpin," or other villain, whose lives and exploits were the only literature he ever read. But Charles could not fall at once. There were some difficulties which he could not get over. It was wrong to do as Tim proposed; it was so written on his soul. The "still small voice" could not be silenced. As fast as he reconciled one objection, another came up, and something in his bosom kept saying, "You must not do it." The more he thought, the more imperative was the command. "Run away as fast as you can!" said the voice within him. "You are tempted; flee from the temptation." "I guess I won't join you, Tim," said he. "You won't, eh?" replied Tim, with a sneer. "I think not; I don't believe it is right. But I won't say anything about it." "I rather guess you won't. It wouldn't be safe for you to do so." "I won't, upon my honor, Tim," replied Charles, rising from his seat, and edging away from his dangerous companion. "Look here, Charley Hardy; in one word, you've got to join the Rovers." "The what?" "That's the name of a society," answered Tim, who had mentioned it without intending to do so. It was certainly a piratical appellation, and Charles was not prepossessed by it in favor of the society. It had a ring of bold and daring deeds, and his studies had not prepared him to entertain a very high opinion of Tim's heroes, Dick Turpin and Captain Kidd. "You can't back out now, Master Hardy," continued Tim. "I don't want to join you, but I won't say a word." "Very well, my fine fellow!" and Tim rose and walked away towards home. Charles did not like this. He was afraid of Tim; afraid that some terrible thing would happen to him if he did not keep on the right side of him. Like thousands of others, he had not the courage to do his duty, and leave the consequences to take care of themselves. He was more afraid of the Bunker than of the frowns of an accusing conscience. "I say, Tim!" he called. "Well, what you want _now_?" replied Tim, stopping. "Suppose I don't join?" "Then you will be in Rippleton jail before to-morrow night; that's all." "What for?" "No matter; if you come to the meeting to-night, all right; if you don't--Rippleton jail;" and Tim hastened away, heedless of Charles's calls. Rippleton jail! What could he mean by that? He felt guilty, and his heart beat so violently that he could hardly breathe. The stolen purse, which still lay buried on Center Island, seemed to haunt him, and with that he immediately connected Tim's dreadful threat. His confederate meant to charge him with stealing it. It was all very plain, and his conscience told him how justly he would be accused. He could not go to jail innocent, as Tony had, and be borne home in triumph from the court by the boat club. His frame trembled with emotion; and he knew not what to do. There was a right way and wrong way for him to proceed--the path of duty and the path of error. "I will go to Captain Sedley and tell him all about it," said he to himself, "and tell him that they mean to steal the boats." This was the path of duty; but he had not the courage to walk in it. He would be despised even then, and Tim Bunker would certainly be revenged if he did. "I _will_ go;" and he actually walked a short distance towards Captain Sedley's house; but his courage failed him; he dared not do right, and that evening he joined the "Rovers." Poor Charles! CHAPTER XV. THE "ROVERS." After Charles Hardy had joined the "Rovers" band, which was composed of the original Bunkers, with others whom Tim had collected together, his conscience proved less troublesome. The first wrong step taken, the second follows with less compunction, and so on, till the moral sense is completely blunted. At the meeting he was informed by Tim that he had been admitted to the society on account of his knowledge of boats. They could not get along without such a fellow; and he was accordingly appointed "master of marine," and second in command to Tim himself. These honors and compliments reconciled him to the society of the Rovers, and he began to exhibit his energy of purpose in directing the details of the next week's operations. Saturday was appointed as the day for stocking the island with provisions and other necessaries, ready for the reception of the entire party on Sunday night. Tim and Charles were to attend to this duty in person. "Meet me at eight o'clock in the morning over by Joe Braman's landing, Charley, and--" "But school keeps; I can't go till afternoon." "And then the Zephyrs will see what we are about." "I can't help it." "Yes you can; can't you 'hook Jack'?" "I dare not." "Humph! You are an idiot! Tell the fellows to-morrow that you are going over to your uncle's, and they will tell the master." Charles consented, after some argument. "I will get Joe's boat, and we can pull off to the island and get the money." "Where will you buy the things?" "We must go down to Rippleton. You must get some, and I will get some. We will buy them at different stores, so no one will know but what they are for the folks." "And the tent?" "We will get a piece of cotton cloth for that, and some needles and thread. Leave all that to me. Now, be on hand in season." "One thing, Tim: I may be seen in Rippleton." "No matter if you are. Bluff 'em off if they say anything." The Rovers were to "rendezvous"--Tim had found this word in the "Adventures of the Bold Buccaneer"--at nine o'clock on Sunday evening at the wood. The arrangements were all completed, and the band dispersed. On Saturday Charles was true to his appointment, and met Tim on the north side of the lake. The money was procured, and the provisions were safely deposited in the boat. It is true, Charles was so much embarrassed that he well-nigh betrayed the existence of the plot to the shopkeepers; and he was very glad when this part of the business was done. Then a new difficulty presented itself. Suppose the Zephyrs should visit Center Island that afternoon and discover the stores! They had not thought of this before, and the risk was too great to be incurred. They decided to conceal their stores on the main shore till night, and then carry them off. A convenient place was found for this purpose, and the articles were landed. They then repaired to the island to mature their plans. "Now, where shall we pitch the tent?" asked Charles, when they landed. "On the high ground near the beach." "We have no poles. Here is the May-pole; that will do for one." "We can't pitch the tent, soldier fashion. We must drive down four forked stakes; then put poles on the forks, and cover the whole with cloth." "But where are the stakes and the poles?" "We can cut them in the woods. We will get Joe Braman's ax, and do it this forenoon." "Suppose they should make a raft, and come off to us?" suggested Charles. "We have two fast boats, and can easily keep out of their way," replied Tim. "If they want to fight we can beat them off." Charles did not approve of fighting, and thought it would be bad policy. Tim was tolerably tractable now that he was having his own way, and was not very strenuous in support of his own pugnacious views. When their plans were fully digested they left the island to prepare the stakes. Before noon they separated, and the truant returned home about the usual time. That afternoon he joined the Zephyrs in an excursion up the lake, and another lighthouse was erected in the vicinity of a dangerous reef. "What shall we do next week?" asked Charles, as they were returning home. "We are going up the river," replied Frank. "My father has consented to it." "Has he? That will be first rate." "And so has George Weston." Charles relapsed into deep thought. He was thinking how much better he could enjoy himself with good boys than with such fellows as the Rovers; for, though he was "master of marine" among them, he could not help acknowledging to himself that they were not pleasant companions. They used profane and vulgar language; were always disposed to quarrel. Disputes which were settled peaceably in the clubs were decided by a fight among the Rovers; and the ambitious "master" had many misgivings as to his ability to control them. Tim could manage them very well; for, if one was turbulent, he struck him and knocked him down; and Charles had not the brute courage to do this. "What are you thinking about, Charley?" asked Frank, pleasantly. "Nothing," replied Charles, promptly, as he tried to laugh. "You act rather queerly this afternoon; just as though you had something on your mind." "O, no; nothing of the kind." "I hope you don't regret the expulsion of Tim Bunker." "Certainly not." Charles tried to be gay after that; but he could not. There was a weight upon his soul which bore him down, and he felt like a criminal in the presence of his companions. He was glad when the club landed, and the members separated--glad to get away from them, for their happy, innocent faces were a constant reproach to him. Sunday was a day of rest; but every moment of it was burdened with a sin against God and against himself. Every moment that he delayed to repent was plunging him deeper and deeper in error and crime. Strangely enough, the minister preached a sermon about the Prodigal Son; and the vivid picture he drew of the return of the erring wanderer so deeply affected the youthful delinquent that he fully resolved to do his duty, and expose the Rovers' scheme. The money had been spent in part; but, if they sent him to jail, it would be better than to continue in wickedness. Then he thought what Captain Sedley would say to him; that the club would despise him; and that he would not be permitted to join the sports of the coming week--to say nothing of being put in prison. But his duty was plain, and he had resolved to do it. He had decided to suffer the penalty of his transgression, whatever it might be, and get back again into the right path as soon as he could. Happy would it have been for him had he done so. On his way home from church he unfortunately met Tim Bunker, who had evidently placed himself in his way to confirm his fidelity to the Rovers. Tim saw that he was meditating something dangerous to the success of his scheme. Charles was cold and distant. He appeared to have lost his enthusiasm. "If you play us false, it will be all up with you," said Tim, in a low, determined tone. "I can prove that you stole the purse. That's all." It was enough to overthrow all Charles's good resolution. His fickle mind, his shallow principle, gave way. Stifling his convictions of duty, and silencing the "still small voice," he went home: and there was no joy in heaven over the returning prodigal. "Charles," said his father, sternly, as he entered the house, "you were not at school yesterday!" "I got late, and did not like to go," whined he. "Where were you?" "Down at the village." "Go to your room, and don't leave it without permission." Charles obeyed. The consequences of his error were already beginning to overtake him. His father joined him soon after, and talked to him very severely. He was really alarmed, for Captain Sedley had given him a hint concerning his son's intimacy with Tim Bunker. Charles was not permitted to leave his room that afternoon, and his supper was sent up to him; but his mother brought it, and consoled him in his troubles--promising to prevent his father from punishing him any more. "Now, go to bed, Charley; never do so again, and it will be all right to-morrow," said the weak mother, as she took her leave. But Charles did not go to bed. The family retired early; and, taking his great-coat on his arm, he stole noiselessly out of the house. At nine o'clock he was at the rendezvous of the Rovers. It was not deemed prudent to put their plans in execution till a later hour; and the band dispersed, with instructions to meet again in an hour at Flat Rock, where the boats would be in readiness to take them off to the island. Tim and Charles, with four others, immediately repaired to the place where Joe Braman's boat, which had been hired for the enterprise, was concealed. Seating themselves in it, they waited till the hour had expired, and then, with muffled oars, pulled up to the Butterfly's house. The doors which opened out upon the lake were not fastened, and an entrance was readily effected. The boat was loosed, pushed out into the lake without noise, and towed down to the Zephyr's house. But here the doors were found to be fastened; and one of the boys had to enter by a window, and draw the bolt. The boat was then secured without difficulty. "Now, Charley, you get into the Zephyr with two fellows, and tow the Sylph off," said Tim, in a whisper. "Shan't I get my crew first?" "Just as you like." Charles and his two companions got into the Zephyr and worked her down to the rock, where he received his crew. It was found then that some of the Rovers had not yet made their appearance, so that there were only ten boys to each boat. Although the success of the criminal undertaking required the utmost caution, Charles found his command were disposed to be very boisterous, and all his efforts would hardly keep them quiet. After some trouble he got away from the shore; but his crew, from the want of discipline, were utterly incapable of pulling in concert. They had not taken three strokes before they were all in confusion--tumbling off the thwarts, knocking each other in the back, and each swearing at and abusing his companions. "Hold your jaw, there!" called Tim Bunker, in a low tone, from the Butterfly. "Cease rowing!" said Charles. But they would not "cease rowing," and the prospect was that a general fight would soon ensue in spite of all the coxswain's efforts to restore order. At last Tim came alongside, and rapping two or three of the turbulent Rovers over the head with a boathook, he succeeded in quieting them. After several attempts Charles got them so they could pull without knocking each other out of the boat; but he was heartily disgusted with his crew, and would gladly have escaped from them, even if Rippleton Jail had yawned to receive him. After half a dozen trials he placed the Zephyr alongside the Sylph, let go her moorings, and took her in tow. The Rovers then pulled for the island; but the passage thither was long and difficult. CHAPTER XVI. THE CAMP ON THE ISLAND. As the crew of the Zephyr tugged at their oars, their imperfect discipline imposing double labor upon them, Charles had an opportunity to consider his position. The bright color of romance which his fancy had given to the enterprise was gone. The night air was cold and damp, and his companions in error were repulsive to him. There was no pleasure in commanding such a motley crew of ill-natured and quarrelsome bullies, and if it had been possible, he would have fled from them. Who plunges into vice may find himself in a snare from which he cannot escape though he would. At last they reached the island, and the Sylph was anchored near the shore. There was a great deal of hard work to be done; but each of the Rovers seemed to expect the others would do it. "Now, Charley, everything is right so far," said Tim Bunker, whose party had just drawn Joe Braman's boat upon the beach. "Everything is wrong," Charles wanted to say; but Tim was too powerful to be lightly offended. "I can do nothing with such a crew as that," whined he. "They won't mind, and every fellow wants his own way." "Hit 'em if they don't mind," replied Tim. "I think we had better spend an hour in drilling them. We can't handle the boat as it is." "We must get the tents up before we do anything else. You go after the stakes and poles and I will get the provisions." Before the crews returned to the boats, Tim made a little speech to them upon the necessity of order; promising, if any boy did not obey, he would thrash him "within an inch of his life." "Now tumble into the boats, and, Charley, if any feller don't do what you tell him, let me know it, and I will lick him for you." "All aboard!" said Charles. "Where are we going now?" asked one of his crew. "No matter; all you have got to do is to obey orders," replied Charles, sharply. "Say that again!" said the fellow, with an oath, as he doubled up his fist, and menaced the unfortunate coxswain with a thrashing. "Hallo, Tim!" shouted Charles, who dared not venture to carry out the Bunker's summary policy. "What's the row?" said Tim, as he hastened to the spot. "I can't do anything with this crew; here is a fellow shaking his fist in my face." "Let him be civil then," added the refractory Rover. "It was you, was it, Barney?" said Tim, as he stepped into the boat. "I'll bet it was," replied the fellow, standing upon the defensive. "Take that, then," continued the "chief," as he brought his fist down upon the rebel with such force that he tumbled over the side of the boat into the water. "You want to get up a mutiny--don't you?" The fellow scrambled ashore, wet through and shivering with cold. "You'll catch it for that, Tim Bunker!" growled Barney. "I'll teach you to mind. Now, Charley, put off, and don't be so stiff with them yet. They are not such chicken-hearted pups as the Zephyrs, I can tell you;" and Tim stepped ashore. "Take your oars; if you only do as I tell you, we shall get along very well," said Charles. "We can't do anything unless you mind." He then showed them how to get their oars out, and how to start together; but they did not feel interest enough in the process to pay much attention to what he said, and several ineffectual attempts were made before they got a fair start. "Hallo! Ain't you going to take me?" shouted Barney, from the shore, as they were leaving. "Will you obey orders?" "Yes; but I won't be kicked." "Nobody wants to kick you," replied Charles, who, deeming that the rebel had made a satisfactory concession, put back after him. "This ducking will be the death of me," said Barney, as he got into the boat. "A little hard pulling will warm you, and when we get back, we shall make a fire on the island," answered Charles, in a conciliatory tone, "Now, ready--pull!" The Rovers worked better now, and the Zephyr moved with tolerable rapidity towards the shore; but it was very dark under the shadow of the trees, and Charles could not readily find the place where the materials for the tent had been concealed. Each of the crew thought he knew more about the business than the coxswain; and in the scrape the Zephyr was run aground, heeled over on one side, and filled half full of water. It required some time to bail her out; but it was accomplished at last, the stakes and poles put on board, and they rowed off to the island again. Tim had arrived before him, and had landed the stores. "Where are the matches, Tim?" asked Charles. "What are you going to do?" "Make a fire." "What for?" "Some of us are wet, and we can't see to put up the tents without it." "But a fire will betray us." "What matter? We are safe from pursuit." "Go it, then," replied Tim, as he handed Charles a bunch of matches. The fire was kindled, and it cast a cheerful light over the scene of their operations. "Now, Rovers, form a ring round the fire," said Tim, "and we will fix things for the future." The boys obeyed this order, though Barney, in consideration of his uncomfortable condition, was permitted to lie down before the fire and dry his clothes. "I am the chief of the band; I suppose that is understood," continued Tim. "Yes," they all replied. "And that Charley Hardy is second in command. He can handle a boat, and the rest of you can't." "I don't know about that," interposed one of them. "He upset the boat on the beach." "That was because the crew did not obey orders," replied Charles. "He is second in command," replied Tim. "Do you agree to that?" "Yes," answered several, who were willing to follow the lead of the chief. "Very well; I shall command one party and Charley the other; each in his own boat and on the island. Now we will divide each party into two squads, or watches." "What for?" asked Barney. "To keep watch, and do any duty that may be wanted of them." Tim had got this idea of an organization from his piratical literature. Indeed, the plan of encamping upon the island was an humble imitation of a party of buccaneers who had fortified one of the smallest of the islands in the West Indies. The whole scheme was one of the natural consequences of reading bad books, in which the most dissolute, depraved, and wicked men are made to appear as heroes, whose lives and characters are worthy of emulation. Such books fill boys' heads with absurd, not to say wicked ideas. I have observed their influence in the course of ten years' experience with boys; and when I see one who has named his sled "Blackbeard," "Black Cruiser," "Red Rover," or any such names, I am sure he has been reading about the pirates, and has got a taste for their wild and daring exploits--for their deeds of blood and rapine. One of the truant officers of Boston, whose duty it is to hunt up runaway boys, related to me a remarkable instance of the influence of improper books. A few years ago, two truant boys were missed by their parents. They did not return to their homes at night, and it was discovered that one of them had stolen a large sum of money from his father. A careful search was instituted, and the young reprobates were traced to a town about ten miles from the city, where they were found encamped in the woods. They had purchased several pistols with their money, and confessed their intention of becoming highwaymen! It was ascertained that they had been reading the adventures of Dick Turpin, and other noted highwaymen, which had given them this singular and dangerous taste for a life in violation of the laws of God and man. My young readers will see where Tim got his ideas, and I hope they will shun books which narrate the exploits of pirates and robbers. Two officers were chosen in each band to command the squads. Tim was shrewd enough to know that the more offices he created, the more friends he would insure--members who would stand by him in trial and difficulty. In Charles's band, one of these offices was given to the turbulent Barney; his fidelity was thus secured, and past differences reconciled. "Now, Charley, my crew shall put up one tent, and yours the other." "Very well," replied Charles, who derived a certain feeling of security from the organization which had just been completed, and he began to feel more at home. The stakes were driven down, and the poles placed upon the forks; but sewing the cloth together for the covering was found to be so tedious a job that it was abandoned. The strips were drawn over the frame of the tent, and fastened by driving pins through it into the ground. Then it was found that there was only cloth enough to cover one tent. Tim's calculations had been defective. "Here's a pretty fix," said Tim. "I have it," replied Charles. "Come with me, Barney, and we will have the best tent of the two." Charles led the way to the Sylph, and getting on board of her by the aid of one of the boats, they proceeded to unbend her sails. "Bravo! Charley," said Barney. "That's a good idea; but why can't some of us sleep in this bit of a cuddy house?" "So we can. Here is Uncle Ben's boat cloak, which will make a first-rate bed. Don't say a word about it, though, and you and I can have it all to ourselves." The sails were carried ashore, and were ample covering for the tent. Dry leaves, which covered the ground, were then gathered up and put inside for their bed. "Now, Tim, they are finished, and for one, I begin to feel sleepy," said Charles. "We can't all sleep, you know," added the prudent chief. "Why not?" "We must set a watch." "I am too sleepy to watch," said Charles, with a long gape. "The clock has just struck one." "You needn't watch, you are the second in command." "I see," replied Charles, standing upon his dignity. "There are four watches, and each must do duty two hours a night. Who shall keep the first watch?" "I will," said Barney. "Good! You must keep the fire going, and have an eye to both sides of the island." "Ay, ay." "And you must go down to the boats every time the clock strikes, to see if they are all right. If they should get adrift, you know, our game would be up." "I'll see to it." "At three o'clock, you must call the watch that is to relieve you." "Who will that be?" "I," volunteered the three other officers of the watches, in concert. "Ben, you shall relieve him. If anything happens, call me." Tim and his followers then retired to their tent, and buried themselves in the leaves. Charles ordered those of his band who were not on duty to "turn in;" saying that he wanted to warm his feet. The Rovers were so fatigued by their unusual labors that they soon fell asleep, and Charles then repaired to the little cabin of the Sylph. Arranging the cloak for his bed, he wrapped himself up in his great-coat and lay down. Fatigued as he was, he could not go to sleep. The novelty of his situation, and the guilt, now that the excitement was over, which oppressed his conscience, banished that rest his exhausted frame required. He heard the village clock strike two and three; and then he rose, unable to endure the reproaches of his own heart. "What a fool I am!" he exclaimed to himself; and a flood of tears came to his relief. "To desert my warm bed, my happy home, the friendship of my club, for such a set of fellows as this! O, how I wish I had not come!" Leaving the cabin, he seated himself in the stern sheets of the boat. The bright stars had disappeared, and the sky was veiled in deep black clouds. The wind blew very fresh from the north-east, and he was certain that a severe storm was approaching. He wept bitterly when he thought of the gloomy prospect. He had repented his folly, and would have given the world to get away from the island. Ah, a lucky thought! He could escape! The Rovers were all asleep; the fresh breeze would soon drive the Sylph to the land, and he could return home, and perhaps not be missed. It was an easy thing; and without further reflection, he unfastened the cable, and dropped it overboard. The Sylph immediately commenced drifting away from the island. Taking the helm, he put her before the wind, and was gratified to observe that she made very good headway. The clock struck four, and he heard the footsteps of the watch upon the shore. "Boat adrift!" shouted Ben, who was the officer of the watch. The words were repeated several times, and in a few moments he heard Tim's voice summoning his crew. Then the Butterfly dashed down upon him, and his hopes died within him. But he had the presence of mind to crawl back again to the cabin; and when Tim came onboard, he had the appearance of being sound asleep, so that the chief did not suspect his treachery. CHAPTER XVII. THE ESCAPE. Monday was a cold, dreary, disagreeable day. The wind continued northeast; a fine, drizzly rain was falling, and a thick fog had settled over the lake, which effectually concealed the camp of the Rovers from the main shore. An excursion had been planned for the day by the two boat clubs; but the weather was so unpropitious that it was abandoned. About nine o'clock, however, the members of the clubs began to assemble at their halls in search of such recreation as could be found indoors. Frank opened the Zephyr's boat-house as usual, and great was his dismay when he discovered that the boat was not in its berth. Calling Uncle Ben from the stable, he announced to him the astounding intelligence that the Zephyr had been stolen! "What does it mean, Uncle Ben?" he asked, in deep anxiety. "I can't tell you, Frank; only, as you say, it has been stolen. It couldn't have broken adrift." "Of course not; and one of the windows is open." "That accounts for it," replied Uncle Ben, as he walked down the boat-house and looked out upon the lake. "I will take the Sylph and hunt it up." "Let me go with you, Uncle Ben." "My eyes! but the Sylph is gone too!" exclaimed the veteran, as he perceived the moorings afloat where she usually lay. "Strange, isn't it?" Uncle Ben scratched his head, and did not know what to make of it. "Here comes Tony, running with all his might," continued Frank. "What's the matter, Tony?" "Somebody has stolen the Butterfly!" gasped Tony, out of breath." "And the Zephyr and the Sylph!" Several of the members of the club now arrived, and the matter was thoroughly discussed. "Who do you suppose stole them!" said Frank. "Who? why, Tim Bunker of course," replied Fred. "But he must have had some help." "Perhaps not; he has done it to be revenged, because your father turned him out of the club." "Very likely." "May be he'll smash them up," suggested William Bright. "Have you seen anything of Charles this morning?" asked Mr. Hardy, entering the boat-house at this moment. "No, sir." "He did not sleep at home last night." The Zephyrs looked at each other with astonishment, and most of them, probably, connected him with the disappearance of the boats. His intimacy with Tim Bunker created a great many painful misgivings, especially when Mr. Hardy told them that his son had played truant on Saturday; and one of the boys had heard of his being seen with Tim on that day. Various other facts were elicited, which threw additional light upon the loss of the boats. Mr. Hardy was in great distress. It was clear that his son had wandered farther from the path of truth than he had ever suspected. Frank had gone up to the house to inform his father of the loss of the boats, and Captain Sedley soon joined the party. He sympathized deeply with Mr. Hardy, and was satisfied that his son could not be far off. It was impossible to search the lake, as there were no boats for the purpose. As nothing could be done at present on the lake, Captain Sedley ordered his horse, with the intention of driving round it in search of the fugitive and of the boats. Mr. Hardy was invited to go with him. On their arrival at Rippleton they found that Tim Bunker was missing, as well as a great many other boys. They continued to examine the shores of the lake till they reached Joe Braman's house, on the north side. Captain Sedley inquired for his boat; and Joe, after trying to evade the truth, confessed that he had let it to Tim for a week, but did not know where he had gone with it. They were sure then that the boys were engaged in some mad enterprise: and at about eleven o'clock the two gentlemen reached home, without having obtained any intelligence of Charles. "Have you discovered anything, Ben?" asked Captain Sedley. "Yes, sir; I heard voices in the direction of Center Island." "They are there, then," replied Captain Sedley, as he repaired to the boat-house. About one o'clock the fog lifted, and revealed to the astonished party the camp of the Rovers. A large fire burned near the two tents, around which the boys were gathered, for the weather was so inclement as to render Tim's enterprise anything but romantic. The Sylph, the two club boats, and Joe Braman's "gondola" lay near the shore, apparently uninjured. "This is a mad frolic," said Captain Sedley; "but we may be thankful it is no worse." "My boy in company with such young scoundrels!" added Mr. Hardy, bitterly. "He is sick of them and the adventure I will warrant." "I hope so." "Charles never did like Tim Bunker," suggested Frank. "What is to be done?" asked Mr. Hardy. "We can do nothing; they have all the boats. They have managed well, and we are helpless." "Can't we build a raft, father?" added Frank. "If we did, they would take to the boats and keep out of our way. Go to the house, Frank, and bring me the spy-glass. We will examine them a little more closely." "They'll get enough on't afore to-morrow," said Uncle Ben. "It will cure them of camping out." "Tim said, the last time he was with us, that we ought to camp out," added William. "The best way is to let them have it out till they are sick on't," continued Uncle Ben. "It won't hurt 'em; they won't get the scurvy." Captain Sedley took the glass on Frank's return, and examined the camp. By its aid he obtained a very correct idea of their encampment. The Rovers were at dinner, and he recognized Charles Hardy and several of his companions. The glass was taken by several of the party; and, after this examination, even Mr. Hardy concluded that it was best to make a merit of necessity, and let the foolish boys have out their frolic. Soon after, the Rovers took to the boats, and pulled up the lake. Then, the anxious party on shore discovered that Charles was in command of the Zephyr. With the help of the spy-glass, they were able to form a very correct idea of the state of feeling on board the boats. There was a great deal of quarreling in both; and, after they had been out half an hour, a regular fight occurred in the Zephyr. About five o'clock they returned to the island, and before dark it began to rain. All the evening a great fire blazed on the island; but the frail tents of the Rovers must have been entirely inadequate to protect them from the severity of the weather. At nine o'clock the Zephyrs, who had spent the evening in the hall, went home, leaving Uncle Ben, who had been deputed by Captain Sedley to watch the Rovers, still gazing through his night-glass at the camp-fires on the island. Soon after, discordant cries were wafted over the waters, and it was plain to the veteran that there was "trouble in the camp." The sounds seemed to indicate that a fight was in progress. After a time, however, all was quiet again, and the old sailor sought his bed. During the night it cleared off, and Tuesday was a bright, pleasant day. It was found in the morning that one of the tents had been moved away from the other. About nine o'clock all the Rovers gathered on the beach; but they were divided into two parties, and there seemed to be a violent dispute between them. One of the parties, as they attempted to get into the Zephyr, was assaulted by the other, and a fight ensued, in which neither gained a victory. Then a parley, and each party took one of the boats and pulled away from the island. It was observed that Charles was no longer the coxswain. He seemed to have lost the favor of his companions, and several of them were seen to kick and strike him. The boats went in different directions--the Zephyr pulling towards Rippleton. When her crew observed the party who were watching them from the shore, they commenced cheering lustily, and the coxswain, out of bravado, steered towards them. "Who is he?" asked Frank. "It is Barney Ropes," replied Tony. "He is as big a rascal as there is out of jail." "Here they come." "Suppose we give them a volley of stones," suggested Fred Harper. "No!" said Frank, firmly. The boat was pulling parallel with the shore, and not more than ten rods from it. The Rovers yelled, and indulged freely in coarse and abusive language, as they approached. Charles Hardy, with averted face, was pulling the forward oar; but not one of his former companions hailed him. They pitied him; they were sure, when they saw his sad countenance, that he was suffering intensely. Suddenly Charles dropped his oar, and stood up. "See! Tim Bunker!" shouted he, pointing to the opposite side of the lake. All the crew turned their eyes that way, and Charles, seizing his opportunity, sprang with a long leap into the water. The act was so sudden that the crew could not, for a moment, recover from their astonishment, and Charles struck out lustily for the shore. "After him!" shouted Barney; and his companions bent upon their oars. But their excitement threw them into confusion, they lost the stroke, and Barney was such a bungler himself that he could not get the boat about. "Bravo, Charley!" shouted the Zephyrs. "Let him go," said Barney, when he realized that the fugitive was beyond his reach; and, rallying his crew, he retreated towards the island. "Hurrah, Charley! You are safe," said Tony, as he waded into the water to help him ashore. Charles was so much exhausted when he reached the land that he could not speak. Captain Sedley, who had observed the occurrence from his library window, hastened down to the beach. The penitent Zephyr, in his agony, threw himself on his knees before him, and in piteous, broken accents besought his pardon. Captain Sedley was deeply moved, and they all realized that "the way of the transgressor is hard." The sufferer was kindly conveyed to his home by Captain Sedley, and his father and mother were too glad at his return to reproach him for his conduct. When he had changed his clothes, and his emotion had in some degree subsided, he confessed his errors, and solemnly promised never to wander from the right path again. And he was in earnest; he felt all he said in the depths of his soul. He had suffered intensely during his transgression; and his friends were satisfied that he had not sinned from the love of sin. He had been led away by Tim Bunker, and bitter had been the consequences of his error. He had been punished enough,--the sin had been its own punishment,--and his father and his club freely forgave him. He was not a hardened boy, and it was probable that his experience with the Rovers would prove a more salutary correction than any penalty that could be inflicted. From Charles all the particulars of the "frolic" were obtained. After his unsuccessful attempt to escape in the Sylph, Tim had compelled him to stay in his tent; and, worn out with fatigue and suffering, he had slept till nearly nine o'clock. He had passed the day in a state bordering upon misery. At night a dispute had occurred, ending in a fight, in which his lieutenant, Barney, had led on the Zephyr party. The result was a separation, and Charles, deprived of Tim's aid, could no longer sustain himself. Barney usurped his command, and treated him in a most shameful manner. Oh, how bitterly did he repent his folly and wickedness! When they were about to embark, he attempted to go over to Tim's party. Barney resented the attempt, and another fight ensued. Then he was kicked into the boat, for his chief could not spare so able an oarsman. His mental anguish was so great that he could no longer endure it; and, in desperation, he had made his escape, as we have narrated. His case was a hopeful one, and his father cheerfully remitted to Mr. Walker the amount contained in the lost purse, with the mortifying confession of his son's guilt. CHAPTER XVIII. WRECK OF THE BUTTERFLY. The next day Mr. Walker arrived at Rippleton himself. The noble-hearted gentleman seemed to be in unusually good spirits, and the boys noticed that he and Captain Sedley often exchanged significant glances. They were all satisfied that something was about to happen, but they could not imagine what. Frank and Tony had been requested to invite their friends to assemble at Zephyr Hall at nine o'clock, on Wednesday morning; so that when Mr. Walker entered the hall with Captain Sedley, the whole school, to the number of over seventy, were gathered there. Charles Hardy was there with the rest; but he seemed to be a different boy. He had lost that forwardness which had often rendered him a disagreeable companion. He had been forgiven; Mr. Walker had spoken to him very kindly, and all his friends treated him as though nothing had happened; but for all this, he could not feel right. His sufferings were not yet ended; repentance will not banish at once the remembrance of former sin and error. There was a deep feeling of commiseration manifested towards him by his associates. He was to them the returned prodigal, and they would fain have killed the fatted calf in honor of his happy restoration. The Zephyrs and the Butterflies wore their uniforms, and Mr. Walker was so excited that all the boys were sure a good time was before them; though, as the boats had not yet been recovered, they were at a loss to determine the nature of the sports to which they had been invited. The Rovers still maintained themselves on the island. The rupture between Tim and Barney had evidently been healed; for both parties seemed to mingle as though nothing had occurred to mar their harmonious action. The boys at the boat-house were not kept long in suspense in relation to their day's sport. Captain Sedley formed them into a procession, when all had arrived, and, after appointing Fred Harper chief marshal, directed them to march down to Rippleton, cross the river, and halt upon the other side till he came. When they reached the place they found Uncle Ben there, and soon after were joined by Captain Sedley and Mr. Walker. "Follow us," said the former, as he led the way down to a little inlet of the lake, whose waters were nearly enclosed by the land. "Hurrah!" shouted Fred Harper, suddenly, when he obtained a view of the inlet, and the cry was taken up by the whole party. "The fleet! The fleet!" was passed from mouth to mouth; and unable to control their excitement, they broke their ranks and ran with all their might down to the water's side. Resting gracefully, like so many swans, on the bright waters of the inlet, lay five beautiful club boats. They were of different sizes, and fore and aft floated their flags to the gentle breeze. I will not attempt to describe the wild delight of the boys when they beheld the splendid boats. The bright vision of a fleet, which they had so cheerfully abandoned to be enabled to do a good and generous deed, was realized. Here was the fleet, far surpassing in grandeur their most magnificent ideal. Five boats! And the Zephyr and the Butterfly would make seven! "You have done this!" exclaimed Frank, as Mr. Walker approached. "Your father and I together did it. Now, boys, if you will form a ring we will explain." "Three cheers for Mr. Walker first," suggested Tony. They were given, and three more for Captain Sedley. "My lads, I heard all about your giving up the fleet to help Mr. Munroe out of trouble. It was noble--heroic, and I have since taken pains to inform myself as to the manner in which you conducted yourself after the brave sacrifice. As far as I can learn, not a regret has been expressed at the mode in which your money was applied. Here is your reward," and he pointed to the boats. "They are the gift of Captain Sedley and myself. I am sorry that these Rovers have taken your other boats; but it enables us to observe the difference between good boys and bad boys. Nay, Master Hardy, you need not blush; for, though you have erred, you have behaved heroically; you risked your life to escape from them; you are forgiven." This speech was received with shouts of applause, and Charles Hardy stepped forward with tears in his eyes to thank the kind gentleman for his generosity towards him. "Now, boys," said Captain Sedley, "we are going to recover the lost boats." "Hurrah!" shouted all the boys. "Two of these boats, you perceive, carry twelve oars each. The crew of the Zephyr will man the Bluebird." The Zephyrs obeyed the order. "The crew of the Butterfly will man the Rainbow," continued Captain Sedley. The Butterflies seated themselves in the new boat. "This is merely a temporary arrangement, and when we get the other boats, we shall organize anew. We want practised oarsmen for our present service. While we are absent, Uncle Ben will instruct the rest of the boys in rowing." Captain Sedley and Mr. Walker then seated themselves in the stern sheets of the Bluebird. "Now pull for Center Island," said the former. "Tony, you will follow us." The two boats darted out of the inlet, leaving Uncle Ben in charge of the "recruits." The Lily and the Dart were eight-oar boats, while the Dip carried only four, and was designed as a "tender" for the fleet. Uncle Ben assigned places to the boys, though there were about thirty left after the oars were all manned. After an hour's drilling, he got the crews so they could work together, and the boats were then employed in conveying the rest of the party over to the boat-house. The others in their turn were instructed and before noon Uncle Ben had rendered them tolerably proficient in the art of rowing. When the Bluebird reached Center Island, Tim had just embarked in the Butterfly, and Barney was preparing to do the same in the Zephyr. The Rovers were utterly confounded at this unexpected invasion of their domain, and hastily retreated from the beach. William Bright, who was the coxswain of the Bluebird, ran her alongside the Zephyr, and took her in tow. In like manner they took possession of the Sylph and the "gondola," leaving the Rovers "alone in their glory," with no means of escaping from the island. With the three boats in tow, they pulled for the beach. "Now for the Butterfly," said Captain Sedley, as he placed the Sylph in charge of Uncle Ben, and directed William Bright to steer up the lake. Away dashed the Bluebird. The excited crew had observed the Butterfly about a mile off, pulling towards the river. Tim Bunker, at this safe distance, had paused to observe the movements of the invaders. He was as much confounded as Barney had been, and seemed to be at a loss what to do; but when he saw the Bluebird headed towards him, he ordered his crew to pull for the river. "Steady, boys," said Captain Sedley, when they had approached within a quarter of a mile of the chase. "Probably they will run her ashore and leave her." But Tim did not mean to do anything of the kind, and was running the Butterfly directly for the river. "They will dash her in pieces, I fear," continued the director, when he perceived Tim's intention. "Pull slowly--put her about, and perhaps they will return." The Bluebird came round; but Tim dashed madly on, heedless of the rocks. "She strikes!" exclaimed Mr. Walker. "Round again--quick!" added Captain Sedley. "They will all be drowned! She fills! There they go!" The Butterfly had stove a hole in her bow; in an instant she was filled with water, and, careening over, threw her crew into the lake, where they were struggling for life. "Your boat is stove, Tony," said Captain Sedley to the coxswain of the Butterfly, who had exchanged places with Fred Harper, for the chase. "Never mind the boat; save the boys!" replied Tony. "Bravo! my little hero!" exclaimed Mr. Walker. In a few moments the Bluebird reached the scene of the disaster. The Butterfly was so light that she did not sink; and most of the Rovers were supporting themselves by holding on at her gunwale. Tim and two or three more had swum ashore, and one would have been drowned, if assistance had not reached him when it did. The discomfited Rovers were rescued from their perilous situation, and after a severe reprimand, were landed at the nearest shore. Tim made his escape; but probably none of them have since felt any inclination to imitate the freebooters. The Butterfly was towed down to her house, and taken out of the water. It was found that two of her planks had been stove, and that the damage could be easily repaired. Mr. Walker proposed sending to Boston for a boat-builder; but Captain Sedley was sure that Uncle Ben, with the assistance of the wheelwright, could repair her quite as well. The Bluebird then returned to the beach, and the boys were dismissed till three o'clock. The situation of the Rovers on the island was next discussed by Captain Sedley and Mr. Walker, and it was decided that, as Tim had escaped, it was not expedient to punish his companions, who were less guilty. So Uncle Ben, with Frank and Tony, was sent off to bring them ashore. Barney and his band were glad enough to get off. They freely acknowledged that they had had enough of "camping out." It was not what they anticipated. Nearly all of them had taken severe colds, and since the rain on Monday night, which had spoiled their provisions, they had been nearly starved. Barney declared that they meant to return the boats that night, and if Captain Sedley would "let them off" this time, they would never do such a thing again. Like Charles, they had been punished enough, and with some good advice they were permitted to depart. How they made peace with their parents I cannot say; but probably many of them "had to take it." As for Tim Bunker, he did not show his face in Rippleton again, but made his way to Boston, where he shipped in a vessel bound for the East Indies; and everybody in town was glad to get rid of him. Thus ended the famous "camping out" of the Rovers. It was a very pleasant and romantic thing to think about; but the reality was sufficient to effect a radical cure, and convince them that "yellow-covered books" did not tell the truth. At three o'clock the boys reassembled, and the crews were organized and officers selected. By a unanimous vote, Frank Sedley was chosen commodore of the fleet. The next morning the Butterfly was repaired, and the squadron made its first voyage round the lake. But as the rest of the week was occupied in drilling, and the maneuvers were necessarily imperfect, I pass over the time till the August vacation, when the fleet made a grand excursion up Rippleton River. CHAPTER XIX. THE CRUISE OF THE FLEET. The school year was ended; and it was remarked that the school had never been in a more flourishing condition. The boys, stimulated by the boat organizations, had made remarkable progress, and parents and committee sympathized with them in the pleasant anticipations of the coming vacation. Since his defection in June, the conduct of Charles Hardy had been in the highest degree satisfactory. His character seemed to be radically changed. He did not "put on airs," nor aspire to high places. His pride had been lowered, and he was modest and gentle; therefore my young friends will not be surprised to learn that his associates had rewarded his endeavors to do well by electing him coxswain of the Zephyr. On the morning of the day appointed for the grand excursion, the squadron, as it formed in line opposite Captain Sedley's house, consisted of the following boats, manned and commanded as below:-- Zephyr, 12 oars, (bearing the broad pennant of Commodore Sedley,) Charles Hardy. Butterfly, 12 oars, Paul Munroe. Bluebird, 12 " Fred Harper. Rainbow, 12 " William Bright. Lily, 8 " Henry Brown. Dart, 8 " Dick Chester. Dip, 4 " (tender,) Tony Weston. My young readers need not be indignant at finding so brave and skilful an officer as Tony Weston in command of the little Dip, deeming it an insignificant position for him to occupy; for the tender was to be detailed on special duty, and the appointment was a marked compliment to his skill and judgment. The system of signals established for the use of the fleet was very simple, and consisted of plain flags of red, white, blue, yellow, green, orange, and purple, each color being a distinct order. The discipline of the fleet was of a mongrel character, composed of naval and military tactics. When the squadron sailed in compact order verbal commands were given; and when the boats were too far apart for the word to be heard, signals were used. But these details will be better understood as the squadron proceeds on its voyage. The boats were ranged in line, side by side, with the Zephyr on the right, the Butterfly on the left, and the Dip in the middle, each with its gay flags floating to the breeze. All the oars were in-board, and the clubs were waiting for the commodore's orders. On board the Zephyr, a longer staff than she had formerly used was erected, on which, half way up, was placed her fly, and at the top the broad pennant--of blue, covered with silver stars. On this pole the signals were hoisted, when the pennant had to be lowered for the time. All eyes were directed to the commodore, who was standing up in the stern sheets of the flag boat. "Ready!" said he, in a voice loud enough to be heard the whole length of the line; and every boy grasped his oar. "Up!" It was a beautiful sight to observe the precision with which the oars were erected. A company of soldiers could not have handled their muskets with more unanimity. "Down!" and in like manner the oars dropped into the water. Those who have observed the manner in which a military officer gives his orders have discovered the secret of this pleasing concord of action. Commands consist, except in a series, of two words; and dwelling for an instant on the first keeps all in a state of readiness to act the instant the second is given. Frank had studied the matter while witnessing the evolutions of the Rippleton Guards, and he had adopted the plan in the club. When the captain said "shoulder," the men knew what was coming; and at the word "arms," the evolution was performed. So with "present--arms!" "file--right!" "left--wheel!" etc.; and to these observations he was indebted for the proficiency of his club, and of the fleet. "Ready--pull!" he continued. The stroke was very slow, and each coxswain was obliged to keep his boat in line with the others, the flag boat regulating their speed. When the squadron had reached the upper part of the lake, the pennant was dropped, and up went a red flag. "Cease--rowing!" said all the coxswains, except the Zephyr's. Then the red flag was lowered, and a blue one was hoisted. "In single line," the coxswain of the Bluebird, which was next to the Zephyr, interpreted the signal, and his boat followed the flag. The others came into the line in proper order, and the squadron passed entirely round the lake. "Cease--rowing!" exclaimed the coxswains, in concert, as the red flag again appeared. Up went a green flag, and the line was formed; then a yellow, to form in sections of two. In this order the squadron pulled down the lake again, to the widest part, where various fanciful evolutions were performed--which it would be impossible to describe on paper. One of them was rowing in a circle round the Dip; another was two circles of three boats each, pulling in opposite directions. Then the boats were sent off in six different ways, forming a hexagon, with the tender in the center; after which they all came together so that their stems touched each other, in the shape of a star. "Now, boys, we are ready for the voyage up Rippleton River," said Commodore Sedley. "I need not tell you that the utmost caution must be used. Watch the flags closely, and every coxswain be very prudent." "Ay, ay!" "Tony will lead in the Dip, and each boat will place a man in the bow to look out for buoys, which he will place over rocks and shoals." "Ay, ay," answered the coxswains. "Now, Tony, you may go up and mark off the rocks at the mouth of the river." The little Dip, which had a picked crew for the occasion, darted away up the lake, leaving the rest of the fleet to follow. "Form a line!" shouted Frank, and the boats backed out from their positions, and in a moment had obeyed the order. "Ready--pull;" and the fleet moved slowly and grandly up the lake. The boys were in high spirits. There was something inspiring in the operations of the squadron that would have moved a more steady mind than that of a boy of twelve. Every moment was a revelation of the power that dwelt in them, of the beauty of order, of the grace of harmonious action. As in the great world, a single intractable spirit might have produced a heap of confusion, and it was the purpose of the organization to bring each into harmony with the whole. The fleet reached the mouth of the river. Tony had placed buoys on the dangerous rocks each side of the channel, so that the boats, by approaching it in the right direction, could easily pass through in safety. The Dip had been provided with a large number of these buoys. They were pieces of board, part of them painted red, and part blue, with a line and weight attached to each. Near the dangerous rock or shoal one of these buoys was to be located, which would be kept in place by the weight. The coxswains had written instructions from the commodore to keep red ones on the starboard side, and blue on the port side, going up the river, and _vice versa_ coming down. The Zephyr took position near the rocks to see that every boat approached the channel in the right direction, as, if they did not, they would be sure to strike. By these extraordinary precautions, the fleet passed through in safety, and three stunning cheers announced that the passage had been effected. "Here we are, Charley," said Frank, as the Zephyr pulled ahead of the other boats. "All safe, thanks to the skill and prudence of our commodore," replied Charles; and the reader will be struck with the modesty of his language. "Where is Tony? I don't see him." "Round the bend, I guess; but here are his buoys all along." "Signal man, hoist the blue," continued the commodore; and the fleet followed in single line. "Here's the bridge; I fancy Tony knows the soundings here," said Charles. "Ay, there is the rock on which Mr. Walker's chaise hung. It is almost out of water, now." "Did you hear what Mr. Walker said when some one asked him why he did not sue the town?" "No; what was it?" "He said it was the luckiest day of his life when he pitched off the bridge." "Indeed!" "He has thought so much better of humanity since, and it introduced him to Tony Weston, whom he calls a hero in embryo." "Mr. Walker is a nice man--a whole-souled man." "That he is! How many men would have done for us what he did? And I, in particular, have reason to be grateful to him," said Charles, with a sigh. "I shall never forget him and your father, wherever my lot is cast." "That is manly of you, Charley. But I am sure they have been abundantly rewarded by your devotion to duty since." "I have tried to do right." "You have done well; everybody says so." "I cannot soon forget what a fool I was to believe Tim's wicked lies. I suppose I wanted to believe them, or I should not." "It is a great pity we ever let Tim into the club; but we meant right; we meant to reform him. Where do you suppose he is now?" "Somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope." "My father thinks he has got enough of the sea by this time." "I dare say. Didn't you ever feel a desire to go to sea, Frank?" "No; not lately." "Nor I; Tim Bunker lent me the Red Corsair of the Caribbean Sea, just before that scrape, and I thought then that I should like to take a voyage." "My father will not let me read such books; and since he has told me what they are, and what their influence is, I don't want to read them." "There's Tony, with the red flag hoisted." The red flag had been agreed upon as the signal to stop the fleet, when the navigation was very hazardous, or impracticable. "Cease--rowing!" said Charles. Frank ordered his signal man to hoist the red in the flag boat. "Can't we go any farther than this?" asked Charles. "I don't know; we are not more than a mile above the bridge." "Here comes the Dip." "Well, Tony, what's the matter?" said the commodore, as the tender approached. "I haven't found a clear channel yet. The bed of the river is covered with rocks," replied Tony, as the Dip came alongside the Zephyr. "Then we must call this the head of navigation," added Frank, with a laugh, though he was not a little disappointed to find the cruise up so soon. "Perhaps not; there is water enough, but the twelve-oar boats are so long they can hardly dodge the rocks. The Lily and the Dart can get through very well." "Have you sounded clear across?" "I haven't had time to examine very thoroughly yet. If you let the boats lay off I will look farther." "Very well; I will go with you in the Dart," replied the commodore, as he ordered up a white and a blue flag, which was the signal for the Dart to close up. The signal was obeyed, and Frank followed the Dip. After half an hour's search, a clear channel was found close to the land; so close that the oars could not be used, and a party was sent on shore to drag them through with ropes. The line was formed again, and the squadron slowly followed the Dip as she examined the river. For the next mile there were no obstructions. "Twelve o'clock!" shouted Fred Harper from the Bluebird. "Dinner time, then," replied Frank. "Here is a beautiful grove, and we will land and dine. Hoist the orange"--the signal to land. CHAPTER XX. THE HOSPITALITIES OF OAKLAWN. The boys all had remarkably good appetites, and therefore dinner was no unimportant event in the experience of the day. Somehow, boys contrive to be hungry at almost all times of the day, even without the stimulus of pulling three hours at an oar. There was something, too, in the circumstance of dining in a beautiful grove, on the bank of the river, with their boats floating near them, which rendered the occasion peculiarly pleasant--which made their cold meat, doughnuts, and apple pie taste much better than usual. But the adventure was not yet completed. The head waters of navigation had not been reached, and their love of exploring did not permit them to spend any unnecessary time over the meal. Tony and his oarsmen had reported themselves at the grove, and after "bolting" their dinner, had resumed their occupation; and the boys perceived the Dip half a mile up the river before they were ready to start. "All aboard!" said Frank; and the crews, hastily gathering up their tin pails, and their baskets, tumbled into the boats. The Zephyr led off, followed by the other boats of the squadron. "I see no buoys ahead," said Frank, after they had advanced some distance. "The navigation must be unobstructed." "It looks like deep water," answered Charles. "And Tony's crew are pulling very hard; they are going faster than we do." "He is trying to gain time against he reaches a bad place. There he goes round the bend. Were you ever up here before, Frank?" "I have been to Oaklawn, which is about four miles from Rippleton. Of course I never came up the river." "Wouldn't it be fine if we could get up to Oaklawn?" "Perhaps we can." "This is smooth work," continued Frank. "Can't we give a little variety to the excursion?" "What?" "Hoist the yellow, signalman," replied the commodore. "We will pull a while in sections of two, and sing some songs." Obedient to the signal, the boats of the fleet came into the order prescribed, and the boys waked up the hills and the woods with the earnestness of their song. It was a beautiful and cheering sight to see them gliding over the clear waters, while their voices mingled with those of the songsters which nature had given to the hillside and the forest. Their hearts were glad, and in beautiful unison with the scene around them. "Rapids!" exclaimed Frank, when the boat reached the bend. "Up with the blue!" "Steady!" added Charles. "Pull slowly." "Tony has been very busy," continued Frank, pointing to the buoys, that speckled the waters. I am afraid the cruise is about up." "Tony has passed the rapids. You know steamboats go down the rapids on the St. Lawrence River." "Ah, there is Oaklawn," said Frank, pointing to the spire of a church in the distance. "We cannot go much farther, I know." "We have made nearly four miles." What the commodore had styled "rapids" were not a very formidable difficulty. Near one bank was a ledge of rocks, over which the waters dashed with considerable energy; but though there was the same descent on the other side, no obstruction appeared to check them from attempting the passage. Tony had accomplished it, and had left no warning to deter them. "Shall we go through, Frank?" "Ay; bend on sharp, and she will leap up like a fawn. Now for it!" The Zephyrs applied all their strength to the oars, and the boat darted up the rapids with no other detriment than taking in two or three pailfuls of water. The rest of the fleet followed, with the exception of the Lily, without accident; and she, not having sufficient headway, was carried down again. By the skill of her coxswain, however, she was saved from damage, and her second attempt was successful. The navigation was again tolerably safe, and for half a mile they proceeded on their way without interruption. "There's a bridge," said Charles, pointing ahead. "And there is the Dip, with the red hoisted. Tony seems to have given it up. He has made fast to the bridge." On the shore was a crowd of men and boys, who were holding a parley with the pilot of the expedition; but when they saw the squadron approaching they seemed petrified with astonishment. The boys thrust their hands deep in their trousers' pockets, and with mouths wide open stared in speechless wonder. The arrival of Columbus on the shores of the new world could not have been more astounding to the natives than was the coming of the Wood Lake squadron to the boys of Oaklawn. "Sheer off, Charley, to the port side of the river, and we will come into line. The river is wide enough here, I believe. Up with the green!" On dashed the boats in the rear till they came into the line. The river widened into a kind of pond; but the line stretched clear across it--making a very imposing appearance. "Slowly; cease--rowing!" continued Frank. "Ready--up!" and the sixty-eight oars of the fleet glittered in the sunshine before the astonished Oaklawners, who were gathered in great numbers on the shore and bridge. "Well, Tony, the cruise is up," said Frank, when the Dip came into line. "Yes," replied the pilot, pointing under the bridge, where the river dashed its foaming waters down a long reach of half-exposed rocks. "We can't get over those." "No; and we may as well land and take a look at Oaklawn. Hoist the orange. Ready--down!" Each boat landed its crew at a convenient place, and they were then marshaled into a procession. They were formed in sections of four, each crew preceded by its coxswain, with one of the flags on each side of him. The commodore marched at the head of the company, and in this order they proceeded through the principal street of the village. Of course their appearance excited a great deal of wonder, and not a little admiration. Several of the principal citizens, unwilling that their guests should depart unwelcomed, got up an _impromptu_ reception, and the clubs were invited to the Town Hall, where some very pretty speeches were made by the chairman of the Selectmen, of the School Committee, the representative to the General Court, and other distinguished individuals; to whom the commodore replied with a great deal of dignity and self-possession. While the speeches were proceeding, the ladies were not idle; and the boys were next invited to a collation on the green; after which they marched back to the river and re-embarked. Three times three cheers were given for the people of Oaklawn, and the word was given to pull for home. The boys of the village were not so ready to part with them, and some twenty of them followed the boats, on the bank of the river. "I say, Frank, these folks were very kind to us," Charles remarked. "They were, indeed." "And the boys seem to enjoy it." "I suppose not many of them ever saw our boats before." "Suppose we take them in; they will be very willing to walk home, say from the grove where we dined, for the sake of the sail." "Good! I didn't think of that before. Up with the orange!" The boats landed, and the astonished Oaklawn boys were distributed among them. They seemed to regard the favor as an unexpected condescension, and their delight knew no bounds. As Little Paul expressed it, "they were tickled half to death"; and when they reached the grove it was a sad and bitter disappointment for them to get out and go home. "I was thinking of something," said Charles, a little while after they had landed their passengers. "What was it, Charley?" replied the commodore. "That we might invite the boys of Oaklawn to spend a day with us on the lake." "Capital!" "We could give them a picnic on Center Island." "We will do it; and now that we know the river we can easily come up as far as the grove after them." "Or up to the rapids; there is no danger this side of them." This plan was discussed in all its details, and everything was agreed upon by the time they reached the lake. The passage down the river had been much quicker than the upward trip, and before sunset the boats were all housed, and the clubs had separated. On the following week the courtesies of the club were extended to the boys of Oaklawn, as arranged by the commodore, and a very fine time they had of it. Their guests, numbering over forty, were entertained in every conceivable manner--the day's sports concluding with a grand race, in which all the boats were entered, and in which the Butterfly won the honors. A new program was made up every week during the vacation. Lighthouses were built, channels surveyed, shores charted; indeed, everything which the ingenuity of the boys could devise was brought forward to add fresh interest to the sports of the lake. And thus the season passed away, and winter came again. The fleet was laid up, and the useful and pleasant recreations of the club rooms were substituted for the active excitement of boating. Lectures were given, essays were read, debates held, every week; and the progress of the boys out of school, as well as within, was highly satisfactory to all concerned. CHAPTER XXI. CONCLUSION. I suppose, as the present volume completes the history of the Boat Club, that my young readers will wish to know something of the subsequent fortunes of the prominent characters of the association. It gives me pleasure to say that not one of them has been recreant to his opportunities, or abandoned his high standard of character; that the moral, mental, and physical discipline of the organization has proved salutary in the highest degree. The members of the boat clubs are now active members of society. Each is pulling an oar, or steering his bark, on the great ocean of life. Some are in humble spheres, as in the little Dip; others are in more extended fields, as in the majestic twelve-oar boats. Frank Sedley is a lawyer. His father has gone to enjoy his reward in the world beyond the grave; and Frank, who was married a year ago to Mary Weston, resides in the mansion by the lake. His brilliant talents and unspotted integrity have elevated him to a respectable position, for one so young, in the legal profession; and there is no doubt but that he will arrive at eminence in due time. Uncle Ben is still alive, and continues to dwell at the mansion of the Sedleys. The boats are still in being, and are manned by the boys belonging to the school--under the direction of the veteran. Tony Weston is a merchant. At the age of seventeen he was taken into the counting-room of Mr. Walker, and at twenty-one admitted as an equal partner. The man is what the boy was--noble, generous, kind. Strange as it may seem, only one boy of the whole number has become a sailor. Fred Harper went to sea when he left school, and was recently appointed master of a fine clipper ship, bound for India. Little Paul is a journeyman carpenter. He is in a humble sphere, but none the less respected on that account. His father, who recovered his health, paid the notes he had made to the clubs. The money was applied to the purchase of books and a philosophical apparatus, which rendered the winter evenings of the clubs still more attractive. 'Squire Chase "worked out his destiny" in Rippleton, and finally was so thoroughly despised that he found it convenient to leave the place. Perhaps my readers will be a little surprised when I tell them that Charles Hardy is a minister of the gospel. He was recently settled in a small town in Connecticut. The boat club changed his character,--purged it of the evil and confirmed the good,--and he is now a humble and devoted laborer in the vineyard of the Master. Wood Lake is still beautiful, and the remembrances of former days are still lovingly cherished by Frank and Tony, who reside on its banks. The Zephyr and Butterfly, though somewhat battered and worm-eaten, are occasionally seen, near the close of the day, with a lady and gentleman in the stern sheets of each. The youthful crews are happier than usual, for one bears the ex-commodore and lady, and the other the hero of Rippleton Bridge and his lady. THE END. 
33522	----	images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) MRS. LESLIE'S BOOKS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES. BOOKS WRITTEN OR EDITED By A. R. BAKER, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. * * * * * QUESTION BOOKS on the Topics of Christ's Sermon on the Mount. VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN. VOL. II. FOR YOUTH. VOL. III. FOR ADULTS. LECTURES ON THESE TOPICS, _in press_. MRS. LESLIE'S SABBATH SCHOOL BOOKS. TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER. SEQUEL TO "TIM, THE SCISSORS GRINDER." PRAIRIE FLOWER. THE BOUND BOY. THE BOUND GIRL. VIRGINIA. THE TWO HOMES; OR, EARNING AND SPENDING. THE ORGAN-GRINDER, _in press_. QUESTION BOOKS. The Catechism tested by the Bible. VOL. I. FOR CHILDREN. VOL. II. FOR ADULTS. THE DERMOTT FAMILY; or, Stories Illustrating the Catechism. VOL. I. DOCTRINES RESPECTING GOD AND MANKIND. " II. DOCTRINES OF GRACE. " III. COMMANDMENTS OF THE FIRST TABLE. " IV. COMMANDMENTS OF THE SECOND TABLE. " V. CONDITIONS OF ETERNAL LIFE. MRS. LESLIE'S HOME LIFE. VOL. I. CORA AND THE DOCTOR. " II. COURTESIES OF WEDDED LIFE. " III. THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL. MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES. VOL. I. THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. " II. PLAY AND STUDY. " III. HOWARD AND HIS TEACHER. " IV. TRYING TO BE USEFUL. " V. JACK, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER. " VI. THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER. " VII. LITTLE AGNES. THE ROBIN REDBREAST SERIES. THE ROBINS' NEST. LITTLE ROBINS IN THE NEST. LITTLE ROBINS LEARNING TO FLY. LITTLE ROBINS IN TROUBLE. LITTLE ROBINS' FRIENDS. LITTLE ROBINS' LOVE ONE TO ANOTHER. * * * * * THE LITTLE FRANKIE SERIES. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS MOTHER. LITTLE FRANKIE AT HIS PLAYS. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS FATHER. LITTLE FRANKIE ON A JOURNEY. LITTLE FRANKIE AT SCHOOL. [Illustration: UNPACKING NELLY'S TRUNKS.] LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE, AUTHOR OF "THE HOME LIFE SERIES;" "MRS. LESLIE'S JUVENILE SERIES," ETC. [Illustration] BOSTON: CROSBY AND NICHOLS. 117 WASHINGTON STREET. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by A. R. BAKER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AT THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. LITTLE FRANKIE AND HIS COUSIN. CHAPTER I. FRANKIE'S COUSIN NELLY. IN another little book I have given you an account of Frankie when he was a baby, and have spoken of some things which he said and did when he began to talk and to walk. In this book I shall tell you more about him, and also about his cousin Nelly, who came to pass some months in his father's house, while her parents visited Europe. Nelly was six years old, while Frankie was but just past his fourth birthday. Nelly was a pale, delicate child, with light flaxen hair, which curled in ringlets about her face. Her features were very small; but her eyes were bright and sparkling, and her motions quick and graceful. Sally, the nurse, used often to say that Nelly looked like the great wax dolls which were put up in the shop windows; but her cousin Willie laughed, and said, "Nelly flies about so, I can't tell what she does look like." When Nelly was a baby, she had learned to suck her finger; and since that time she had never been taught to give up the habit. Before her mother went to Europe, Mrs. Gray showed her that the poor little finger was wasting away, and would never grow like the others, unless Nelly would stop sucking it. But the lady only laughed, and said, "I have not the heart to forbid her, she takes such a world of comfort with it." Mrs. Gray said no more, but she determined to break up the habit before Nelly left her. The little girl was to have a small room, opening out of her aunt's chamber. There her trunks were carried for Sally to unpack, and put the clothes into the wardrobe and drawers. "Come in here!" said Nelly to her little cousin, "and we will take out the playthings. This trunk is full of them." Frankie's eyes grew very round and large as Sally selected the right key, and displayed a great variety of toys packed as closely as possible into the large trunk. "Goodness me!" exclaimed nurse, holding up both hands. "Why, you'll be able to set up a toy shop, miss." "I have more at home," said Nelly. "Maria couldn't get them all in." Maria was the name of the colored woman who had taken care of Nelly ever since she was a tiny baby. She had wished to come with her to Mrs. Gray's, and cried bitterly when she knew that she could not. But her aunt was sure that if Maria was there, Nelly would be too much indulged, that is, she would have her own way, and would be spoiled. She loved her little niece, and was sorry that her brother's wife did not take more pains to teach her little girl to be good and kind. She hoped Nelly would learn, while her mother was away, to wait upon herself, and to be generous and truthful. When Sally had unlocked the trunk of playthings for the little miss, she went on unpacking the other one. She took out the dresses, and laid them on the bed. There was a pink muslin, and a blue tarleton, and a white one with the skirt tucked up to the waist. Then there were two silks, and one or two delaines, and ever so many French calicoes. Mrs. Gray came in at this moment, and Sally exclaimed, "Where I am to put all these dresses, ma'am, is more than I can tell. The wardrobe won't hold half of them." The lady glanced toward the bed, and said, "You may hang the best ones in the parlor-chamber closet." By this time Frankie had helped his cousin to take out the toys; and they were spread all over the floor, so that neither his mamma nor nurse could walk at all without stepping on them. "Why, Nelly," said her aunt, "what a quantity of playthings you have there!" "May we play with them here?" asked Frankie. "I am afraid you will be in Sally's way," replied mamma. "She can wait, then, till we are done," said Nelly, taking up a large dolly. "No," said her aunt; "nurse has a great deal to do; and first of all she wants to clear up this room. See how untidy it looks, with the clothes all lying about." "Can't we go up in Willie's play room, then?" asked the little boy. "Yes, my dear; there is a large case up there, which will make a nice play house for Nelly. You can have one shelf for the parlor, and put these little sofas and chairs in it. Then have another for the closet, and set out the cups and saucers. You and your cousin may carry them up stairs; and when Margie comes home, she will love to help you arrange them." "O mamma, see this pretty carriage!" cried Frankie. "That's a pedler's wagon," said Nelly. "There is the front seat for him to sit on, and the top comes way over to keep off the rain. The horses can take out too. When I first had it, I used to play 'get to the tavern, and put them up in the barn.'" "O Nelly!" exclaimed the little fellow, "let us play that as soon as we get up stairs." "I'm tired," said Nelly, sitting down on the floor, and putting her finger in her mouth. "I'll carry the things up then," said Frankie, running into the next room for a basket. "See, I'm real strong." "If you are tired, you had better go and lie down on the lounge," said her aunt. "No," said Nelly; "I want to stay here, and see Sally put away my clothes." Nurse did not take a fancy to the little girl; that was very plain. She kept muttering to herself all the time she was arranging the drawers, and was quite vexed that her darling, as she called Frankie, should be doing the work while Nelly sat idly looking on. At last, when her mistress had left the room, she asked, "Do you never work any, miss?" Nelly shook her head. "Well, I expect your aunt will teach you to wait upon yourself," said Sally; "you'd be a great deal happier if you had something to do." "Maria does every thing for me," said Nelly, still holding her finger in her mouth. "If I don't like to stay without her, I shall send for her to come. Mamma said I might." "Indeed!" said nurse, laughing. "We'll see what your aunt says to that. Here, darling," she called out to Frankie, "let Sally help you carry that heavy basket. I'm afraid you can't get it through the door alone." "Yet I can," said Frankie, "cause I belong to the Try Company." "I guess your cousin had better join it too," said nurse to herself. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. MOSES AND THE ORANGE. "MAMMA," said Frankie one day, "you promised to tell me a toly." "So I did," said mamma; "and what shall it be about?" "Bout Moses." "Moses in the bulrushes?" asked mamma. "No; bout Moses and the olange." The lady thought a minute before she could remember what he meant. Then she smiled, and said, "O, yes, I'll tell that. Do you like to hear stories, Nelly?" she asked. "I don't know," answered Nelly. "Maria sometimes tells me pretty ones." "Well, you may bring the cricket, and sit down by Frankie. I think you will like to hear about Moses," said aunty. "He was just as old as you are, Nelly; and like you, he was an only child. His father and mother were very fond of him, and loved to do every thing to make him happy. I don't mean that they always let him have his own way, or allowed him to do what was wrong, for that would have made him grow very selfish and wicked. "The day before he was six years old, his mother thought she would let him have a party. So she asked his father to bring from the city some oranges, and figs, and nuts, that the little folks might have a feast. "When papa had gone to town, which he did every day, because his store was there, she went to the kitchen, and helped the cook make some light sponge cake for Moses to have for his party. "The little fellow knelt in a chair close by the table, and watched her sift the sugar and beat the eggs; then, when she put in the lemon, and took a clean spoon to taste a little to know whether it was seasoned right, Moses said, 'I should like to taste too.' "By and by the cake was done, and smelled so good that Moses asked for a piece; but his mother told him to wait until his cousins were there to eat it with him. "Then the carriage came up to the door, and James, the hostler, rung the bell to let his mistress know he was ready to drive her out. She dressed her little boy in his new suit, and told him he might go with her. "They drove first to aunt Mary's, and mamma invited George and Walter, and little Katy. Then they went a mile farther, to uncle John's, where Susy, William, and Grace gladly promised to come. On their way home, they called upon three of their neighbors, where the number was increased to eleven. "When his father came home from the city, he brought a basket in one hand, and two large bundles under his other arm. "Moses ran to meet him, and said, 'Let me carry the basket, papa. It isn't too heavy for me.' "Before he put it on the table, he peeped in, and said, 'O, what nice oranges, papa!' The little boy was very fond of oranges. "That night Moses went to bed very happy. He longed for the time when his young companions would come, and lay awake nearly an hour, thinking what a very pleasant party his would be. "The next morning he was up long before his mother, and ran down stairs to see if breakfast was ready. The table was not yet laid; and he went into the large store closet to see where his mother had put the oranges and cake. There was the basket upon the first shelf, and on lifting the lid he saw that the oranges were still in it. How fresh and good they smelt! He put in his hand and took one out. 'O, what a large one!' "The basket was so full, he thought there must be more than twelve; so he stood up on a box, and began to count them. 'Yes, there are,' he said to himself; 'there are twelve, and one more.' "Then he took the largest, and laid it on the next shelf, while he put the others back again into the basket, wishing all the time that he could have it for his own. He knew that he should have one at the party, but he couldn't wait. 'I want one now,' he said. "He sat down on the box, and began to smell the large orange which he had left out. Then he made a small hole in the peel, and began to suck the juice through it. It tasted so sweet, he could not get his mouth away. So he squeezed and sucked, and sucked and squeezed, until the juice was all gone, and nothing remained but the skin and the pulp. "'O, dear! I'm sorry I've eaten it,' he whispered; 'I didn't mean to. I only thought I would suck it a little. How quick it all came out!' "Just then he heard cook come into the room to set the table for breakfast, and he knew his mother would soon be down. He began to be very unhappy, and to wish he were back again in his little bed. Then he remembered it was his birthday; but some how the thought of his party gave him no pleasure." "I guess Satan was whispering to him," said Frankie. "If I had been there, I would open the door, and say, 'Satan, go wight out.'" "Who is Satan?" asked Nelly, who had been listening with great interest. "Satan's naughty man," said Frankie. "He don't love good boys." "He is the evil spirit," replied aunty, "who tries to make boys and girls, and men and women too, behave naughty and sin against God." "Does he live in Moses' house?" asked the little girl. "He is every where, my dear," said the lady, "trying to make people do mischief. He was there in the closet with Moses, and when the little boy's naughty heart said, 'I would steal one of my mother's oranges and eat it,' he said, 'Yes; no one will know it, and if your mother asks you about it, you can tell her a lie, and say you didn't touch it.'" "I wouldn't take your olange, mamma," said Frankie, putting his arms round his mother's neck and kissing her. "I would ask you, 'May I?'" At this moment a lady called to see mamma, and she said, "You may go and play now, and I will finish the story about Moses some other time." CHAPTER III. FRANKIE'S SICKNESS. THAT night Frankie was quite sick, and his mother, after being up with him several times, lay down by him in his trundle-bed. He was very much pleased at this, and put up his little hot hand on her face. The fever made him quite wakeful, and he wanted to talk. She began to repeat the little rhyme,-- "Once there was a little man, Where a little river ran," when he said, "Mamma, please tell me 'bout heaven." "Do you want to go to heaven?" she asked. "Yes, mamma, when I die; but I can't go 'lone. I want you to go with me. Won't you please to ask God to let us take hold of hands and go wight up to heaven together. That would be a pretty way; wouldn't it?" Mrs. Gray bent over her darling boy and kissed his cheek. She whispered a prayer to God to preserve her dear child from death for a long time to come. Pretty soon he spoke again: "How can you get up to heaven, mamma?" "God will send his angels, my dear, and take me there." "I 'fraid they can't lift you, mamma, you so heavy. But you can go up on the barn, and then they can get you up there; can't they?" In a minute, he asked, "Does God have horses in heaven, mamma?" Toward morning, he sank into a quiet sleep, and did not awake until Willie and Margie had gone to school. When he opened his eyes, his mamma was standing over him with a cup of milk and water in her hand. "Frankie feel better," he said, starting up to receive her kiss. As he still felt weak, his mamma held him in her lap, where he could look at Ponto, who was washing his paws on the rug. Presently Nelly came in, carrying a wax doll nearly as large as herself. She was a little afraid of Ponto, and when he went and put his nose on her arm, and tried to lick her hand, she cried, "Get away, you ugly dog! I hate you, I do!" and she struck him with the doll. Ponto growled, and turned away to Frankie. The little fellow slipped down from his mother's lap, and clasped his arms around Ponto's neck. "O, you good dog," he said, "I love you, I do." Ponto knew very well what this meant, and he rapped with his tail as hard as he could on the rug. Then Frankie made the dog lie down, and he laid his head upon him. Ponto was delighted to have his little master use him for a pillow; so he lay very still indeed. I suppose he thought Frankie wished to go to sleep. Then Mrs. Gray told Nelly how the good dog had pulled Frankie out of the water, and how much they all loved him. But Nelly only said, "I hate dogs, I do, they're so ugly and cross;" and then she put her finger in her mouth again. "Mamma," said Frankie, "I want to hear 'bout Moses 'gen. Pease, mamma, tell me toly 'bout Moses." "Well," said mamma, "I'll get my sewing and tell you the rest of the story." So Frankie lay with his head on Ponto, and listened to mamma. Nelly sat in her little chair, and sucked her finger and tended her doll. "I told you," said the lady, "that Moses began to wish he had not touched the orange; but it was of no use to wish that now, for there it was all squeezed and sucked, and what should he do with it? "When the cook had set the table, she rang the bell, and presently his father and mother came down to breakfast. "'Where's Moses?' asked his mamma; 'I expected to find him at the table.' "'He came down early,' said the cook; 'but I have not seen him for a good while.' "'Won't you see if he is out doors?' said the lady. "Moses knew it was of no use for him to wait any longer; so he came out laughing. "'Why, what were you doing, my dear?' asked the lady. "'I was hiding,' said the boy." "O, that was a naughty lie!" exclaimed Frankie. "Yes, dear, when children do one naughty thing, they almost always do another. Moses had stolen his mother's orange, and now he told a lie to hide it. His mother did not think he would act so wickedly. She asked, 'Do you remember, Moses, this is your birthday.' "'Yes, mamma.' "'You have a very pleasant day for your party,' said his father; and then Moses began to talk about what he should play when his company came. 'Shall you have the supper first?' he asked. "'No, my dear. I shall wait until you have played a while.' "After breakfast the lady swept and dusted the parlors, to have them ready for the party. Then she sat down to her sewing, while she heard Moses read and spell. After this he went out doors to play with his hoop. "In the middle of the afternoon she began to arrange for her little feast. First, she took the nut-cracker and cracked the large walnuts, the almonds, and the filberts, and put them in the glass dishes ready to set them on the table. Then she cut the cake into square pieces, and grated sugar over them. After that, she put the figs into plates, and then brought out the basket of oranges. "All this time, Moses had been kneeling in his chair by the table, watching her as she worked. He looked very sober. He was thinking about the orange, and wished he had not taken it. "When his mother began to take the oranges from the basket, he felt as if he should cry, he was so afraid she would find out what he had done. "'Why,' said the lady to herself, 'here are only twelve. I asked him to get thirteen.' She counted them over again. All at once she looked at Moses, and said, 'I hope you have not eaten one of mother's oranges, my dear.' "'No,' said the little boy, 'I haven't touched one.'" "O, dear!" said Frankie. "I'm afraid God won't love Moses any more, he is so naughty, and tells so many lies." Frankie jumped up when he said this, and Ponto took the opportunity to turn himself over. He had lain very still before, for fear of disturbing his little master. "'What did you want thirteen for?' asked Moses. 'You said there would be twelve at the party.' "'Because I meant to send one to Sarah Christie. Joseph and Belle are coming, but Sarah is sick, you know; so I meant to send her one. I suppose your father forgot it; but I'm very sorry.'" Mrs. Gray was going on to tell the rest of the story, but she saw that Frankie looked very pale, and she stopped. "I want to womit," said he, and she ran quickly to get the bowl. Then she gave him some medicine, and put him into bed, while she sent Nelly to play out doors until he awoke. CHAPTER IV. NELLY'S PUNISHMENT. IN a few days Frankie was quite well again, and able to play merrily with Nelly, who had sadly missed him in her out-door exercise. The little girl had not been long with her aunt before the lady saw that the right training of her niece would require much skill and patience. Nelly had never been taught to obey, and could not be made to understand why she should not have her own way, as she had done at home. There was another thing which made her aunt feel very badly. She found that, young as Nelly was, she had already learned to deceive, and no one could trust her word a moment. Then she was selfish, and while she would not oblige her cousins by lending them her books or toys, she was very angry if they did not at once yield theirs to her, when she asked for them. She was so pert and uncivil in her talk, that Sally, and even Jane, disliked to have her about; and at last her aunt was obliged to shut her in her own room, she spoke so impudently to the servants. Instead of asking the nurse to do her a favor, as the other children did, she used to say, "Go right up stairs quick, Sally, and get my bonnet;" and once, when Sally did not start, she said, "You're an ugly girl," and struck her in the face. Nurse started forward to hold her hands, when at this moment Mrs. Gray entered the room. Nelly was ashamed that her aunt had heard her, for she loved her aunt better than any one in the house; but when the lady took her hand firmly to lead her up stairs, she screamed and struggled to get away. "I don't like to stay here," she cried; "this is an ugly house. I wish my mamma would come home and take me away." Mrs. Gray led her to a chair in her own room, and going out locked the door after her. But Nelly kicked and pounded the door so hard, and threw over the chairs, that her aunt was obliged to call Sally to help her tie the naughty girl to a chair. She was very sorry to do this, and the tears were in her eyes; but Sally was right glad to have the child punished as she deserved. Indeed, she had told Jane the day before that she did not see how mistress had so much patience with the naughty child. Mrs. Gray did not intend to hurt Nelly. She only meant to fasten her hands and feet to the chair so as to prevent her doing any more mischief. She took large towels from the washstand to do this; but Nelly kicked and screamed, and at last made a great scratch on her aunt's face. After that Sally took the child in her arms, and held her so tight she could not move. When they had fastened her firmly to her seat, they went out, and left her to think of her bad conduct. Mrs. Gray went into her closet, and asked God to direct her what to do in order to make Nelly a good, obedient child. After an hour she went back, and said, "Are you sorry, my dear, that you have been so naughty?" "I don't love you. I want to go to Maria," was the only reply. Her aunt sighed, when she found the little girl was not at all subdued, and she went out again. If Nelly could have put her finger in her mouth, it would have been no punishment for her to stay there, for she could lie back in the chair and go to sleep. When her uncle came home to dinner, he found Willie, and Frankie, and mamma, sitting silent and sad in the parlor, while from above stairs came the sound of loud and angry crying. The lady wept as she told her husband how naughty Nelly had behaved. "I had no idea," she said, "that she had so bad a temper." "Shall I go up and talk with her?" asked the gentleman. "If you think it best," replied mamma; "but I fear it will do no good. I have already been to her three times." "Well, perhaps I had better leave her with you, then. I hope this will be a good lesson to her." After dinner, Mrs. Gray carried a plate full of pudding to Nelly, and offered to feed her with it; but the stubborn child refused to eat. She made up faces at her aunt, and said many naughty words, which I should not want any little boy or girl to hear. The lady came out of her room looking very pale and anxious, and at last began to cry. She was quite discouraged, and thought she would write to her brother, and tell him she could do nothing with his child. But if I do so, she thought, Nelly will be ruined. If she grows up with such a bad temper, is so untruthful and selfish, she will be a trial to herself and to her parents; and what is more than that, she can never have the blessing of God. "I will not give up yet," she said, aloud. "I will try her a little longer." She then went down stairs, and told Frankie he might go out doors and play with his wheel-barrow; but the little fellow said, "I want to stay with you, mamma. Nelly makes my head ache." Poor child, he did not feel like play while his cousin was so naughty. It was almost time for tea, when the lady, having once more asked God to direct her, entered the little chamber where her niece was sitting. Nelly was quiet now; but her lips stuck out with an ugly pout. "My dear child," said the lady, sitting down near her, "it makes us all very unhappy to have you up here by yourself, when you might be playing and enjoying yourself with your cousins. When you came to live with us, we thought it was so pleasant to have a dear little girl running and dancing about the house! But now it seems sad because we know by your naughty temper you have not only offended us, but you have displeased God. I wish you would let me untie your hands, and see you my darling little Nelly once more." "I'm sorry now," said Nelly, her lip quivering. "I will be good, aunty." The tears ran down the little girl's cheeks, but this time they were not angry tears. Her aunt made haste to untie the towels, and took Nelly in her arms. "I love you now," sobbed Nelly; "I love you dearly." "And I love you, my dear, or I could not have kept you here so long," said her aunt, kissing her again and again. "I came a great many times to the door, and longed to take you from this great chair, and hear your happy voice once more; but I knew it would be wrong in me to do so until you were ready to say you were sorry, and to promise to be a good girl. You have offended God, my dear child. Shall I ask him to forgive you?" "Yes, aunty." Mrs. Gray then knelt with Nelly by the chair, and prayed God to forgive all her sins, and to help her to keep her new resolution to be good. CHAPTER V. TAKING MEDICINE. AFTER tea Nelly had a fine romp with her cousins on the lawn. Margie and Ponto were there too; and papa and mamma sat on the front steps, laughing and enjoying their sport. As the children ran round and round, the lady saw that Nelly's apron was unbuttoned, and that it troubled her as she played. She called, "Nelly, come here a minute." The little girl stopped at once, and then ran to her aunt. Before this, when any one called her, she would say, "I can't come now;" or, "In a minute I will." The lady was very much pleased to see that the child obeyed promptly. When she had fastened the apron, Nelly clasped her arms about her aunt's neck, and kissed her. Her uncle smiled, and said, "You look very happy now, Nelly; I wish your mamma could see your rosy cheeks." "Come, Nelly, it's your turn now," shouted Willie from the lawn. A few days after this, Mrs. Gray sat busily sewing, while Frankie made a barn with his blocks, in which to put up the pedler's cart, and Nelly was undressing her doll. The sleeve did not come off easily, and as she pulled it roughly it tore. The little girl was angry, and began to cry. "What is the matter?" asked her aunt. "Dolly's dress is ugly, and it's all torn." "Should you like to have a needle, and mend it, my dear?" "O, yes, aunty." "May I sew some too?" asked Frankie. "Yes, darling, you may mend this stocking." She then threaded a needle for the little girl, and showed her how to put the stitches through, and afterwards gave Frankie a darning needle with some yarn. He had often sewed before, and he liked the business very much. There was no knot in the thread, and so he pulled it through and through. But he thought it was sewing for all that. Nelly sat steadily at her work for a minute; but at last she threw it on the floor, and said, "I hate sewing, it's so hard." "Let me see it, dear," said aunty. Nelly picked it up, and put it into her hand. She laughed when she looked at it, and Nelly laughed too; and then Frankie said, "O, what funny sewing!" "I'll baste you some easier work," said her aunt; "and you shall have a little thimble to put on your finger. Then you will like to sew." Nelly had behaved much better since she was punished, so that her uncle, aunt, and cousins loved her better than ever. Still there were many things in which they hoped she would improve. One day her aunt found her sitting on the piazza alone, eating something, and as soon as she saw some one coming, she put it hastily in her pocket. It was not more than an hour before she complained of a bad pain in her stomach. "What have you been eating, my dear?" asked her aunt. "Nothing," said Nelly. "Are you sure?" and the lady looked earnestly in her face. "Yes, I am very sure," answered Nelly. Mrs. Gray sent Sally for some warm peppermint water, and then laid the child on the lounge. For some time she lay quite still, sucking her finger; but when her aunt glanced toward her to see if she were asleep, she noticed that Nelly looked very pale about the mouth; and presently she jumped up, and carried her to the closet, where she threw up a great quantity of raisins, which she had stolen from her aunt's box. She continued very sick all that night, and in the morning the doctor came, and said she must take a large dose of castor oil. The sight of oil always made the lady very sick, and so her uncle said he would give it to her. He poured it out, and mixed it with a little hot milk, and held it to her lips. But she would not take it. He tried to persuade her, promised her a ride, told her she would be very sick if she did not obey the doctor, but all was of no use. She shut her teeth, and would not touch it. Then Sally tried her skill. "I'll make your great dolly a new dress," she said; "come, now, be a good girl, and then I'll tell you how Frankie took his medicine." It was all in vain; Nelly still shook her head, and refused to obey. Mrs. Gray then took the child in her lap, and spread a large cloth under her chin, at the same time telling Sally to bring a cup of blackberry jelly from the store closet. "Now, my little Nelly," she said, "you must take this to make you well. If you will open your mouth and swallow it all down like a good girl, I will give you some nice jelly to take the taste out, for it is very bad. But if you don't take it before I count three, I shall hold you and force it down your throat." Then she began to count,--"one, two,"--but before she could say three, Nelly caught the spoon and swallowed the medicine, and then took some jelly so quickly, that she hardly tasted the oil. "That was a right good girl," said her uncle. "I couldn't have taken it any better myself." When Nelly was well, her aunt kindly talked with her of the great sin which she had committed. "You have done just as naughty Moses did," she said. "First, you stole the raisins, as he stole the orange; and then you told a wicked lie to hide it from me, as he did to hide his sin from his mother." Then she told Nelly, "God hears all we say, and sees all we do. We can hide nothing from him; and he says in his holy book, 'liars shall have their portion in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.'" Nelly cried; and promised over and over again to be a good girl, and she really tried to improve. She saw how happy her cousins were, and how every body loved them, and she said to herself, "I mean to try to be just as good as I can." CHAPTER VI. THE LOST ORANGE FOUND. WHEN little girls or boys try to do right, every body loves to help them. Mrs. Gray knew that for six years her little niece had been indulged in every wish, and that she had never been taught to restrain her ill humor. She could not, therefore, expect her to be cured at once of all her bad habits; but she was much pleased to see that Nelly grew every day more amiable, more ready to give up her own wishes, and to try to make others happy. Sometimes, in playing with Frankie, she would forget, and say an unkind word; but the moment she saw the eye of her aunt fixed mournfully upon her, she would say, "I'm sorry, Frankie." When she said this, the dear child always put up his little red lips to kiss her, and say, "I sorry, too, Nelly." Sometimes he would add, "God is sorry, too." It was very rainy one morning, and the children were obliged to keep in doors. Frankie had for some time been amusing himself by hiding a ball, which he made Ponto find and bring to him in his teeth, while Nelly shouted and danced at every new discovery, saying "I never saw such a funny dog before." At last they grew tired of this, and even Ponto began to think they had played this game quite long enough; so Frankie sat down on the floor, and putting one arm around the dog's neck, said, "Mamma, I want to hear a toly." "You said some time you would tell us some more about Moses," exclaimed Nelly. "So I will," said mamma. "I told you that his mother counted the oranges, and found there were but twelve. 'I'm sorry,' she said to Moses, 'because I wanted one for Sarah Christie; but I suppose your father forgot to get it, and I'll send her one another time.' "'You can give her some figs,' said Moses. "'So I can,' replied his mother; and then she went on cutting the peel and tearing it down a little way, so that, when they were put into the large glass dish, they looked like great yellow flowers. "'O, how pretty they are!' said Moses. "His mother then set all the dishes on the sideboard, and covered them over with a clean table cloth. After tea, she said, 'I will set them out on the table, and then when the children have done playing, they can come here and eat them.' "When Moses' father came home from the city, the lady said, 'I'm sorry you forgot to get thirteen oranges. There were only twelve in the basket.' "'There were thirteen when I brought them home,' said papa; 'I am sure of it, because I counted them myself, and they were nice ones too; I had to give three cents apiece for them, though they are quite plenty now.' "'I don't know where the other can have gone,' said mamma, looking very sober, as a painful suspicion flashed through her. "'I hope Moses wouldn't take one without leave,' said the gentleman. "'I asked him,' replied mamma, 'and he said he hadn't touched them.' "'Where is he?' asked papa, 'I will ask him. I don't care at all about the orange, because I can easily get another; but somebody must have taken it, and I am afraid it was our little boy.' The gentleman then went to the door and called, 'Moses! Moses!' "Presently Moses came, and his father took him in his lap, and said, 'Tell me, my dear, have you taken an orange from the basket?' "'No, papa,' said the boy, his face growing very red. 'I told mamma I hadn't touched them.' "The gentleman couldn't think that his darling child would tell a lie; so he put him down to the floor, and inquired, 'Have you asked cook?' "'No,' said mamma; 'I am quite sure she wouldn't meddle with my things.' "'Just then, cook came in with the cloth for supper, and mamma said to Moses, 'I shall have time, I think, to dress you before tea. Run up quick to my room, and I will get a clean ruffle, and baste it in your new sack." "While she was doing this, he pulled off his sack and pantaloons that he had worn every day, and threw them on the floor. Then his mother washed his face, and neck, and arms, and hands, very clean, and brushed his hair smoothly off his forehead, so that he looked very nicely indeed. And all the time Moses was talking about his party, and telling what a pleasant time he should have. "'It's your birthday,' said his mother, kissing him, 'and you must remember to be a very good boy. Be kind to your dear little cousins and playmates, and let them play with any of your toys. Here, let me hang up your clothes, and we will go down to tea.' "She took the pantaloons from the floor, and said, 'Why, Moses, what have you stuffed into your pocket? Here is your handkerchief wet through.' She pulled out first an India rubber ball, and then--O, what do you think?--why, the lost orange, all sucked and gone except the peel. "'O Moses!' was all the poor mother could say. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands; but the tears trickled down through her fingers. "The little boy began to cry; he wished his mother had not found him out, because it made her feel so badly. Presently the tea bell rang; but the lady never stirred from her seat. She was mourning over her son, and thinking what she ought to do to punish him for his great sin. "'Supper is ready,' called out papa from the stairs. "'Don't wait for me,' answered the lady; 'I can't go down.' "'What is the matter?' asked the gentleman, springing up the stairs and coming into the room. "Mamma began to weep again. She could not speak, but she held up the skin of the orange, and glanced toward Moses, who was sitting in a chair by himself crying bitterly. "'So he did take it, after all,' said papa, in a stern voice. "'I'm sorry, papa,' sobbed the boy. "'What a wicked boy you must be, to steal and lie, and on your birthday too,' said his father, 'when we were trying to make you so happy!' "'I never will do so again,' said Moses. "'You must be punished, so that you will remember it,' said his father. "'Stay here,' said his mother; 'I will send cook up with some supper for you.'" CHAPTER VII. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY. "SHE sat down at the table, and poured the tea, but she could not eat. Her heart was too sorrowful. She arose, and returned to the chamber, where Moses was eating a slice of bread and butter. When he had finished it, she said, 'Wipe your hands on the towel, and take off your clothes.' "'Are you going to whip me, mamma? I never will be so naughty again,' exclaimed the boy, beginning to cry louder than ever. "'No,' said his mother, 'I am going to put you to bed.' "'I can't see my party, then,' screamed Moses, catching hold of his mother's dress. "'Nor eat any of the good things, my child. You have been a wicked boy, and broken God's holy commands; and I must punish you. You don't know how you've made mother's heart ache,' said the lady, trying to keep back her tears. 'I did not think you could be so naughty. When I know how displeased the dear Saviour must be, I tremble for you.' "'I didn't mean to eat the orange, mamma; it smelled so good, I only thought I would suck it a little.' "'If you had told me that at first, I would gladly have forgiven you,' said mamma; 'but you told wicked lies to hide your sin. You forgot that God was looking at you all the time, and knew all that was in your heart. You must pray to him to forgive you, and to make you a good boy.' "Moses cried so that he could hardly stand. His mother took off his clothes, put on his night gown, and helped him into bed. Then she knelt by his bed side, and prayed that the means used to punish him might help him to remember what a great sin lying is. She asked God to forgive him, and help him from that hour to be an honest, truthful boy. "Moses slept in a small room, next to her own, and as the lady thought some of the little party might run up there, she locked the door, and went herself down the back way. "Pretty soon the bell rang, and Moses stopped crying to listen. He heard happy voices of children running through the hall. Then they asked, 'Where's Moses?' But he could not hear what his mother answered. "In a few minutes a carriage drove up, and there was another ring of the bell. This time it was his cousins, and he heard them laughing and talking together. "Before half an hour all the company had assembled. Some of the little girls went up to the front room, and he could hear his mother's voice as she went with them. She was talking very kindly, but he thought she did not feel happy, it was so sad. "O, what a long evening that was! He could not go to sleep, for every few minutes there was a merry burst of laughter from the room below; and he knew that his papa was teaching them some pretty games. Every time he heard this he began to cry again. And then he wondered whether his mother would tell them why he was not there, and what they would say. "At last he heard them all walk out into the dining room, and papa's voice saying, 'I will take Katy because she is the youngest.' Now he knew they were going to sit at table and eat the nice fruit. "'O, dear!' he sobbed, 'how sorry I am!' And then, for the first time, he began to think how wicked it was to deceive his dear parents, who had been so kind to him all his life. 'I made mamma cry,' he said softly. 'I'm sorry for that, too.' "As soon as Satan heard Moses say that, he ran away and hid; and the good Spirit came, and whispered to Moses, and presently he got out of his bed, and knelt down by his low chair, and prayed softly. But Jesus heard what he said, and looked into his heart, and saw he was really sorry he had been a wicked boy, and then God forgave him. "Pretty soon the children all came rushing up the stairs to put on their clothes, for the carriages had come to take them home. Moses was not crying now. He lay quiet and still; and he heard them say, 'Good by! good by! Please give my love to Moses;' and then the door was shut, and the house all still again. "When mamma came up stairs she carried the light into her little boy's room to see if he was awake. His eyes were wide open, and as soon as he saw her, he said, 'You might give my orange to Sarah Christie, mamma, because I wasn't down there to eat it.' "Then mamma put up her handkerchief quick to wipe the tears from her eyes; and she went up to the bed and kissed her boy, for she knew that he had repented of his sin. "'I am sorry, very sorry,' he said, pulling her face down to his; 'I prayed hard to God to forgive me, and make me good. Will you forgive me, mamma?' "'Yes, my darling. I will gladly forgive you, and I hope this may be a lesson to you as long as you live.'" Nelly looked very sober while her aunt was telling this story. She began to see how naughty she had been, and to hope that God would forgive her too. As soon as his mother had finished, Frankie said, "O, I'm so glad Moses became a good boy! Did he ever steal or tell lies again?" "No, my dear, I am happy to tell you that from the hour when he so heartily repented of his great sin, and so earnestly asked God to forgive him, he became an honest and truthful boy. But I have talked a long time, and can only add one incident, which occurred nearly six months later than the birthday party. "Moses had a cousin whose name was Eugene. He lived in a city many hundred miles distant. He was also an only child; but unlike Moses, he had been foolishly indulged in every desire of his heart, until he had become exceedingly selfish, wilful, and passionate. Eugene accompanied his parents on a visit to his aunt, and though younger than his cousin, began at once to tyrannize over him. "One day a loud cry was heard from the play room, and presently Eugene came running to his mother, complaining that Moses had broken his little wagon, and then had struck him with his Indian bow. "'How is this, Moses?' asked his mother; 'did you strike your cousin?' "The little fellow fixed his large, earnest eyes full upon hers, as he exclaimed, 'O, no, indeed, mother! Eugene knows I did not touch him. We were playing together, when the wagon wheel hit the trunk and broke it. Then he got angry, and pinched me on my arm. "'I don't mind that,' he added, as his aunt pointed to a large red spot near his elbow; 'but I'm dreadfully sorry he didn't tell the truth.'" * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 108, word "to" added to text (next to her own) 
50651	----	Gutenberg. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) [Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed is noted at the end of this ebook.] THE YOUNG VIGILANTES [Illustration: Walter and Bill tramping across the Isthmus.--_Page 132._] THE YOUNG VIGILANTES A STORY OF CALIFORNIA LIFE IN THE FIFTIES BY SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE Author of "Watch Fires of '76," "On Plymouth Rock," "Decisive Events in American History Series," etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY L. J. BRIDGMAN_ [Illustration] BOSTON LEE AND SHEPARD 1904 Published August, 1904 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY LEE AND SHEPARD _All rights reserved_ THE YOUNG VIGILANTES Norwood Press BERWICK & SMITH CO. Norwood, Mass. U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A NARROW ESCAPE 9 II. WALTER TELLS HIS STORY 18 III. AND CHARLEY TELLS HIS 30 IV. WHAT HAPPENED ON BOARD THE "ARGONAUT" 37 V. ONE WAY OF GOING TO CALIFORNIA 45 VI. A BLACK SHEEP IN THE FOLD 66 VII. THE FLIGHT 82 VIII. OUTWARD BOUND 100 IX. ACROSS NICARAGUA 117 X. THE LUCK OF YANKEE JIM 141 XI. SEEING THE SIGHTS IN 'FRISCO 154 XII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 165 XIII. IN WHICH A MAN BREAKS INTO HIS OWN STORE, AND STEALS HIS OWN SAFE 182 XIV. CHARLEY AND WALTER GO A-GUNNING 203 XV. THE YOUNG VIGILANTES 215 XVI. RAMON FINDS HIS MATCH 231 XVII. A SHARP RISE IN LUMBER 241 XVIII. A CORNER IN LUMBER 250 XIX. HEARTS OF GOLD 262 XX. BRIGHT, SEABURY & COMPANY 274 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Walter and Bill tramping across the Isthmus (_Frontispiece._) 132 Walter rescuing Dora Bright 42 Waiting for the opening of the mail 160 The hunters hunted by a grizzly bear 208 Ramon made to give up his stealings 236 Arrival of the _Southern Cross_ at Sacramento 254 THE YOUNG VIGILANTES I A NARROW ESCAPE From the _Morning Post-Horn_: "As passenger train Number Four was rounding a curve at full speed, ten miles out of this city, on the morning of October 4, and at a point where a deep cut shut out the view ahead, the engineer saw some one, man or boy, he could not well make out which, running down the track toward the train, frantically swinging both arms and waving his cap in the air as if to attract attention. The engine-man instantly shut off steam, whistled for brakes, and quickly brought the train to a standstill. "The engine-man put his head out of the cab window. The conductor jumped off, followed by fifty frightened passengers, all talking and gesticulating at once; while the person who had just given the warning signal slackened his breakneck pace, somewhat, upon seeing that he had succeeded in stopping the train. "'What's the matter?' shouted the impatient engine-man when this person had come within hearing. "'What do you stop us for?' called out the little conductor sharply, in his turn, at the same time anxiously consulting the face of the watch he held in his hand. "To both questions the young man seemed too much out of breath to reply, offhand; but turning and pointing in the direction whence he came, he shook his head warningly, threw himself down on the roadbed, as limp as a rag, and began fanning himself with his cap. After getting his breath a little, he made out to say, 'Bridge afire--quarter mile back. Tried put it out--couldn't. Heard train coming--afraid be too late. Couldn't run another step.' "'Get aboard,' said the conductor to him. 'Jake,' to the grinning engine-man, 'we'll run down and take a look at it. Get out your flag!' to a brakeman. 'Like as not Thirteen'll be along before we can make Brenton switch. All aboard!' The delayed train then moved on. "As it neared the burning bridge it was clear to every one that the young man's warning had prevented a disastrous wreck, probably much loss of life, because the bridge could not be seen until the train was close upon it. All hands immediately set to work with pails extinguishing the flames, which was finally done after a hard fight. To risk a heavy train upon the half-burned stringers was, however, out of the question. Leaving a man to see that the fire did not break out again, the train was run back to the next station, there to await further orders. We were unable to learn the name of the young man to whose presence of mind the passengers on Number Four owed their escape from a serious, perhaps fatal disaster. But we are informed that a collection was taken up for him on the train, which he, however, refused to accept, stoutly insisting that he had only done what it was his duty to do under the circumstances." Thus far, the _Morning Post-Horn_. We now take up the narrative where the enterprising journal left off. While the delayed train was being held for orders, the young man whose ready wit had averted a calamity stood on the platform with his hands in his trousers pockets, apparently an unconcerned spectator of what was going on around him. The little pug-nosed conductor stepped up to him. "I say, young feller, what may I call your name?" "Seabury." "Zebra, Zebra," repeated the conductor, in a puzzled tone, "then I s'pose your ancestors came over in the Ark?" "I didn't say Zebra; I said Seabury plain enough," snapped back the young man, getting red in the face at seeing the broad grins on the faces around him. "Don't fire up so. Got any first name?" "Walter." "Walter Seabury," the conductor repeated slowly, while scratching it down. "Got to report this job, you know. Say, where you goin'?" "I'm walkin' to Boston." "Shanks' mare, hey. No, you ain't. Get aboard and save your muscle. You own this train to-day, and everything in it. Lively now." The conductor then waved his hand, and the train started on. At the bridge a transfer was effected to a second train, and this one again was soon reeling off the miles toward Boston, as if to make up for lost time. Being left to himself, young Seabury, whom we may as well hereafter call by his Christian name of Walter, could think of nothing else than his wonderful luck. Instead of having a long, weary tramp before him, here he was, riding in a railroad train, and without its costing him a cent. This was a saving of both time and money. Pretty soon the friendly conductor came down the aisle to where Walter sat, looking out of the car window. After giving him a sharp look, the conductor made up his mind that here was no vagabond tramp. "It's none of my business, but all the same I'd like to know what you're walkin' to Boston for, young feller?" he asked. "Going to look for work." "What's your job?" "I'm a rigger." And his hands, tarry and cracked, bore out his story perfectly. "Ever in Boston?" "Never." "Know anybody there?" "Nobody." "Got any of this--you know?" slapping his pocket. At this question Walter flushed up. He drew himself up stiffly, smiled a pitying smile, and said nothing. His manner conveyed the idea that he really didn't know exactly how much he was worth. "That's first-rate," the conductor went on. "Now, look here. You'll get lost in Boston. I'll tell you what. When we get in, I'll show you how to go to get down among the riggers' lofts. You're a rigger, you say?" Walter nodded. "They're all in a bunch, down at the North End, riggers, sailmakers, pump- and block-makers, and all the rest. Full of work, too, I guess, all on account of this Californy business. Everybody's goin' crazy over it. You will be, too, in a week." By this time, the train was rumbling over the long waste of salt-marsh stretching out between the mainland and the dome-capped city, and in five minutes more it drew up with a jerk in the station, with the locomotive puffing out steam like a tired racehorse after a hard push at the finish. The conductor was as good as his word. He told Walter to go straight up Tremont Street until he came to Hanover, then straight down Hanover to the water, and then to follow his nose. "Oh, you can't miss it," was the cheerful, parting assurance. "Smell it a mile." But going straight up this street, and straight down that, was a direction not so easy to follow, as Walter soon found. The crowds bewildered him, and in trying to get out of everybody's way, he got in everybody's way, and was jostled, shoved about, and stared at, as he slowly made his way through the throng, until his roving eyes caught sight of the tall masts and fluttering pennants, where the long street suddenly came to an end. Walter put down his bundle, took off his cap, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Whichever way he looked, the wharves were crowded with ships, the ships with workmen, and the street with loaded trucks and wagons. Casting an eye upward he could see riggers at work among the maze of ropes and spars, like so many spiders weaving their webs. Here, at least, he could feel at home. II WALTER TELLS HIS STORY Walter's first want was to find a boarding house suited to his means. Turning into a side street, walled in by a row of two-story brick houses, all as like as peas in a pod, he found that the difficulty would be to pick and choose, as all showed the same little tin sign announcing "Board and Lodging, by the Day or Week," tacked upon the door. After walking irresolutely up and down the street two or three times, he finally mustered up courage to give a timid pull at the bell of one of them. The door opened so suddenly that Walter fell back a step. He began stammering out something, but before he could finish, the untidy-looking girl sang out at the top of her voice: "Miss Hashall, Miss Hashall, there's somebody wants to see you!" She then bolted off through the back door singing "I want to be an angel," in a voice that set Walter's teeth on an edge. To make a long story short, Walter soon struck a bargain with the landlady,--a fat, pudgy person in a greasy black poplin, wearing a false front, false teeth, and false stones in her breastpin. True, Walter silently resented her demanding a week's board in advance, it seemed so like a reflection upon his honesty, but was easily mollified by the motherly interest she seemed to take in him--or his cash. Bright and early the next morning Walter sallied out in search of work. His landlady had told him to apply at the first loft he came to. "Why, you can't make no mistake," the woman declared. "They're all drove to death, and hands is scurse as hens' teeth, all on account of this Kalerforny fever what carries so many of 'em off. Don't I wish I was a man! I'd jest like to dig gold enough to buy me a house on Beacon Street and ride in my kerridge. You just go and spunk right up to 'em, like I do. That's the way to get along in this world, my son." Walter's landlady had told him truly. The demand for vessels for the California trade was so urgent that even worm-eaten old whaleships were being overhauled and refitted with all haste, and as Walter walked along he noticed that about every craft he saw showed the same sign in her rigging, "For San Francisco with dispatch." "Well, I'll be hanged if there ain't the old _Argonaut_ that father was mate of!" Walter exclaimed quite aloud, clearly taken by surprise at seeing an old acquaintance quite unexpectedly in a strange place, and quickly recognizing her, in spite of a new coat of paint alow and aloft. The riggers were busy setting up the standing rigging, reeving new halliards, and giving the old barky a general overhauling. Walter climbed on board and began a critical survey of the ship's rigging, high and low. "What yer lookin' at, greeny?" one of the riggers asked him, at seeing Walter's eyes fixed on some object aloft. "I'm looking at that Irish pennant[1] on that stay up there," was the quick reply. This caused a broad smile to spread over the faces of the workmen. [1] A strand of marline carelessly left flying by a rigger. "You a rigger?" "I've helped rig this ship." "Want a job?" "Yes." "Well, here," tossing Walter a marline-spike, "let's see you make this splice." It was neatly and quickly done. "I'll give you ten dollars a week." Walter held out for twelve, and after some demurring on the part of the boss, a bargain was struck. Walter's overalls were rolled up in a paper, under his arm, so that he was immediately ready to begin work. Being, as it were, in the midst of the stream of visitors to the ship, hearing no end of talk about the wonderful fortunes to be made in the Land of Gold, Walter did not wholly escape the prevailing frenzy, for such it was. But knowing that he had not the means of paying for his passage, Walter resolutely kept at work, and let the troubled stream pass by. There was still another obstacle. He would have to leave behind him a widowed aunt, whose means of support were strictly limited to her actual wants. He had at once written to her of his good fortune in obtaining work, though the receipt of that same letter had proved a great shock to the "poor lone creetur," as she described herself, because she had freely given out among her neighbors that a boy who would run away from such a good home as Walter had, would surely come to no good end. Walter had struck up a rather sudden friendship with a young fellow workman of about his own age, named Charley Wormwood. On account of his name he was nicknamed "Bitters." Charley was a happy-go-lucky sort of chap, valuing the world chiefly for the amusement it afforded, and finding that amusement in about everything and everybody. Though mercilessly chaffed by the older hands, Charley took it all so good-naturedly that he made himself a general favorite. The two young men soon arranged to room together, and had come to be sworn friends. One pleasant evening, as the two sat in their room, with chairs tilted back against the wall, the following conversation was begun by Charley: "I say, Walt, we've been together here two months now, to a dot, and never a word have you said about your folks. Mind now, I don't want to pry into your secrets, but I'd like to know who you are, if it's all the same to you. Have you killed a man, or broke a bank, or set a fire, or what? Folks think it funny, when I have to tell them I don't know anything about you, except by guess, and you know that's a mighty poor course to steer by. Pooh! you're as close as an oyster!" Walter colored to his temples. For a short space he sat eyeing Charley without speaking. Then he spoke up with an evident effort at self-control, as if the question, so suddenly put, had awakened painful memories. "There's no mystery about it," he said. "You want to hear the story? So be it, then. I'll tell mine if you'll tell yours. "I b'long to an old whaling port down on the Cape. I was left an orphan when I was a little shaver, knee-high to a toadstool. Uncle Dick, he took me home. Aunt Marthy didn't like it, I guess. All she said was, 'Massy me! another mouth to feed?' 'Pooh, pooh, Marthy,' uncle laughed, 'where there's enough for two, there's enough for three.' She shut up, but she never liked me one mite." "An orphan?" interjected Charley. "No father nor mother?" "I'll tell you about it. You see, my father went out mate on a whaling voyage in the Pacific, in this very same old _Argonaut_ we've been patchin' and pluggin' up. It may have been a year we got a letter telling he was dead. Boat he was in swamped, while fast to a whale--a big one. They picked up his hat. Sharks took him, I guess. Mother was poorly. She fell into a decline, they called it, and didn't live long. We had nothin' but father's wages. They was only a drop in the bucket. Then there was only me left." "That was the time your uncle took you home?" "Yes; Uncle Dick was a rigger by trade. He used to show me how to make all sorts of knots and splices evenings; and bimeby he got me a chance, when I was big enough, doin' odd jobs like, for a dollar a week, in the loft or on the ships. Aunt Marthy said a dollar a week didn't begin to pay for what I et. Guess she knew. Pretty soon, I got a raise to a dollar-half." "But what made you quit? Didn't you like the work?" "Liked it first-rate. Like it now. But I couldn't stand Aunt Marthy's sour looks and sharp tongue. Nothing suited her. She was either as cold as ice, or as hot as fire coals. When she wasn't scolding, she was groaning. Said she couldn't see what some folks was born into this world just to slave for other folks for." A frown passed over Walter's face at the recollection. "Nice woman that," observed the sententious Charley. "But how about the uncle?" he added. "Couldn't he make her hold her yawp?" "Oh, no better man ever stood. He was like a father to me--bless him!" (Walter's voice grew a little shaky here.) "But he showed the white feather to Aunt Marthy. Whenever she went into one of her tantrums, he would take his pipe and clear out, leaving me to bear the brunt of it. "A good while after mother died, father's sea-chest was brought home in the _Argonaut_. There was nothing in it but old clothes, this watch [showing it], and some torn and greasy sea-charts, with the courses father had sailed pricked out on 'em. Those charts made me sort o' hanker to see the world, which I then saw men traveled with the aid of a roll of paper, and a little knowledge, as certainly, and as safely, as we do the streets of Boston. You better believe I studied over those charts some! Anyhow, I know my geography." And Walter's blue eyes lighted up with a look of triumph. "Bully for you! Then that was what started you out on your travels, was it?" "No: I had often thought of slipping away some dark night, but couldn't make up my mind to it. It did seem so kind o' mean after all Uncle Dick had done for me. But one day (one bad day for me, Charley) a man came running up to the loft, all out of breath, to tell me that Uncle Dick had fallen down the ship's hatchway, and that they were now bringing him home on a stretcher. I tell you I felt sick and faint when I saw him lying there lifeless. He never spoke again. "Shortly after the funeral, upon going to the loft the foreman told me that work being slack they would have to lay off a lot of hands, me with the rest. Before I went to sleep that night I made up my mind to strike out for myself; for now that Uncle Dick was gone, I couldn't endure my life any longer. I set about packing up my duds without saying anything to my aunt, for I knew what a rumpus she would make over it, and if there's anything I hate it's a scene." "Me too," Charley vigorously assented. "Rather take a lickin'." "Well," Walter resumed, "I counted up my money first. There was just forty-nine dollars. Lucky number: it was the year '49 too. I put ten of it in an envelope directed to my aunt, and put it on the chimney-piece where she couldn't help seeing it when she came into my room. Then I took a piece of chalk and wrote on the table top: 'I'm going away to hunt for work. When I get some, I'll let you know. Please take care of my chest. Look on the mantelpiece. Good-bye. From Walter.' "Then, like a thief, I slipped out of the house by a back way, in my stocking feet, and never stopped running till I was 'way out of town. There I struck the railroad. I knew if I followed it it would take me to Boston. And it did. That's all." III AND CHARLEY TELLS HIS There was silence for a minute or two, each of the lads being busy with his own thoughts. Apparently they were not pleasant thoughts. What a tantalizing thing memory sometimes is! But it was not in the nature of things for either to remain long speechless. Walter first broke silence by reminding Charley of his promise. "Come now, you've wormed all that out of me about my folks, pay your debts. I should like to know what made you leave home. Did you run away, too?" At this question, Charley's mouth puckered up queerly, and then quickly broke out into a broad grin, while his eyes almost shut tight at the recollection Walter's question had summoned up. "It was all along of 'Rough on Rats,'" he managed to say at last. "'Rough on Rats?'" "Yes, 'Rough on Rats.' Rat poison. You just wait, and hear me through. "I've got a father somewhere, I b'leeve. Boys gen'ally have, I s'pose, though whether mine's dead or alive, not knowin', can't say. We were poor as Job's turkey, if you know how poor that was. I don't. Anyway, he put me out to work on a milk and chicken farm back here in the country, twenty miles or so, to a man by the name of Bennett, and then took himself off out West somewhere." "And you've never seen him since?" "No; I ha'n't never missed him, or the lickin's he give me. Well, my boss he raised lots of young chickens for market. We was awfully pestered with rats, big, fat, sassy ones, getting into the coops nights, and killing off the little chicks as soon's ever they was hatched out. You see, they was tender. Besides eating the chicks they et up most of the grain we throw'd into the hens. The boss he tried everything to drive those rats away. He tried cats an' he tried traps. 'Twan't no use. The cats wouldn't tech the rats nor the rats go near the traps. You can't fool an old rat much, anyhow," he added with a knowing shake of his head. "Well, the boss was a-countin' the chicks one mornin', while ladling out the dough to 'em. 'Confound those rats,' he sputtered out; 'there's eight more chicks gone sence I fed last night. I'd gin something to red the place on 'em, I would.' "'Uncle,' says I (he let me call him uncle, seein' he'd kind of adopted me like)--'uncle,' says I, 'why don't you try Rough on Rats? They say that'll fetch 'em every time.' "'What's that? Never heer'd on't. How do you know? Who says so?' he axed all in one breath." "'Anyhow, I seen a big poster down at the Four Corners that says so,' says I. 'The boys was a-talkin' about what it had done up to Skillings' place. Skillings allowed he'd red his place of rats with it. Hadn't seen hide nor hair of one sence he fust tried it. Everybody says it's a big thing.' "The old man said nothin' more just then. He didn't let on that my advice was worth a cent; but I noticed that he went off and bought some Rough on Rats that same afternoon, and when the old hens had gone to roost and the mother hens had gathered their broods under 'em for the night, uncle he slyly stirred up a big dose of the p'isen stuff into a pan of meal, which he set down inside the henhouse. "Uncle's idea was to get up early in the mornin', so's to count up the dead rats, I s'pose. "But he did not get up early enough. When he went out into the henhouse to investigate, he found fifteen or twenty of his best hens lying dead around the floor after eatin' of the p'isen'd meal. "When I come outdoors he was stoopin' down, with his back to me pickin' 'em up." Walter laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks, sobered down, and then broke out again. Charley found the laugh infectious and joined in it, though more moderately. "Go ahead. Let's have the rest, do," Walter entreated. "What next?" "I asked Uncle Bennett what he was goin' to do with all those dead hens. He flung one at my head. Oh! but he was mad. 'Just stop where you be, my little joker,' says he, startin' off for the stable; 'I've got somethin' that's Rough on Brats, an' you shall have a taste on't right off. Don't you stir a step,' shakin' his fist at me, 'or I'll give you the worst dressin' down you ever had in all your life.' "While he was gone for a horsewhip, I lit out for the Corners. You couldn't have seen me for dust. "I darsen't go back to the house and I had only a silver ninepence in my pocket and a few coppers, but I managed to beg my way to Boston. Oh! Walt, it was a long time between meals, I can tell you. I slept one night in a barn, on the haymow. Nobody saw me slip in after dark. I took off my neckerchief and laid it down within reach, for it was hot weather on that haymow, and I was 'most choked with the dust I swallowed. I overslept. In the morning I heard a noise down where the hosses were tied up. Some one was rakin' down hay for 'em. I reached for my neckerchief, thinkin' how I should get away without being seen, when a boy's voice gave a shout, 'Towser! Towser!' and then I knew it was all up, for that boy had raked down my neckerchief with the hay, and he knew there was a tramp somewhere about. "The long and short of it is, that the dog chased me till I was ready to drop or until another and a bigger one came out of a yard and tackled him. Then it was dog eat dog. "When I got to Boston it was night. I had no money. I didn't know where to go. Tired's no name for it. I was dead-beat. So I threw myself down on a doorstep and was asleep in a minnit. There was an alarm of fire. An ingine came jolting along. I forgot all about being tired and took holt of the rope, and ran, and hollered, with the rest. The fire was all out when we got there, so I went back to the ingine house, and the steward let me sleep in the cellar a couple of hours and wash up in the mornin'. But I'm ahead of my story. They had hot coffee and crackers and cheese when they got back from the fire. No cheese ever tasted like that before. Give me a fireman for a friend at need. I hung round that ingine house till I picked up a job. The company was all calkers, gravers, riggers, and the like. Tough lot! How they could wallop that old tub over the cobblestones, to be sure!" And here Charley fell into a fit of musing from which Walter did not attempt to rouse him. In their past experiences the two boys had found a common bond. IV WHAT HAPPENED ON BOARD THE "ARGONAUT" Seeing that Walter also had fallen into a brown study, Charley quickly changed the subject. "See here, Walt!" he exclaimed, "the _Argonaut's_ going to sail for Californy first fair wind. To-morrow's Sunday, and Father Taylor's goin' to preach aboard of her. He's immense! Let's go and hear him. What do you say?" Walter jumped at the proposal. "I want to hear Father Taylor ever so much, and I shouldn't mind taking a look at the passengers, too." Sunday came. Walter put on his best suit, and the two friends strolled down to the wharf where the _Argonaut_ lay moored with topsails loosened, and flags and streamers fluttering gayly aloft. The ship was thronged not only with those about to sail for the Land of Gold, but also with the friends who had come to bid them good-bye; besides many attracted by mere curiosity, or, perhaps, by the fame of Father Taylor's preaching. There was a perfect Babel of voices. As Walter was passing one group he overheard the remark, "She'll never get round the Horn. Too deep. Too many passengers by half. Look at that bow! Have to walk round her to tell stem from starn." "Oh, she'll get there fast enough," his companion replied. "She knows the way. Besides, you can't sink her. She's got lumber enough in her hold to keep her afloat if she should get waterlogged." "That ain't the whole story by a long shot," a third speaker broke in. "Don't you remember the crack ship that spoke an old whaler at sea, both bound out for California? The passengers on the crack ship called out to the passengers on the old whaler to know if they wanted to be reported. When the crack ship got into San Francisco, lo and behold! there lay the 'old tub' quietly at anchor. Been in a week." Strange sight, indeed, it was to see men who, but the day before, were clerks in sober tweeds, farmers in homespun, or mechanics in greasy overalls, now so dressed up as to look far more like brigands than peaceful citizens; for it would seem that, to their notion, they could be no true Californians unless they started off armed to the teeth. So the poor stay-at-homes were given to understand how wanting they were in the bold spirit of adventure by a lavish display of pistols and bowie-knives, rifles and carbines. Poor creatures! they little knew how soon they were to meet an enemy not to be overcome with powder and lead. Between decks, if the truth must be told, many of the passengers were engaged in sparring or wrestling bouts, playing cards, or shuffleboard, or hop-scotch, as regardless of the day as if going to California meant a cutting loose from all the restraints of civilized life. The two friends made haste to get on deck. As they mingled with the crowd again, Walter exchanged quick glances with a middle-aged gentleman on whose arm a remarkably pretty young lady was leaning. Walter was saying to himself, "I wonder where I have seen that man before," when the full and sonorous voice of Father Taylor, the seaman's friend, hushed the confused murmur of voices around him into a reverential silence. With none of the arts and graces of the pulpit orator, that short, thick-set, hard-featured man spoke like one inspired for a full hour, and during that hour nobody stirred from the spot where he had taken his stand. Father Taylor's every word had struck home. The last hymn had been sung, the last prayer said. At its ending the crowd slowly began filing down the one long, narrow plank reaching from the ship's gangway to the wharf. Nobody seemed to have noticed that the rising tide had lifted this plank to an incline that would make the descent trying to weak nerves, especially as there were five or six feet of clear water to be passed over between ship and shore. It was just as one young lady was in the act of stepping upon this plank that two young scapegraces ahead of her ran down it with such violence as to make it rebound like a springboard, causing the young lady first to lose her balance, then to make a false step, and then to fall screaming into the water, twenty feet below. Everybody ran to that side, and everybody began shouting at once: "Man overboard!" "A boat: get a boat!" "Throw over a rope!--a plank!" "She's going down!" "Help! help!" but nobody seemed to have their wits about them. With the hundreds looking on, it really seemed as if the girl might drown before help could reach her. Both Charley and Walter had witnessed the accident: coats and hats were off in a jiffy. Snatching up a coil of rope, it was the work of a moment for Walter to make a running noose, slip that under his arms, sign to Charley to take a turn round a bitt, then to swing himself over into the chains and be lowered down into the water on the run by the quick-witted Charley. Meantime, the young lady's father was almost beside himself. In one breath he called to his daughter, by the name of Dora, to catch at a rope that was too short to reach her; in the next he was offering fifty, a hundred dollars to Walter if he saved her. [Illustration: Walter rescuing Dora Bright.--_Page 42._] Giving himself a vigorous shove with his foot, in two or three strokes Walter was at the girl's side and with his arms around her. It was high time, too, as her clothes, which had buoyed her up so far, were now water-soaked and dragging her down. Only her head was to be seen above water. At Walter's cheery "Haul away!" fifty nervous arms dragged them dripping up the ship's side. The young lady fell, sobbing hysterically, into her father's arms, and was forthwith hurried off into the cabin, while Walter, after picking up his coat and hat, slipped off through the crowd, gained the wharf unnoticed, and with the faithful, but astonished, Charley at his heels, made a bee-line for his lodgings. Moreover, Walter exacted a solemn promise from Charley not to lisp one word of what had happened, on pain of a good drubbing. "My best suit, too!" he ruefully exclaimed, while divesting himself of his wet clothes. "No matter: let him keep his old fifty dollars. Pretty girl, though. I'm paid ten times over. A coil of rope's a handy thing sometimes. So's a rigger--eh, Charley?" Charley merely gave a dissatisfied grunt. He was very far from understanding such refined sentiments. Besides, half the money, he reflected, would have been his, or ought to have been, which was much the same thing to his way of thinking. And when he thought of the many things he could have done with his share, the loss of it made him feel very miserable, and more than half angry with Walter. "Fifty dollars don't grow on every bush," he muttered. "Then, what lions we'd 'a' been in the papers!" he lamented. "You look here. Can't you do anything without being paid for it? I'd taken thanks from the old duffer, but not money. Can't you understand? Now you keep still about this, I tell you." Though still grumbling, Charley concluded to hold his tongue, knowing that Walter would be as good as his word; but he inwardly promised himself to keep his eyes open, and if ever he should see a chance to let the cat out of the bag without Walter's knowing it, well, the mischief was in it if he, Charley, didn't improve it, that was all. V ONE WAY OF GOING TO CALIFORNIA The _Argonaut_ affair got into the newspapers, where it was correctly reported, in the main, except that the rescuer was supposed to be one of the _Argonaut's_ passengers, and as she was now many miles at sea, Mr. Bright, the father of Dora, as a last resort, put an advertisement in the daily papers asking the unknown to furnish his address without delay to his grateful debtors. But as this failed to elicit a reply, there was nothing more to be done. Walter, however, had seen the advertisement, and he had found out from it that Mr. Bright was one of the _Argonaut's_ principal owners. He therefore felt quite safe from discovery when he found himself reported as having sailed in that vessel. Time moved along quietly enough with Walter until the Fourth of July was near at hand, when it began to be noised about that the brand-new clipper ship then receiving her finishing touches in a neighboring yard would be launched at high water on that eventful day. What was unusual, the nameless ship was to be launched fully rigged, so that the riggers' gang was to take a hand in getting her off the ways. Everybody was consequently on the tiptoe of expectation. The eventful morning came at last. It being a holiday, thousands had repaired to the spot, attracted by the novelty of seeing a ship launched fully rigged. At a given signal, a hundred sledges, wielded by as many brawny arms, began a furious hammering away at the blocks, which held the gallant ship bound and helpless to the land. The men worked like tigers, as if each and every one had a personal interest in the success of the launch. At last the clatter of busy hammers ceased, the grimy workmen crept out, in twos and threes, from underneath the huge black hull, and a hush fell upon all that vast throng, so deep and breathless that the streamers at the mast-head could be heard snapping like so many whiplashes in the light breeze aloft. "All clear for'ard?" sang out the master workman. "All clear, sir," came back the quick response. "All clear aft?" the voice repeated. "Aye, aye, all clear." Still the towering mass did not budge. It really seemed as if she was a living creature hesitating on the brink of her own fate, whether to make the plunge or not. There was an anxious moment. A hush fell upon all that vast throng. Then, as the stately ship was seen to move majestically off, first slowly, and then with a rush and a leap, one deafening shout went up from a thousand throats: "There she goes! there she goes! hurrah! hurrah!" Every one declared it the prettiest launch ever seen. Just as the nameless vessel glided off the ways a young lady, who stood upon a tall scaffold at the bow, quickly dashed a bottle of wine against the stem, pronouncing as she did so the name that the good ship was to bear henceforth, so proudly, on the seas--the _Flying Arrow_. Three rousing cheers greeted the act, and the name. The crowd then began to disperse. As Walter was standing quite near the platform erected for this ceremony, his face all aglow with the vigorous use he had made of the sledge he still held in his hand, the young lady who had just christened the _Flying Arrow_ came down the stairs. In doing so, she looked Master Walter squarely in the face. Lo and behold! it was the girl of the _Argonaut_. The recognition was instant and mutual. Walter turned all colors at once. Giving one glance at his greasy duck trousers and checked shirt, his first impulse was to sneak off without a word; but before he could do so he was confronted by Mr. Bright himself. Walter was thus caught, as it were, between two fires. Oh, brave youth of the stalwart arm and manly brow, thus to show the white feather to that weak and timid little maiden! Noticing the young man's embarrassment, Mr. Bright drew him aside, out of earshot of those who still lingered about. "So, so, my young friend," he began with a quizzical look at Walter, "we've had some trouble finding you. Pray what were your reasons for avoiding us? Neither of us [turning toward his daughter] is a very dangerous person, as you may see for yourself." "Now, don't, papa," pleaded Dora. Then, after giving a sidelong and reproachful look at Walter, she added, "Why, he wouldn't even let us thank him!" Walter tried to stammer out something about not deserving thanks. The words seemed to stick in his throat; but he did manage to say: "Fifty stood ready to do what I did. I only got a little wetting, sir." "Just so. But they didn't, all the same. Come, we are not ungrateful. Can I depend on you to call at my office, 76 State Street, to-morrow morning about ten?" "You can, sir," bowing respectfully. "Very good. I shall expect you. Come, Dora, we must be going." Father and daughter then left the yard, but not until Dora had given Walter another reproachful look, out of the corner of her eye. "Poor, proud, and sheepish," was the merchant's only comment upon this interview, as they walked homeward. Mentally, he was asking himself where he had seen that face before. Dora said nothing. Her stolen glances had told her, however, that Walter was good-looking; and that was much in his favor. To be sure, he was plainly a common workman, and he had appeared very stiff and awkward when her father spoke to him. Still she felt that there was nothing low or vulgar about him. Punctual to the minute, Walter entered the merchant's counting room, though, to say truth, he found himself ill at ease in the presence of half a dozen spruce-looking clerks, who first shot sly glances at him, then at each other, as he carefully shut the door behind him. Walter, however, bore their scrutiny without flinching. He was only afraid of girls, from sixteen to eighteen years old. Mr. Bright immediately rose from his desk, and beckoned Walter to follow him out into the warehouse. "You are prompt. That's well," said he approvingly. "Now then, to business. We want an outdoor clerk on our wharf. You have no objection, I take it, to entering our employment?" Walter shook his head. "Oh, no, sir." "Very good, then. I'll tell you more of your duties presently. I hear a good account of you. The salary will be six hundred the first year, and a new suit of clothes, in return for the one you spoiled. Here's a tailor's address [handing Walter a card with the order written upon it]. Go and get measured when you like, and mind you get a good fit." Walter took a moment to think, but couldn't think at all. All he could say was: "If you think, sir, I can fill the place, I'll try my best to suit you." "That's right. Try never was beat. You may begin to-morrow." Walter went off feeling more happy than he remembered ever to have felt before. In truth, he could hardy realize his good fortune. This change in Walter's life brought with it other changes. For one thing it broke off his intimacy with Charley, although Walter continued to receive occasional visits from his old chum. He also began attending an evening school, kept by a retired schoolmaster, in order to improve his knowledge of writing, spelling, and arithmetic, or rather to repair the neglect of years; for he now began to feel his deficiencies keenly with increasing responsibilities. He was, however, an apt scholar, and was soon making good progress. The work on the wharf was far more to his liking than the confinement of the warehouse could have been; and Walter was every day storing up information which some time, he believed, would be of great use to him. Time wore on, one day's round being much like another's. But once Walter was given such a fright that he did not get over it for weeks. He was sometimes sent to the bank to make a deposit or cash a check. On this particular occasion he had drawn out quite a large sum, in small bills, to be used in paying off the help. Not knowing what else to do with it, Walter thrust the roll of bills into his trousers pocket. It was raining gently out of doors, and the sidewalks were thickly spread with a coating of greasy mud. There was another call or two to be made before Walter returned to the store. At the head of the street Walter stopped to think which call he should make first. Mechanically he thrust his hand in his pocket, then turned as pale as a sheet, and a mist passed before his eyes. The roll of bills was not there. A hole in the pocket told the whole story. The roll had slipped out somewhere. It was gone, and through his own carelessness. After a moment's indecision Walter started back to the bank, carefully looking for the lost roll at every step of the way. The street was full of people, for this was the busiest hour of the day. In vain he looked, and looked, at every one he met. No one had a roll of bills for which he was trying to find an owner. Almost beside himself, he rushed into the bank. Yes, the paying teller remembered him, but was quite sure the lost roll had not been picked up there, or he would have known it. So Walter's last and faintest hope now vanished. Go back to the office with his strange story, he dared not. The bank teller advised his reporting his loss to the police, and advertising it in the evening editions. Slowly and sadly Walter retraced his steps towards the spot where he had first missed his employer's money, inwardly scolding and accusing himself by turns. Vexed beyond measure, calling himself all the fools he could think of, Walter angrily stamped his foot on the sidewalk. Presto! out tumbled the missing roll of bills from the bottom of his trousers-leg when he brought his foot down with such force. It had been caught and held there by the stiffening material then fashionable. Walter went home that night thanking his lucky stars that he had come out of a bad scrape so easily. He was thinking over the matter, when Charley burst into the room. "I say, Walt, old fel, don't you want to buy a piece of me?" he blurted out, tossing his cap on the table, and falling into a chair quite out of breath. Walter simply stared, and for a minute the two friends stared at each other without speaking. Walter at length demanded: "Are you crazy, Charles Wormwood? What in the name of common sense do you mean?" "Oh, I'm not fooling. You needn't be scared. Haven't you ever heard of folks buying pieces of ships? Say?" "S'pose I have; what's that got to do with men?" "I'll tell you. Look here. When a feller wants to go to Californy awful bad, like me, and hasn't got the chink, like me, he gets some other fellers who can't go, like you, to chip in to pay his passage for him." "Pooh! That's all plain sailing. When he earns the money he pays it back," Walter rejoined. "No, you're all out. Just you hold your hosses. It's like this. The chap who gets the send-off binds himself, good and strong, mind you, to divide what he makes out there among his owners, 'cordin' to what they put into him--same's owning pieces of a ship, ain't it? See? How big a piece'll you take?" finished Charley, cracking his knuckles in his impatience. Walter leaned back in his chair, and burst out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Charley grew red in the face. "Look here, Walt, you needn't have any if you don't want it." He took up his cap to go. Walter stopped him. "There, you needn't get your back up, old chap. It's the funniest thing I ever heard of. Why, it beats all!" "It's done every day," Charley broke in. "You won't lose anything by me, Walt," he added, anxiously scanning Walter's face. "See if you do." Walter had saved a little money. He therefore agreed to become a shareholder in Charles Wormwood, Esquire, to the tune of fifty dollars, said Wormwood duly agreeing and covenanting, on his part, to pay over dividends as fast as earned. So the ingenious Charley sailed with as good a kit as could be picked up in Boston, not omitting a beautiful Colt's revolver (Walter's gift), on which was engraved, "Use me; don't abuse me." Charles was to work his passage out in the new clipper, which arrangement would land him in San Francisco with his capital unimpaired. "God bless you, Charley, my boy," stammered Walter, as the two friends wrung each other's hands. He could not have spoken another word without breaking down, which would have been positive degradation in a boy's eyes. "I'll make your fortune, see if I don't," was Charley's cheerful farewell. "On the square I will," he brokenly added. The house of Bright, Wantage & Company had a confidential clerk for whom Walter felt a secret antipathy from the first day they met. We cannot explain these things; we only know that they exist. It may be a senseless prejudice; no matter, we cannot help it. This clerk's name was Ramon Ingersoll. His manner toward his fellow clerks was so top-lofty and so condescending that one and all thoroughly disliked him. Some slight claim Ramon was supposed to have upon the senior partner, Mr. Bright, kept the junior clerks somewhat in awe of him. But there was always friction in the counting-room when the clerks were left alone together. The truth is that Ramon's father had at one time acted as agent for the house at Matanzas, in Cuba. When he died, leaving nothing but debts and this one orphan child, for he had buried his wife some years before, Mr. Bright had taken the little Ramon home, sent him to school, paid all his expenses out of his own pocket and finally given him a place of trust in his counting-house. In a word, this orphaned, penniless boy owed everything to his benefactor. As has been already mentioned, without being able to give a reason for his belief, Walter had an instinctive feeling that Ramon would some day get him into trouble. Fortunately Walter's duties kept him mostly outside the warehouse, so that the two seldom met. One day Ramon, with more than ordinary cordiality, asked Walter to visit him at his room that same evening In order to meet, as he said, one or two particular friends of his. At the appointed time Walter went, without mistrust, to Ingersoll's lodgings. Upon entering the room he found there two very flashy-looking men, one of whom was short, fat, and smooth-shaven, with an oily good-natured leer lurking about the corners of his mouth; the other dark-browed, bearded, and scowling, with, as Walter thought, as desperately villainous a face as he had ever looked upon. "Ah, here you are, at last!" cried Ramon, as he let Walter in. "This is Mr. Goodman," here the fat man bowed, and smiled blandly; "and this, Mr. Lambkin." The dark man looked up, scowled, and nodded. "And now," Ramon went on, "as we have been waiting for you, what say you to a little game of whist, or high-low-jack, or euchre, just to pass away the time?" "I'm agreeable," said Mr. Goodman, "though, upon my word and honor, I hardly know one card from another. However, just to make up your party, I will take a hand." The knight of the gloomy brow silently drew his chair up to the table, which was, at least, significant of his intentions. Walter had no scruples about playing an innocent game of whist. So he sat down with the others. The game went on rather languidly until, all at once, the fat man broke out, without taking his eyes off his cards, "Bless me!--why, the strangest thing!--if I were a betting man, I declare I wouldn't mind risking a trifle on this hand." Ramon laughed good-naturedly, as he replied in an offhand sort of way: "Oh, we're all friends here. There's no objection to a little social game, I suppose, among friends." Here he stole an inquiring look at Walter. "Besides," he continued, while carelessly glancing at his own hand, "I've a good mind to bet a trifle myself." Though still quite unsuspicious, Walter looked upon this interruption of the harmless game with misgiving. "All right," Goodman resumed, "here goes a dollar, just for the fun of the thing." The taciturn Lambkin said not a word, but taking out a well-stuffed wallet, quietly laid down two dollars on the one that Goodman had just put up. "I know I can beat them," Ramon whispered in Walter's ear. "By Jove, I'll risk it just this once!" "No, don't," Walter whispered back, pleadingly, "it's gambling." "Pshaw, man, it's only for sport," Ramon impatiently rejoined, immediately adding five dollars of his own money to the three before him. Walter laid down his cards, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms resolutely across his chest. "And the fat man said he hardly knew one card from another. How quick some folks do learn," he said to himself. "Isn't our young friend going to try his luck?" smiled, rather than asked, the unctuous Goodman. "No; I never play for money," was the quiet response. Once the ice was broken the game went on for higher, and still higher, stakes, until Walter, getting actually frightened at the recklessness with which Ramon played and lost, rose to go. After vainly urging him to remain, annoyed at his failure to make Walter play, enraged by his own losses, Ramon followed Walter outside the door, shut it behind them, and said in a menacing sort of way, "Not a word of this at the store." "Promise you won't play any more." "I won't do no such thing. Who set you up for my guardian? If you're mean enough to play the sneak, tell if you dare!" Walter felt his anger rising, but controlled himself. "Oh, very well, only remember that I warned you," he replied, turning away. "Don't preach, Master Innocence!" sneered Ramon. "Don't threaten, Master Hypocrite!" was the angry retort. Quick as a flash, Ramon sprang before Walter, and barred his way. All the tiger in his nature gleamed in his eyes. "One word of this to Mr. Bright, and I'll--I'll fix you!" he almost shrieked out. With that the two young men clinched, and for a few minutes nothing could be heard but their heavy breathing. This did not last. Walter soon showed himself much the stronger of the two, and Master Ramon, in spite of his struggles, found himself lying flat on his back, with his adversary's knee on his chest. Ramon instantly gave in. Choking down his wrath, he jerked out, "There, I promise. Let me up." "Oh, if you promise, so do I," said Walter, releasing his hold on Ramon. He then left the house without another word. He did not see Ramon shaking his fist behind his back, or hear him muttering threats of vengeance to himself, as he went back to his vicious companions. Walter did wish, however, that he had given Ramon just one more punch for keeps. So they parted. Satisfied that Walter would not break his promise, Ramon made all haste back to his companions, laughing in his sleeve to think how easily he had fooled that milksop Seabury. His companions were two as notorious sharpers as Boston contained. He continued to lose heavily, they luring him on by letting him win now and then, until they were satisfied he had nothing more to lose. At two in the morning their victim rose up from the table, hardly realizing, so far gone was he in liquor, that he was five hundred dollars in debt to Lambkin, or that he had signed a note for that sum with the name of his employers, Bright, Wantage & Company. He had found the road from gambling to forgery a natural and easy one. VI A BLACK SHEEP IN THE FOLD Leaving Ingersoll to follow his crooked ways, we must now introduce a character, with whom Walter had formed an acquaintance, destined to have no small influence upon his own future life. Bill Portlock was probably as good a specimen of an old, battered man-o'-war's man as could be scared up between Montauk and Quoddy Head. While a powder-monkey, on board the _President_ frigate, he had been taken prisoner and confined in Dartmoor Prison, from which he had made his escape, with some companions in captivity, by digging a hole under the foundation wall with an old iron spoon. Shipping on board a British merchantman, he had deserted at the first neutral port she touched at. He was now doing odd jobs about the wharves, as 'longshoreman; and as Walter had thrown many such in the old salt's way a kind of intimacy had grown up between them. Bill loved dearly to spin a yarn, and some of his adventures, told in his own vernacular, would have made the late Baron Munchausen turn green with envy. "Why," he would say, after spinning one of his wonderful yarns, "ef I sh'd tell ye my adventers, man and boy, you'd think 'twas Roberson Crushoe a-talkin' to ye. No need o' lyin'. Sober airnest beats all they make up." Bill's castle was a condemned caboose, left on the wharf by some ship that was now plowing some distant sea. Her name, the _Orpheus_, could still be read in faded paint on the caboose; so that Bill always claimed to belong to the _Orpheus_, or she to him, he couldn't exactly say which. When he was at work on the wharf, after securing his castle with a stout padlock, he announced the fact to an inquiring public by chalking up the legend, "Aboard the brig," or "Aboard the skoner," as the case might be. If called to take a passenger off to some vessel in his wherry, the notice would then read, "Back at eight bells." A sailor he was, and a sailor he said he would live and die. No one but a sailor, and an old sailor at that, could have squeezed himself into the narrow limits of the caboose, where it was not possible, even for a short man like Bill, to stand upright, though Bill himself considered it quite luxurious living. There was a rusty old cooking stove at one end, with two legs of its own, and two replaced by half-bricks; the other end being taken up by a bench, from which Bill deftly manipulated saucepan or skillet. "Why, Lor' bless ye!" said Bill to Walter one evening, "I seed ye fish that ar' young 'ooman out o' the dock that time. 'Bill,' sez I to myself, 'thar's a chap, now, as knows a backstay from a bullock's tail.'" "Pshaw!" Then after a moment's silence, while Bill was busy lighting his pipe, Walter absently asked, "Bill, were you ever in California?" "Kalerforny? Was I ever in Kalerforny? Didn't I go out to Sandy Ager, in thirty-eight, in a hide drogher? And d'ye know why they call it Sandy Ager? I does. Why, blow me if it ain't sandy 'nuff for old Cape Cod herself; and as for the ager, if you'll b'leeve me, our ship's crew shook so with it, that all hands had to turn to a-settin' up riggin' twict a month, it got so slack with the shakin' up like." "What an unhealthy place that must be," laughed Walter. Then suddenly changing the subject, he said: "Bill, you know the _Racehorse_ is a good two months overdue." Bill nodded. "I know our folks are getting uneasy about her. No wonder. Valuable cargo, and no insurance. What's your idea?" Bill gave a few whiffs at his pipe before replying. "I know that ar' _Racehorse_. She's a clipper, and has a good sailor aboard of her: but heavy sparred, an' not the kind to be carryin' sail on in the typhoon season, jest to make a quick passage." Bill shook his head. "Like as not she's dismasted, or sprung a leak, an' the Lord knows what all." The next day happened to be Saturday. As Walter was going into the warehouse he met Ramon coming out. Since the night at his lodgings, his manner toward Walter, outwardly at least, had undergone a marked change. If anything it was too cordial. "Hello! Seabury, that you?" he said, in his offhand way. "Lucky thing you happened in. It's steamer day, and I'm awfully hard pushed for time. Would you mind getting this check on the Suffolk cashed for me? No? That's a good fellow. Do as much for you some time. And, stay, on your way back call at the California steamship agency--you know?--all right. Well, see if there are any berths left in the _Georgia_. You won't forget the name? The _Georgia_. And, oh! be sure to get gold for that check. It's to pay duties with, you know," Ramon hurriedly explained in an undertone. "All right; I understand," said Walter, walking briskly away on his errand. He quite forgot all about the gold, though, until after he had left the bank; when, suddenly remembering it, he hurried back to get the coin, quite flurried and provoked at his own forgetfulness. The cashier, however, counted out the double-eagles, for the notes, without remark. Such little instances of forgetfulness were too common to excite his particular notice. On that same evening, finding time hanging rather heavily on his hands, Walter strolled uptown in the direction of Mr. Bright's house, which was in the fashionable Mt. Vernon Street. The truth is that the silly boy thought he might possibly catch a glimpse of a certain young lady, or her shadow, at least, in passing the brilliantly lighted residence. It was, he admitted to himself, a fool's errand, after walking slowly backwards and forwards two or three times, with his eyes fastened upon the lighted windows; and with a feeling of disappointment he turned away from the spot, heartily ashamed of himself, as well, for having given way to a sudden impulse. Glad he was that no one had noticed him. Walter's queer actions, however, did not escape the attention of a certain lynx-eyed policeman, who, snugly ensconced in the shadow of a doorway, had watched his every step. The young man had gone but a short distance on his homeward way, when, as he was about crossing the street, he came within an ace of being knocked down and run over by a passing hack, which turned the corner at such a break-neck pace that there was barely time to get out of the way. There was a gaslight on this corner. At Walter's warning shout to the driver, the person inside the hack quickly put his head out of the window, and as quickly drew it in again; but in that instant the light had shone full upon the face of Ramon Ingersoll. The driver lashed his horses into a run. Walter stood stupidly staring after the carriage. Then, without knowing why, he ran after it, confident that if he had recognized Ramon in that brief moment, Ramon must also have recognized him. The best he could do, however, was to keep the carriage in sight, but he soon saw that it was heading for the railway station at the South End. Out of breath, and nearly out of his head, too, Walter dashed through the arched doorway of the station, just in time to see a train going out at the other end in a cloud of smoke. In his eagerness, Walter ran headlong into the arms of the night-watchman, who, seeing the blank look on Walter's face, said, as he had said a hundred times before to belated travelers, "Too late, eh?" "Yes, yes, too late," repeated Walter, in a tone of deep vexation. While walking home he began to think he had been making a fool of himself again. After all, what business was it of his if Ramon had gone to New York? He might have gone on business of the firm. Of course that was it. And what right had he, Walter, to be chasing Ramon through the streets, anyhow? Still, he was sure that Ramon had recognized him, and just as sure that Ramon had wished to avoid being recognized, else why had he not spoken or even waved his hand? Walter gave it up, and went home to dream of chasing carriages all night long. Walter went to the wharf as usual the next morning. In the course of the forenoon a porter brought word that he was wanted at the counting-room. When Walter went into the office, Mr. Bright was walking the floor, back and forth, with hasty steps, while a very dark, clean-shaven, alert-looking man sat leaning back in a chair before the door. This person immediately arose, locked the office door, put the key in his pocket, and then quietly sat down again. Walter's heart was in his mouth. He grew red and pale by turns. Before he could collect his ideas Mr. Bright stopped in his walk, looked him squarely in the eye, and, in an altered voice, demanded sharply and sternly: "Ingersoll--where is he? No prevarication. I want the truth and nothing but the truth. You understand?" Walter tried hard to make a composed answer, but the words would not seem to come; and the merchant's cold gray eyes seemed searching him through and through. However, he managed to stammer out: "I don't know, sir, where he is--gone away, hasn't he?" "Don't know. Gone away," repeated the merchant. "Now answer me directly, without any ifs or buts; where, and when, did you see him last?" "Last night; at least, I thought it was Ramon." The dark man gave his head a little toss. "Well, go on? What then?" "It was about nine o'clock, in a close carriage, not far from the Common." That, by the way, was as near to Mr. Bright's house as Walter thought proper to locate the affair. Mr. Bright exchanged glances with the dark man, who merely nodded, but said never a word. Thinking his examination was over, Walter plucked up the courage to say of his own accord, "I ran after the carriage as tight as I could; but you see, sir, the driver was lashing his horses all the way, so I couldn't keep up with it; and when I got to the depot the train was just starting." "Pray, what took _you_ to that neighborhood at that hour?" the silent man demanded so suddenly that the sound of his voice startled Walter. If ever conscious guilt showed itself in a face, it now did in Walter's. He turned as red as a peony. Mr. Bright frowned, while the dark-skinned man smiled a knowing little smile. "Why, nothing in particular, sir. I was only taking a little stroll about town, before going home," Walter replied, a word at a time. "Yet your boarding place is at the other end of the city, is it not?" pursued Mr. Bright. "Yes, sir, it is." "Walter Seabury, up to this time I have always had a good opinion of you. This is no time for concealments. The house has been robbed of a large sum of money--so large that should it not be recovered within twenty-four hours we must fail. Do you hear--fail?" he repeated as if the word stuck in his throat and choked him. "Robbed; fail!" Walter faltered out, hardly believing his own ears. "Yes, robbed, and as I must believe by a scoundrel warmed at my own fireside. And you: why did you not report Ingersoll's flight before it was too late to stop him?" Though shocked beyond measure by this revelation, Walter made haste to reply: "Because, sir, I was not sure it was Ramon. It was just a look, and he was gone like a flash. Besides----" "Besides what?" "How could I know Ramon was running away?" "Why, then, did you run after him? Are you in the habit of chasing every carriage you may chance upon in the street?" again interrupted the silent man. Stung by the bantering tone of the stranger, Walter made no reply. Mr. Bright was his employer and had a perfect right to question him; but who was this man, and by what right did he mix himself up in the matter? "Quite right of you, young man, to say nothing to criminate yourself; but perhaps you will condescend to tell us, unless it would be betraying confidence [again that cunning smile], if you knew that this Ingersoll was a gambler?" The tell-tale blood again rushed to Walter's temples, but instantly left them as it dimly dawned upon him that he was suspected of knowing more than he was willing to tell. "Gently, marshal, gently," interposed Mr. Bright. "He will tell all, if we give him time." "One moment," rejoined the chief, with a meaning look at the merchant. "You hear, young man, this firm has been robbed of twenty thousand dollars--quite a haul. The thief has absconded. You tell a pretty straight story, I allow, but before you are many hours older you will have to explain why you, who have nothing to do with that department, should draw two thousand dollars at the bank yesterday; why, after getting banknotes you went back after gold," the marshal continued, warming up as he piled accusation on accusation; "why, again, you went from there to secure a berth in the _Georgia_, which sailed early this morning; and why you are seen, for seen you were, first watching Mr. Bright's house, and then arriving at the station just too late for the New York express. Take my advice. Make a clean breast of the whole affair. If you can clear yourself, now is the time; if you can't, possibly you may be of some use in recovering the money." Walter felt his legs giving way under him. At last it was all out. Now it was as clear as day how Ingersoll had so craftily managed everything as to make Walter appear in the light of a confederate. Now he knew why Ingersoll had wished to avoid being recognized. In a broken voice he told what he knew of Ingersoll's wrong-doings, excusing his own silence by the pledge he had given and received. When he had finished, the two men held a whispered conference together. "Clear case," observed the marshal; "one watched your house while the other was making his escape." "I'll not believe it. Why, this young man saved my daughter's life." "Think as you like. At any rate, I mean to keep an eye on him." So saying, the marshal went on his way, humming a tune to himself with as much unconcern as if he had just got up from a game of checkers which he had won handily. At the street corner he hailed an officer, to whom he gave an order in an undertone, and then walked on, smiling and nodding right and left as he went. Left alone with Mr. Bright, Walter stood nervously twisting his cap in both hands, like a culprit awaiting his sentence. It came at last. "Until this matter is cleared up," Mr. Bright said, "we cannot retain you in our employ. Get what is due you. You can go now." He then turned his back on Walter, and began busying himself over the papers on his desk. Walter went out of the office without another word. He was simply stunned. VII THE FLIGHT Walter walked slowly down the wharf, feeling as if the world had suddenly come to an end. Nothing looked to him exactly as it looked one short hour ago. He did not even notice that a policeman was keeping a few rods behind him. As he walked along with eyes fixed on the ground, a familiar voice hailed him with, "Why, what ails ye, lad? Seen a ghost or what?" "Bill," said Walter, "would you believe it, that skunk of a Ramon has run off with a lot of the firm's money--to California, they say? And, oh, Bill! Bill! they suspect me, _me_, of having helped him do it. And I'm discharged. That's all." It was no use trying to keep up longer. Walter broke down completely at the sound of a friendly voice at last. Bill silently led the way into the caboose. He first lighted his pipe, for, like the Indians, Bill seemed to believe that a good smoke tended to clear the intellect. He then, save for an occasional angry snort or grunt, heard Walter through without interruption. When the wretched story was all told Bill struck his open palm upon his knee, jerking out between whiffs: "My eye, here's a pretty kettle o' fish! Ruin, failure, crash, and smash. Ship ashore, and you all taken aback. Ssh!" suddenly checking himself, as a shadow darkened the one little pane of glass that served for a window. A policeman was looking in at them. Giving the two friends a careless nod, he walked slowly away. It slowly dawned upon Walter that the man with the black rosette in his hat, whom he had seen at the office, had set a watch upon him. "Bill, you mustn't be seen talking to me," said Walter, rising to leave. "They'll think you are in the plot, too. Oh! oh! they dog me about everywhere." The old fellow laughed scornfully. "That," he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, "for the hull b'ilin' on 'em. I've licked many a perleeceman in my time, and can do it again, old as I am. But we can be foxy, too, I guess. Listen. When I sees you comin', I'll go acrost the wharf to where that 'ar brig lays, over there. You foller me." Walter nodded. "I go up aloft. You follers. We has our little talk out in the maintop, free and easy like, and the perleeceman, he has his watch below." When Walter reached his boarding house his landlady met him in the entry. She seemed quite flustered and embarrassed. "Oh, Mr. Seabury," she began, "I'm so glad you've come! Such a time! There has been an officer here tossing everything topsy-turvy in your room. He would do it, in spite of all I could say. I told him you were the best boarder of the lot; never out late nights, or coming home the worse for liquor, and always prompt pay. Do you think, he told me to shut up, and mind my own business. Oh, sir, what _is_ the matter? That ever a nasty policeman should came ransacking in my house. Goodness alive! why, if it gets out, I'm a ruined woman. Please, sir, couldn't you find another boarding place?" This was the last straw for poor Walter. Without a word he crept upstairs to his little bedroom, threw himself down on the bed, and cried as if his heart would break. Walter was young. Conscious innocence helped him to throw off the fit of despondency; but in so far as feeling goes, he was ten years older when he came out of it. It was quite dark. Lighting a lamp, he hastily threw a few things into a bag, scribbled a short note to his aunt, inclosing the check received when he was discharged, settled with the landlady, who was in tears, always on tap; took his bag under his arm, and after satisfying himself that the coast was clear, struck out a roundabout course, through crooked ways and blind alleys, to the wharf. For the life of him, he could not keep back a little bitter laugh when he called to mind that this was the second time in his short life that he had run away. The wharf was deserted. There was no light in the caboose; but upon Walter's giving three cautious raps, the door was slid back, and as quickly closed after him. "Well," he said, wearily throwing himself down on a bench, "here I am again. I've been turned out of doors now. You are my only friend left. What would you do, if you were in my place? I can't bear it, and I won't," he broke out impulsively. "I see," said Bill, meditatively shutting both eyes, to give emphasis to the assertion. "Nobody will give me a place now, with a cloud like that hanging over me." Bill nodded assent. "I can't go back to the loft where I worked before, to be pointed at and jeered at by every duffer who may take it into his head to throw this scrape in my face. Would you?" As Bill made no reply, but smoked on in silence, Walter exclaimed, almost fiercely, "Confound it, man, say something! can't you? You drive me crazy with all the rest." This time Bill shook the ashes from his pipe. "What would I do? Why, if it was me I'd track the rascal to the eends of the airth, and jump off arter him, but I'd have him. And arter I'd cotched him, I'd twist his neck just as quick as I would a pullet's," was Bill's quiet but determined reply. Walter simply stared, though every nerve in his body thrilled at the bare idea. "Pshaw, you don't mean it. What put that silly notion into your head? Why, what could I do single-handed and alone, against such a consummate villain as that? Where's the money to come from, in the first place?" Bill watched Walter's sudden change from hot to cold. "Jest you take down that 'ar coffee-pot over your head." Walter handed it to him, as requested. First giving it a vigorous shake, which made the contents rattle again with a metallic sound, Bill then raised the lid, showing to Walter's astonished eyes a mixture of copper, silver, and even a few gold, coins, half filling the battered utensil. "Thar's a bank as never busts, my son," chuckled the old man, at the same time turning the coffee-pot this way and that, just for the pleasure of hearing it rattle. "What do you think of them 'ar coffee-grounds, heh? Single-handed, is it?" he continued, with a sniff of disdain. "I'll jest order my kerridge, and go 'long with ye, my boy." It took some minutes for Walter to realize that Bill was in real, downright, sober earnest. But Bill was already shoving some odds and ends into a canvas bag to emphasize his decision. "Strike while the iron's hot" was his motto. Walter started to his feet with something of his old animation. "That settles it!" he exclaimed. "Since I've been turned out of doors, I feel as if I wanted to put millions of miles between me and every one I've ever known. Do you know, I think every one I meet is saying to himself, 'There's that Walter Seabury, suspected of robbing his employers'? Go away I must, but I've found out from the papers that no steamer sails before Saturday, and to-day is Wednesday, you know. Where shall I hide my face for a day or two? How do I know they won't arrest me, if they catch me trying to leave the city? Oh, Bill, I can never stand that disgrace, never!" Having finished with his packing, Bill blew out the light, pushed back the slide, and gave a rapid look up and down the wharf. As he drew in his head, he said just as indifferently as if he had proposed taking a short walk about town, "'Pears to me as if the correck thing for folks in our sitivation like was to cut and run." "True enough for me. But how about you? They'll say that you were as deep in the mud as I am in the mire. Give it up, Bill. No, dear old friend, I mustn't drag you down with me. I can't." "Bah! Talk won't hurt old Bill nohow. Bill's about squar' with the world. He owes just as much as he don't owe." Walter was deeply touched. He saw plainly that it was no use trying to shake the old fellow's purpose, so forbore urging him further. The old man waited a moment for Walter to speak, and finding that he did not, laid his big rough hand on the lad's shoulder and asked impressively, "Did you send off your chist to your aunt as I told ye to?" "I did, an hour ago." "An' did you kind o' explanify things to the old gal?" "How could I tell her, Bill? Didn't she always say I would come to no good end? I wrote her that I was going away--a long way off--and for a long time. I couldn't say just how long. A year or two perhaps. My head was all topsy-turvy, anyhow." "You didn't forgit she took keer on ye when ye war a kid?" "I sent her the check I got from the store, right away." "Then I don't see nothin' to--hender us from takin' that 'ar little cruise we was a-talkin' about." It was pitch-dark when our two adventurers stepped out of the caboose. After securing the door with a stout padlock, Bill silently led the way to the stairs where he kept his wherry. Noiselessly the boat was rowed out of the dock, toward a light that glimmered in the rigging of an outward-bound brig that lay out in the stream waiting for the turning of the tide. Bill did not speak again until they were clear of the dock. "Yon brig's bound for York. I know the old man first-rate, 'cause I helped load her. He'll give us a berth if we take holt with the crew. Here we are." As he climbed the brig's side he set the wherry adrift with a vigorous shove of his foot. A day or two after the events just described, Mr. Bright and the marshal met on the street, the former looking sober and downcast, the latter smiling and elate. "What did I tell you?" cried the marshal, evidently well pleased with the tenor of the news he had to relate; "your _protégé_ has gone off with an old wharf rat that I've had my eye on for some time." "To tell you the whole truth, marshal, my mind is not quite easy about that boy," the merchant replied. "Opportunity makes the thief," the officer observed carelessly. "I'm afraid we've been too hasty." "Perhaps so; but it's my opinion that when Ramon is found, the other won't be far off. I honor your feelings in this matter, sir, but my experience tells me that every rascal asserts his innocence until his guilt is proved. I've notified the police of San Francisco to be on the lookout for that precious clerk of yours. Good-day, sir." When Mr. Bright returned to the store, on entering the office he saw an elderly woman, in a faded black bonnet and shawl, sitting bolt-upright on the edge of a chair facing the door, with two bony hands tightly clenched in her lap. There was fire in her eye. "That is Mr. Bright, madam," one of the clerks hastened to say. "What can I do for you, madam?" the merchant asked. The woman fixed two keen gray eyes upon the speaker's face, as she spoke up, quite unabashed by the quiet dignity of the merchant's manner of speaking. "Well," she began breathlessly, "I'm real glad to see you if you have kept me waiting. Here I've sot, an' sot, a good half-hour. 'Pears to me you Boston folks don't get up none too airly fer yer he'lth. I was down here before your shop was open this mornin'. Better late than never, though." The merchant bent his head politely. His visitor caught her breath and went on: "I'm Miss Marthy Seabury. What's all this coil about my nevvy? He's wrote me that he was goin' away. Where's he gone? What's he done? That's what I'd like to know, right up an' down." She paused for a reply, never taking her eyes off the merchant's troubled face for an instant. "My good woman," Mr. Bright began in a mollifying tone, when she broke in upon him abruptly: "No palaverin', mister. No beatin' the bush, if ye please. Come to the p'int. I left my dirty dishes in the sink to home, an' must go back in the afternoon keers." "Then don't let me detain you," resumed Mr. Bright gravely. "There has been a defalcation. I'm sorry to say your nephew is suspected of knowing more than he was willing to tell about it. So we had to let him go. Where he is now, is more than I can say." "What's a defalcation?" "A betrayal of trust, madam." "Do you mean my boy took anything that didn't belong to him?" "Not quite that. No, indeed. At least, I hope not. But, you see, Walter is badly mixed up with the precious rascal who did." "Well, you'd better not. I'd like to see the man who'd say my boy was a thief, that's all. Why, I'd trust him long before the President of the United States!" The woman actually glared at every one in the office, as if in search of some one willing to take up her challenge. "If you'll try to listen calmly, madam," interposed the merchant, "I'll try to tell you what we know." He then went on to relate the circumstances already known to us. Aunt Martha gave an indignant sniff when the merchant had finished. "You call yourself smart, eh? Why, an old woman sees through it with one eye. Walter was just humbugged. So was you, warn't ye? An' goin' on right under your own nose ever so long, an' ye none the wiser for't. Well, I declare to goodness, if I was you I sh'ld feel real downright small potatoes!" "I think, madam, perhaps we had better bring this interview to a close. It is a very painful subject, I do assure you." "Very well, sir. I sh'ld think you'd want to. But mark my words. You'll be sorry for this some day, as I am now that Walter ever laid eyes on you or--your darter." With this parting shot she bounced out of the office, shutting the door with a vicious bang behind her. But Mr. Bright's worries that day were not to be so easily set at rest. Upon reaching his home for a late dinner, looking pale and careworn, it was Dora who met him in the hallway, who put her arms round her father's neck, and who kissed him lovingly on both cheeks. "Dear papa, I know all," she said with a little sob. "Ah!" he ejaculated. "Then you have heard----" "Yes, papa; our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pryor, has told me all about it. Hateful old thing!" The merchant made a gesture of resignation. "She said you would have to discharge most of your clerks." Mr. Bright made a gesture of assent. "Then I want to do something. I can give music lessons. I'll work my fingers off to help. I know I shall be a perfect treasure. But why _did_ you send Mr. Seabury away, papa?" "Because he was unfaithful." "I don't believe a word of it." "Appearances are strongly against him." "I don't care. I say it's a wicked shame. Why, what has he done?" "What has he done? Why, he knew Ramon gambled, and wouldn't tell. He knew Ramon had gone, and never lisped a syllable." "Yes, but that's what he didn't do." "He was caught hanging around our house the night that Ramon ran away. There, child, don't bother me with any more questions. Guilty or not, both have gone beyond reach." Dora came near letting slip a little cry of surprise. She knew that she was blushing furiously, but fortunately the hall was dark. A new light had flashed upon her. And she thought she could guess why Walter had been lurking round their house on that, to him, most eventful night. Although she had never exchanged a dozen words with him, he had won her gratitude and admiration fairly, and now she began to feel great pity and sorrow for the friendless clerk. Hearing Dora crying softly, her father put his arm around her waist and said soothingly: "There, child, don't cry; we must try to bear up under misfortune. But 'tis a thousand pities----" "Well," anxiously. "Well, if I had known all that in season, the worst might have been prevented." "And now?" "And now, child, your father is a ruined man." So saying, the merchant hung up his hat and walked gloomily away. Dora ran upstairs to her own room and locked herself in, leaving the despondent merchant to eat his dinner solitary and alone. VIII OUTWARD BOUND "Beats Boston, don't it?" said Bill to Walter, as the _Susan J._ was slowly working her way up the East River past the miles of wharves and warehouses with which the shores are lined. "Maybe it's bigger, but I don't believe it's any better," was Walter's guarded reply. As soon as the anchor was down, the two friends hailed a passing boatman, who quickly put them on shore at the Battery, whence they lost no time in making their way to the steamship company's office--Bill to see if he could get a chance to ship for the run to the Isthmus, Walter to get a berth in the steerage just as soon as Bill's case should be decided. So eager were they to have the matter settled that they would not stop even to look at the wonders of the town. While waiting their turn among the crowd in the office, Bill's roving eye happened to fall on a big, square-shouldered, thick-set man who sat comfortably warming his hands over a coal fire in the fireplace, which he wholly monopolized, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. It was now the month of December, and the air was chilly. Bill hailed him without ceremony. "Mawnin', mister. Fire feels kind o' good this cold mawnin', don't it?" The person thus addressed did not even turn his head. Unabashed by this cool reception, Bill added in a lower tone, "Lookin' out for a chance to ship, heh, matey?" At this question, so squarely put, a suppressed titter ran round the room. The silent man gave Bill a sidelong look, shrugged his shoulders, and absently asked, "What makes you think so?" "D'ye think I don't know a sailorman when I see one? Mighty stuck up, some folks is. Better get that Ingy-ink out o' yer hands ef yer 'shamed on it." The silent man rose up, buttoned his shaggy buffalo-skin coat up to his chin, pulled his fur cap down over his bushy eyebrows, and strode out of the office without looking either to the right or the left. "I say, you!" a clerk called out to Bill. "Do you know who you were talking to? That's the old man." "I don't keer ef it's the old boy. Ef that chap ha'n't hauled on a tarred rope afore now, I'm a nigger; that's all." "That was Commodore Vanderbilt, the owner of this line," the clerk retorted very pompously, quite as if he expected Bill to drop. The general laugh now went against Bill. "Whew! was it, though? Then I s'pose my cake's all dough," he grumbled to himself, but was greatly relieved when the shipping clerk, after a few questions, told him to sign the articles. Walter was duly engaged, in his turn, as a cabin waiter. This being settled, the two friends sallied forth in high spirits to report on board the _Prometheus_, bound for San Juan del Norte. Nowhere, probably, since the days of Noah was there ever seen such utter and seemingly helpless confusion as on one of those great floating arks engaged in the California trade by way of the Isthmus, in the early fifties, just before sailing. Bullocks were dismally lowing, sheep plaintively bleating, hogs squealing. Men were wildly running to and fro, shouting, pushing, and elbowing each other about, as if they had only a few minutes longer to live and must therefore make the most of their time. Women were quietly crying, or laughing hysterically, by turns, as the fit happened to take them. Of human beings, upwards of a thousand were thus occupied on board the _Prometheus_; while on the already crowded slip the shouting of belated hack drivers, who stormed and swore, the loud cries of peddlers and newsboys, who darted hither and thither among the surging throng, served to keep up an indescribable uproar. Add to this, that the sky was dark and lowering, the black river swimming with floating ice, crushing and grinding against the slip, as it moved out to sea with the ebb; and possibly some idea may be formed of what was taking place on that bleak December afternoon. But all things must come to an end. All this confusion was hushed when the word was passed to cast off, the paddle wheels began slowly to turn, and the big ship, careening heavily to port under its human freight, who swarmed like bees upon her decks, forged slowly out into the stream, carrying with her, if the truth must be told, many a sorry and homesick one already. Walter, however, drew a long breath of relief as the ship moved away from the shores. It was the first moment in which he had been able to shake off the fear of being followed. He therefore went about his duties cheerfully, if not very skillfully. Oh, the unspeakable misery of that first night at sea! A stiff southeaster was blowing when the steamer thrust her black nose outside of Sandy Hook. And as the hours wore on, and the gale rose higher and higher, with every lurch the straining ship would moan and tremble like a human being in distress. Now and then a big sea would strike the ship fairly, sending crockery and glassware flying about the cabin with a crash, then as she settled down into the trough, for one breathless moment it would seem as if she would never come up again. Twenty times that night the affrighted passengers gave themselves up for lost. Most of them lay in their berths prostrated by fear or seasickness. A few even put on life preservers. Perhaps a score or more, too much terrified even to seek their berths, crouched with pallid faces on the cabin stairs, foolishly imagining that if the ship did go down they would thus have the better chance of saving themselves. Some half-crazed women had even put on their bonnets, in order, as they sobbed out, to die decently. It was hardly light, if a blurred gray streak in the east could be called light, when Walter crept up the slippery companionway. His head felt like a balloon, his eyes like two lumps of lead, his legs like mismatched legs. The ship was working her engines just enough to keep her head to the sea. The deck was all awash, and littered with the rubbish of a row of temporary, or "standee," bunks abandoned by their occupants, and broken up by the force of the gale. The paddle-boxes were stove, and tons of water were pouring in upon the decks with every revolution of the wheels. By watching his chance, when the ship steadied herself for another plunge, Walter managed to work his way out to the forepart of the vessel. Here he found Bill, with half a dozen more, all wringing-wet, hastily swallowing, between lurches of the ship, a cupful of hot coffee, which the cook was passing out to them from the galley. If ever men looked completely worn out, then those men did. Bill no sooner caught sight of Walter, than he offered him his dipper. Walter put it away from him with a grimace of disgust. "Dirty night," said Bill, cooling his coffee between swallows; "blowed fresh; nary watch below sence we left the dock; no life in her; steered like a wild bull broke loose in Broadway. She's some easier now. Better have some [again holding out his cup]; 't will do you good. No? Well, here goes," tilting his head back and draining the cup to the last drop. Just then the first officer came bustling along in oilskins and sou'wester. "Here, you!" he called out, "lay for'ard there, and get the jib on her; come, bear a hand!" Walter went forward with the men. Hoisting the sail was no easy matter, with the ship plunging bows under every minute, but no sooner did the gale fill It fairly, than away it went with a report like a cannon, blown clean out of the bolt-rope, as if it had been a boy's kite held by a string. While the men were watching it disappear in the mist, crash came a ton or more of salt water pouring over the bow, throwing them violently against the deck-house. Shaking himself like a spaniel, the mate darted off to give the steersman a dressing-down for letting the ship "broach to." Two sailors had been lost overboard during the night. On a hint dropped by Bill, Walter was taken from the cabin, where there was little to do, and put to work with the carpenter's gang, repairing damages. The change being much to his liking, Walter applied himself to his new duties with a zeal that soon won for him the good will of his mates. And when it came to doing a job on the rigging, though out of practice, Walter was always the one called upon to do it. The captain, a quiet, gentlemanly man, who looked more like a schoolmaster than a shipmaster, told the purser to put Walter in the ship's books. Thoroughly tired out with his day's work, Walter was going below when the mate called out to him: "I say, youngster, you're not going down into that dog-hole again. There's a spare bunk in my stateroom. Get your traps and sail in. You can h'ist in as much sleep as you've storage room for." By noon of the second day out, the _Prometheus_ had run into the Gulf Stream. The gale had sensibly abated, though it still blew hard. When the captain came on deck, after taking a long look at the clouds, he said to the mate, "Mr. Gray, I think you may give her the jib and mainsail, to steady her a bit." At break of day on the morning of the fourth day out, as Walter was leaning over the weather rail, his eye caught sight of a dark spot rising out of the water nearly abeam. The mate was taking a long look at it through his glass. In reply to Walter's inquiring look, the mate told him it was a low-lying reef called Mariguana, one of the easternmost of the Bahamas. It was not long before most of the passengers were crowding up to get sight of that little speck of dry land, the first they had laid eyes on since the voyage began. "Now, my lad, you can judge something of how Columbus felt when he made his first landfall hereabouts so long ago!" exclaimed the mate. "Good for sore eyes, ain't it? We never try to pass it except in the daytime," he added; "if we did, ten to one we'd fetch up all standing." "San Domingo to-morrow!" cried the mate, rubbing his hands as he came out of the chart room on the fifth day. As the word passed through the ship it produced a magical effect among the passengers, whose chief desire was once more to set foot on dry land, and next to see it. Sure enough, when the sun rose out of the ocean next morning there was the lovely tropic island looming up, darkly blue, before them. There, too, were the hazy mountain peaks of Cuba rising in the west. All day long the ship was sailing between these islands, on a sea as smooth as a millpond. Every day she was getting in better trim, and going faster; and the spirits of all on board rose accordingly at the prospect of an early ending of the voyage. "This beats all!" was Walter's delighted comment to Bill, who was swabbing down the decks in his bare feet. "'Tis kind o' pooty," Bill assented, wiping his sweaty face with his bare arm. "That un," nodding toward Cuba, "Uncle Sam ought to hev, by good rights; but this 'ere," turning on San Domingo a look of contempt, "'z nothin' but niggers, airthquakes, an' harricanes. Let 'em keep it, says Bill;" then continuing, after a short pause, "Porter Prince is up in the bight of yon deep bay. I seen the old king-pin himself onct. Coal-tar ain't a patchin' to him; no, nor Day & Martin nuther. Hot? If you was ashore there, you'd think it was hot. Why, they cook eggs without fire right out in the sun." A two-days' run across the Caribbean Sea brought the _Prometheus_ on soundings, and a few hours more to her destined port. Every one was now making hurried preparations to leave the ship, bag and baggage; every eye beamed with delight at the prospect of escaping from the confinement of what had seemed more like a prison than anything else. While the _Prometheus_ was heading toward her anchorage there was time allowed for a brief survey of the town and harbor of San Juan del Norte, or, as it was then commonly called, Greytown. These were really nothing more than an open roadstead, bounded by a low, curving, and sandy shore, along which half a hundred poor cabins lay half hid among tall cocoanut palms. From the one two-story building in sight the British flag was flying. The harbor, however, presented a very animated and warlike appearance, in consequence of the warm dispute then in progress between England and the United States as to who should control the transit from ocean to ocean. Two American and two British warships lay within easy gunshot of each other, flying the flags of their respective nations, and no sooner were the colors of the starry banner caught sight of than a tremendous cheer burst from the thousand throats on board the _Prometheus_. Her anchor had hardly touched bottom when a boat from the _Saranac_ came alongside, the officer in charge eagerly hailing the deck for the latest news from the States. As for the jackies, to judge from their looks they seemed literally spoiling for a fight. Walter had no very clear idea upon the subject of this international dispute, still less of the importance it might assume in the future, but the evident anxiety shown on the faces around him led him to suppose that the matter was serious. He stood holding onto the lee rigging, watching the American tars in the boat alongside, and thinking what fine, manly fellows they looked, when two passengers near him began an animated discussion which set him to thinking. "Sare," said one, with a strong French accent, "it was, _ma foi_, I shall recollect--_ah oui_--it was my countryman, one Samuel Champlain, who first gave ze idea of cutting--what you call him?--one sheep canal across ze Eesmus. I shall not be wrong to-day." "Excuse me, monsieur," the other returned, "I think Cortez did that very thing long before him." "Nevair mind, _mon ami_. I _gage_ you 'ave ze _histoire_ correct. Eet only prove zat great minds 'ave always sometime ze same ideas. _Mais_, your Oncle Sam, wiz hees sillee Monroe Doctreen, he eez like ze dog wiz his paw on ze bone: he not eat himself; he not let any oder dog: he just growl, growl, growl." "But, monsieur, wouldn't Uncle Sam, as you call him, be a big fool to let any foreign nation get control of his road to California?" The Frenchman only replied by a shrug. Even before the _Prometheus_ dropped anchor she was surrounded by a swarm of native boatmen, of all shades of color from sour cream to jet-black, some holding up bunches of bananas, some screaming out praises of their boats to such as were disposed to go ashore, others begging the passengers to throw a dime into the water, for which they instantly plunged, head first, regardless of the sharks which could be seen lazily swimming about the harbor, attracted by the offal thrown over from the ships. "I don't know how 'tis," said Bill in Walter's ear, "but them sharks'll never tech a nigger. But come, time to wake up! Anchor's down. All's snug aboard. Now keep your weather eye peeled for a long pull across the Isthmus." "Good luck to ye," said the jolly mate, shaking Walter heartily by the hand as he was about leaving the ship. "I'm right glad to see you've been trying to improve your mind a bit, instead of moonin' about like a catfish in a mudhole, as most of 'em do on board here. Use your eyes. Keep your ears open and don't be afraid to ask questions. That's the way to travel, my hearty!" And with a parting wave of the hand he strode forward. IX ACROSS NICARAGUA In the course of an hour or so three light-draught stern-wheel steamboats ("wheelbarrows," Bill derisively called them) came puffing up alongside. Into them the passengers were now unceremoniously bundled, like so many sheep, and in such numbers as hardly to allow room to move about, yet all in high glee at escaping from the confinement of the ship, at which many angrily shook their fists as the fasts were cast off. In another quarter of an hour the boats were steaming slowly up the San Juan River, thus commencing the second stage of the long journey. For the first hour or two the travelers were fully occupied in looking about them with charmed eyes, as with mile after mile, and turn after turn, the wonders of a tropical forest, all hung about with rare and beautiful flowers, and all as still as death, passed before them. But Bill, to whom the sight was not new or strange, declared that for his part he would rather have a sniff of good old Boston's east wind than all the cloying perfumes of that wilderness of woods and blossoms. It was not long, however, before attention was drawn to the living inhabitants of this fairyland. First a strange object, something between a huge lizard and a bloated bullfrog, was spied clinging to a bush on the bank. No sooner seen than crack! crack! went a dozen pistol shots, and down dropped the dirty green-and-yellow creature with a loud splash into the river. "There's a tidbit gone," observed Bill, in Walter's ear. "What! eat that thing?" demanded Walter with a disgusted look. "Sartin. They eat um; eat anything. And what you can't eat, 'll eat you. If you don't b'leeve it, look at that 'ar reptyle on the bank yonder," said Bill, pointing out the object in question with the stem of his pipe. Walter followed the direction of Bill's pipe. Looking quite as much like a stranded log as anything else, a full-grown alligator lay stretched out along the muddy margin of the river at the water's edge. No sooner was he seen, than the ungainly monster became the target for a perfect storm of bullets, all of which glanced as harmlessly off his scaly back as hailstones from a slate roof. Disturbed by the noise and the shouts, the hideous animal slid slowly into the water and disappeared from sight, churning up the muddy bottom as he went. Bill put on a quizzical look as he asked Walter if he knew why some barbarians worshiped the alligator. Walter was obliged to admit that he did not. "'Cause the alligator can swaller the man, but the man can't swaller the alligator," chuckled Bill. Now and then a native bongo would be overhauled, bound for San Carlos, Grenada, or Leon, with a cargo of European goods. They were uncouth-looking boats, rigged with mast and sail, and sometimes thirty to forty feet long. Many a hearty laugh greeted the grotesque motions of the jet-black rowers, who half rose from their seats every time they dipped their oars, and then sank back with a grunt to give their strokes more power. The _patrón_, or master, prefaced all his orders with a persuasive "Now, gentlemen, a little faster, if you please!" "And so that's the way, is it, that all inland transportation has been carried on here for so many hundred years?" thought Walter. "Well, I never!" Incidents such as these served, now and then, to cause a ripple of excitement, or until even alligators became quite too numerous to waste powder upon. As darkness was coming on fast, there being no twilight to speak of in this part of the world, a ship's yawl was seen tied up under the bank for the night. Its occupants were nowhere in sight, but the dim light of a fire among the bushes showed that they were not far off. "Runaway sailors," Bill explained; "stole the boat, an' 'fraid to show themselves. Poor devils! they've a long pull afore 'em ef they get away, an' a rope's-end behind 'em if they're caught." "Why, how far is it across?" "It's more'n a hundred miles to the lake, and another hundred or so beyond." "Whew! you don't say. Well, I pity them." When darkness had shut down, the steamers also were tied up to trees on the bank, scope enough being given to the line to let the boats swing clear of the shores, on account of the mosquitoes, with which the woods were fairly alive. In this solitude the travelers passed their first night, without other shelter than the heavens above, and long before it was over there was good reason to repent of the abuse heaped upon the _Prometheus_, since very few got a wink of sleep; while all were more or less soaked by the rain that fell in torrents, as it can rain only in the tropics, during the night. As cold, wet, and gloomy as it dawned, the return of day was hailed with delight by the shivering and disconsolate travelers. In truth, much of the gilding had already been washed off, or worn off, of their El Dorado. And, as Bill bluntly put it, they all looked "like a passel of drownded rats." Bill made this remark while he and Walter were washing their hands and faces in the roily river water, an easy matter, as they had only to stoop over the side to do so, the boat's deck being hardly a foot out of water. Suddenly Walter caught Bill's arm and gave it a warning squeeze. Bill followed the direction in which Walter was looking, and gave a low whistle. A beautifully mottled black-and-white snake had coiled itself around the line by which the boat was tied to the shore, and was quietly working its way, in corkscrew fashion, toward the now motionless craft. Seizing a boat-hook, Bill aimed a savage blow at the reptile, but the rope only being struck, the snake dropped unharmed into the river. "Do they raise anything here besides alligators, snakes, lizards, and monkeys?" Walter asked the captain, who was looking on, while sipping his morning cup of black coffee. Glancing up, the captain good-humoredly replied, "Oh, yes; they raise plantains, bananas, oranges, limes, lemons, chocolate-nuts, cocoanuts----" "Pardon me," Walter interrupted; "those things are luxuries. I meant things of real value, sir." "A very proper distinction," the captain replied, looking a little surprised. "Well, then, before you get across you will probably see hundreds of mahogany trees, logwood trees, fustic and Brazil-wood trees, to say nothing of other dye-woods, more or less valuable, growing all about you." "Oh, yes, sir, I've seen all those woods you tell of coming out of vessels at home, but never growing. Somehow I never thought of them before as trees." "Then there is cochineal, indigo, sugar, Indian corn, coffee, tobacco, cotton, hides, vanilla, some India rubber----" Walter looked sheepish. "I see now how silly my question was. Please excuse my ignorance." "That's all right," said the captain pleasantly. "Don't ever be afraid to ask about what you want to know. I suppose I've carried twenty thousand passengers across, and you are positively the first one to ask about anything except eating, sleeping, or when we are going to get there." The two succeeding days were like the first, except that the river grew more and more shallow in proportion as it was ascended, and the country more and more hilly and broken. This furnished a new experience, as every now and then the boats would ground on some sand-bar, when all hands would have to tumble out into the water to lighten them over the rift, or wade ashore to be picked up again at some point higher up, after a fatiguing scramble through the dense jungle. "Whew! This is what I calls working your passage," was Bill's quiet comment, as he and Walter stood together on the bank, breathing hard, after making one of these forced excursions for half a mile. "Is here where they talk of building a canal?" Walter asked in amazement, casting an oblique glance into the pestilential swamps around him. "Surely, they can't be in earnest." "They'll need more grave-diggers than mud-diggers, if they try it on," was Bill's emphatic reply. "White men can't stand the climate nohow. And as for niggers--well, all you can git out o' 'em's clear gain, like lickin' a mule," he added, biting off a chew of tobacco as he spoke. On the afternoon of the third day the passengers were landed at the foot of the Castillio Rapids, so named from an old Spanish fort commanding the passage of the river at this point, though many years gone to ruin and decay. Walter and Bill climbed the steep path leading up to it. The castle was of great age, they were told, going back to the time of the mighty Philip II of Spain perhaps, who spent such vast sums in fortifying his American colonies against the dreaded buccaneers. Walter could not help feeling awe-struck at the thought that what he saw was already old when the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. Some one asked if this was not the place where England's naval hero, Lord Nelson, first distinguished himself, when the castle was taken in 1780. Leaving these crumbling ruins to the snakes, lizards, and other reptiles which glided away at their approach, the two went back to the clump of rough shanties by the river, and it was here that Walter made his first acquaintance with that class of adventurers who, if not buccaneers in name, had replaced them, to all intents, not only here but on all routes leading to the land of gold. There was a short portage around the rapids. A much larger and more comfortable boat had just landed some hundreds of returning Californians at the upper end of this portage, and a rough-and-ready looking lot they were, betraying by their talk and actions that they had long been strangers to the restraints of civilized life. Of course every word they dropped was greedily devoured by the newcomers, by whom the Californians were looked upon as superior beings. The two sets of passengers were soon exchanging newspapers or scraps of news, while their baggage was being transferred around the portage. Giving Walter a knowing wink, Bill accosted one of the Californians with the question, "I say, mister, is it a fact, now, that you can pick up gold in the streets in San Francisco?" "Stranger," this individual replied, "you may bet your bottom dollar you can. It's done every day in the week. You see a lump in the street, pick it up, and put it in your pocket until you come across a bigger one, then you heave the first one away, same's you do pickin' up pebbles on the beach, _sabe_?" Giving a nod to the half-dozen listeners, who were eagerly devouring every word, the fellow turned on his heel and walked off to join his companions. The run across Lake Nicaragua was made in the night. When the passengers awoke the next morning the steamer was riding at anchor at a cable's length from the shore, on which a lively surf was breaking. Behind this was a motley collection of thatched hovels known as Virgin Bay. The passengers were put ashore in lighters, into which as many were huddled as there was standing-room for, were then hauled to the beach by means of a hawser run between boat and shore, and, with their hearts in their mouths while pitching and tossing among the breakers, at last scrambled upon the sands as best they might, thanking their lucky stars for their escape from drowning.[2] [2] The picture is by no means overdrawn, as on a subsequent occasion, by the capsizing of a lighter in the surf, many passengers were drowned. Walter and Bill found themselves standing among groups of chattering half-breeds, half-nude children, dried-up old crones, and hairless, dejected-looking mules, whose shrill hee-haws struck into the general uproar with horribly discordant note. It was here bargains were made for the transportation of one's self or baggage across the intervening range of mountains to the Pacific. Secure in their monopoly of all the animals to be had for hire, the avaricious owners did not hesitate to demand as much for carrying a trunk sixteen miles as its whole contents were worth--more indeed than a mule would sell for. Walter was gazing on the novel scene with wide-open eyes. Already their little store of cash was running low. "You talk to them, Bill; you say you know their lingo," Walter suggested, impatient at seeing so many of the party mounting their balky steeds and riding away. Bill walked up to a sleepy-looking mule driver who stood nearby idly smoking his cigarette, and laying his hand upon the animal's flank, cleared his throat, and demanded carelessly, in broken Spanish, "Qui cary, hombre, por este mula?" The animal slowly turned his head toward the speaker, and viciously let go both hind feet, narrowly missing Bill's shins. "Wow! he's an infamous rhinoceros, este mula!" cried Bill, drawing back to a safe distance from the animal's heels. "Si, señor," replied the unmoved muleteer. "Viente pesos, no mas," he added in response to Bill's first question. "Twenty devils!" exclaimed Bill in amazement, dropping into forcible English; "we don't want to buy him." Then resorting to gestures, to assist his limited vocabulary, he pointed to his own and Walter's bags, again demanding, "Quantos por este carga, vamos the ranch, over yonder?" "Cinco pesos," articulated the impassive owner, between puffs. "Robber," muttered Bill under his breath. Rather than submit to be so outrageously fleeced, Bill hit upon the following method of traveling quite independently. He had seen it done in China, he explained, and why not here? Getting a stout bamboo, the two friends slung their traps to the middle, lifted it to their shoulders, and in this economical fashion trudged off for the mountains, quite elated at having so cleverly outwitted the Greasers, as Bill contemptuously termed them. In fact, the old fellow was immensely tickled over the ready transformation of two live men into a quadruped. Walter should be fore legs and he hind legs. When tired, they could take turn and turn about. If the load galled one shoulder, it could be shifted over to the other, without halting. "Hooray!" he shouted, when they were clear of the village; "to-morrow we'll see the place where old Bill Boar watered his hoss in the Pacific." "Balboa, Bill," Walter corrected. "No horse will drink salt water, silly. You know better. Besides, it wasn't a horse at all. 'Twas a mule." Night overtook the travelers before reaching the foothills, but after munching a biscuit and swallowing a few mouthfuls of water they stretched themselves out upon the bare ground, and were soon traveling in the land of dreams. The pair were bright and early on the road again, which was only a mule-track, deeply worn and gullied by the passing to and fro of many a caravan. It soon plunged into the thick woods, dropped down into slippery gorges, or scrambled up steep hillsides, where the pair would have to make a short halt to mop their brows and get their breath. Then they would listen to the screaming of countless parroquets, and watch the gambols of troops of chattering monkeys, among the branches overhead. Bill spoke up: "I don't believe men ever had no tails like them 'ar monkeys; some say they did: but I seen many a time I'd like to had one myself when layin' out on a topsail yard, in a dark night, with nothin' much to stan' on. A tail to kinder quirl around suthin', so's to let you use your hands and feet, is kind o' handy. Just look at that chap swingin' to that 'ar branch up there by his tail, like a trapeze performer, an' no rush o' blood to the brain nuther." Walter could hardly drag Bill away from the contemplation of this interesting problem. For six mortal hours the travelers were shut up in the gloomy tropical forest; but just at the close of day it seemed as if they had suddenly stepped out of darkness into light, for far and wide before them lay the mighty Pacific Ocean, crimsoned by the setting sun. Once seen, it was a sight never to be forgotten. Walter and Bill soon pushed on down the mountain into the village of San Juan del Sur, of which the less said the better. Thoroughly tired out by their day's tramp, the wayfarers succeeded in obtaining a night's lodging in an old tent, at the rate of four bits each. It consisted in the privilege of throwing themselves down upon the loose sand, already occupied by millions of fleas, chigoes, and other blood-letting bedfellows. Glad enough were they at the return of day. Bill's eyes were almost closed, and poor Walter's face looked as if he had just broken out with smallpox. San Juan del Sur was crowded with people anxiously awaiting the arrival of the steamship that was to take them on up the coast. The only craft in the little haven was a rusty-looking brigantine, which had put in here for a supply of fresh water. Her passengers declared that she worked like a basket in a gale of wind. Learning that the captain was on shore, our two friends lost no time in hunting him up, when the following colloquy took place: "Mawnin', cap," said Bill. "How much do you ax fur a cabin passage to 'Frisco?" "A hundred dollars, cash in advance. But I can't take you; all full in the cabin." "Well, s'pos'n I go in the hold; how much?" "Eighty dollars; but I can't take you. Hold's full, too." "Jerusalem! Why can't I go in the fore-peak? What's the price thar?" "Eighty dollars; but I can't take you. Full fore and aft." "'Z that so? Well, say, cap, can't I go aloft somewhere? What 'll you charge then?" "We charge eighty dollars to go anywhere; but can't carry you aloft. Got to carry our provisions there." Bill mused a minute. "Hard case, ain't it?" appealing first to Walter, then to the captain. "But as I want to go mighty bad, what 'll you tax to tow me?" The captain turned away, with a horselaugh and a shake of the head, to attend to his own affairs, leaving our two friends in no happy frame of mind at the prospect before them. With the utmost economy their little stock of money would last but little longer. The heat was oppressive and the place alive with vermin. Hours were spent on the harbor headland watching for the friendly smoke of the overdue steamer. Several days now went by before the delayed steamer put in an appearance. It was none too soon, for with so many mouths to feed, the place began to be threatened with famine. It was by the merest chance that Walter secured a passage for himself in the steerage, and for Bill as a coal-passer, on this ship. Luckily for them, the captain's name happened to be the same as Walter's. He also hailed from New Bedford. He even admitted, though cautiously, that there might be some distant relationship. So Walter won the day, with the understanding that he was to spread his blanket on deck, for other accommodations there were none; while before the ship was two days at sea, men actually fought for what were considered choice spots to lie down upon at night. The event of the voyage up the coast was a stay of several days at Acapulco, for making repairs in the engine room and for coaling ship. What a glorious harbor it is! land-locked and so sheltered by high mountains, that once within it is difficult to discover where a ship has found her way in, or how she is going to get out. Here, in bygone times, the great Manila galleons came with their rich cargoes, which were then transported across Mexico by pack-trains to be again reshipped to Old Spain. The arrival of a Yankee ship was now the only event that stirred the sleepy old place into life. At the sound of her cannon it rubbed its eyes, so to speak, and woke up. Bill even asserted that the people looked too "tarnation" lazy to draw their own breath. Ample time was allowed here for a welcome run on shore; and the arrival of another steamer, homeward bound, made Acapulco for the time populous. Bill could not get shore leave, so Walter went alone. There were a custom-house without custom, a plaza, in which the inhabitants had hurriedly set up a tempting display of fruits, shells, lemonade, and home-made nicknacks to catch the passengers' loose change, besides a moldy-looking cathedral, whose cracked bells now and again set a whole colony of watchful buzzards lazily flapping about the house-tops. And under the very shadow of the cathedral walls a group of native Mexicanos were busily engaged in their favorite amusement of gambling with cards or in cock-fighting. After sauntering about the town to his heart's content, Walter joined a knot of passengers who were making their way toward the dilapidated fort that commands the basin. On their way they passed a squad of barefooted soldiers, guarding three or four villainous-looking prisoners, who were at work on the road, and who shot evil glances at the light-hearted Americanos. Walter thought if this was a fair sample of the Mexican army, there was no use in crowing over the victories won by Scott and Taylor not many years before. At the end of a hot and dusty walk in the glare of a noonday sun, the visitors seated themselves on the crumbling ramparts of the old fort, and fell to swapping news, as the saying is. One of the Californians was being teased by his companions to tell the story of a man lost overboard on the trip down the coast; and while the others stretched themselves out in various attitudes to listen, he, after lighting a cheroot, began the story: "You know I can't tell a story worth a cent, but I reckon I can give you the facts if you want 'em. There was a queer sort of chap aboard of us who was workin' his passage home to the States. We know'd him by the name of Yankee Jim, 'cause he answered to the name of Jim, and said as how he come from 'way down East where they pry the sun up every morning with a crowbar. He did his turn, but never spoke unless spoken to. We all reckoned he was just a little mite cracked in the upper story. Hows'ever, his story came out at last." X THE LUCK OF YANKEE JIM One scorching afternoon in July, 185--, the Hangtown stage rumbled slowly over the plank road forming the principal street of Sacramento City, finally coming to a full stop in front of the El Dorado Hotel. This particular stage usually made connection with the day boat for "The Bay"; but on this occasion it came in an hour too late, consequently the boat was at that moment miles away, down the river. Upon learning this disagreeable piece of news, the belated passengers scattered, grumbling much at a detention which, each took good care to explain, could never have been worse-timed or more inconvenient than on this particular afternoon. One traveler, however, stood a moment or two longer, apparently nonplused by the situation, until his eye caught the word "Bank" in big golden letters staring at him from the opposite side of the street. He crossed over, read it again from the curbstone, and then shambled in at the open door. He knew not why, but once within, he felt a strange desire to get out again as quickly as possible. But this secret admonition passed unheeded. Before him was a counter extending across the room, at the back of which rose a solid wall of brick. Within this was built the bank vault, the half-open iron door disclosing bags of coin piled upon the floor and shelves from which the dull glitter of gold-dust caught the visitor's eye directly. The middle of the counter was occupied by a pair of tall scales, of beautiful workmanship, in which dust was weighed, while on a table behind it were trays containing gold and silver coins. A young man, who was writing and smoking at the same time, looked up as the stranger walked in. To look at the two men, one would have said that it was the bank clerk who might be expected to feel a presentiment of evil. Really, the other was half bandit in appearance. Although he was alone and unnoticed, yet the stranger's manner was undeniably nervous and suspicious. Addressing the cashier, he said: "I say, mister, this yer boat's left; can't get to 'Frisco afore to-morrow" (inquiringly). "That's so," the cashier assented. "Well," continued the miner, "here's my fix: bound home for the States [dropping his voice]; got two thousand stowed away; don't know a live _hombre_ in this yer burg, and might get knifed in some fandango. See?" "That's so," repeated the unmoved official. Then, seeing that his customer had come to an end, he said, "I reckon you want to deposit your money with us?" "That's the how of it, stranger. Lock it up tight whar I kin come fer it to-morrow." "Down with the dust then," observed the cashier, taking the pen from behind his ear and preparing to write; but seeing his customer cast a wary glance to right and left, he beckoned him to a more retired part of the bank, where the miner very coolly proceeded to strip to his shirt, in each corner of which five fifty-dollar "slugs" were knotted. An equal sum in dust was then produced from a buckskin belt, all of which was received without a word of comment upon the ingenuity with which it had been concealed. A certificate of deposit was then made out, specifying that James Wildes had that day deposited with the Mutual Confidence and Trust Company, subject to his order, two thousand dollars. Glancing at the scrap of crisp paper as if hardly comprehending how that could be an equivalent for his precious coin and dust, lying on the counter before him, Jim heaved a deep sigh of relief, then crumpling the certificate tightly within his big brown fist, he exclaimed: "Thar, I kin eat and sleep now, I reckon. Blamed if I ever knew afore what a coward a rich man is!" Our man, it seems, had been a sailor before the mast. When the anchor touched bottom, he with his shipmates started for the "diggings," where he had toiled with varying luck, but finding himself at last in possession of what would be considered a little fortune in his native town. He was now returning, filled with the hope of a happy meeting with the wife and children he had left behind. But while Yankee Jim slept soundly, and blissfully dreamed of pouring golden eagles into Jane's lap, his destiny was being fulfilled. The great financial storm of 185-- burst upon the State unheralded and unforeseen. Like a thief in the night the one fatal word flashed over the wires that shut the door of every bank, and made the boldest turn pale. Suspension was followed by universal panic and dismay. Yankee Jim was only an atom swallowed up in the general and overwhelming disaster of that dark day. In the morning he went early to the bank, only to find it shut fast, and an excited and threatening crowd surging to and fro before the doors. Men with haggard faces were talking and gesticulating wildly. Women were crying and wringing their hands. A sudden faintness came over him. What did it all mean? Mustering courage to put the question to a bystander, he was told to look and read for himself. Two ominous words, "Bank Closed," told the whole story. For a moment or two the poor fellow could not seem to take in the full meaning of the calamity that had befallen him. But as it dawned upon him that his little fortune was swept away, and with it the hopes that had opened to his delighted fancy, the blood rushed to his head, his brain reeled, and he fell backward in a fit. The first word he spoke when he came to himself was "Home." Some kind souls paid his passage to 'Frisco, where the sight of blue water seemed to revive him a little. Wholly possessed by the one idea of getting home, he shipped on board the first steamer, which happened to be ours, going about his duty like a man who sees without understanding what is passing around him. My own knowledge of the chief actor in this history began at four o'clock in the morning of the third day out. The _California's_ engines suddenly stopped. There was a hurried trampling of feet, a sudden rattling of blocks on deck, succeeded by a dead silence--a silence that could be felt. I jumped out of my berth and ran on deck. How well I can recall that scene! The night was an utterly dismal one--cold, damp, and foggy. A pale light struggled through the heavy mist, but it was too thick to see a cable's length from the ship, although we distinctly heard the rattle of oars at some distance, with now and then a quick shout that sent our hearts up into our mouths. We listened intently. No one spoke. No one needed to be told what those shouts meant. How long it was I cannot tell, for minutes seemed hours then; but at last we heard the dip of oars, and presently the boat shot out of the fog within a biscuit's toss of the ship. I remember that, as they came alongside, the upturned faces of the men were white and pinched. One glance showed that the search had been in vain. The boat was swung up, the huge paddles struck the black water like clods, the huge hulk swung slowly round to her helm. But at the instant when we were turning away, awed by the mystery of this death-scene, a cry came out of the black darkness--a yell of agony and despair--that nailed us to the deck. May I never hear the like again! "Save me! for God's sake, save me!" pierced through that awful silence till a hundred voices seemed repeating it. The cry seemed so near that every eye instinctively turned to the spot whence it proceeded--so near that it held all who heard it in breathless, in sickening suspense. Had the sea really given up its dead? Before one could count ten, the boat was again manned and clear of the ship. How well I recall the bent figure of the first officer as he stood in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in his hand, peering off into the fog! I can still see the men springing like tigers to their work again, and the cutter tossing on the seething brine astern like a chip. Then the fog shut them from our view. But nevermore was that voice heard on land or sea. No doubt it was the last agonized shriek of returning consciousness as the ocean closed over Yankee Jim's head. At eight bells we assembled around the capstan at our captain's call, when the few poor effects of the lost man were laid out to view. His kit contained one or two soiled letters, a daguerreotype of two blooming children hand in hand, a piece of crumpled paper, and a few articles of clothing not worth a picayune. I took notice that while smoothing out the creases in this scrap of paper, the captain suddenly became deeply attentive, then thoughtful, then very red. Clearing his throat he began as follows: "It's an old sea custom to sell by auction the kit of a shipmate who dies on blue water. You all know it's a custom of the land to read the will of a deceased person as soon as the funeral is over. The man we lost this morning shipped by his fo'castle or sea name--a very common thing among sailors; but I've just found out his true one since I stood here; and what's more I've found out that the man had been in trouble. An idea strikes me that he found it too heavy for him. God only knows. But it's more to the point that he has left a wife and two children dependent upon him for support. Gentlemen and mates, take off your hats while I read you this letter." The letter, which bore evidence of having been read and read again, ran as follows: "Oh, James! and are you really coming home, and with such a lot of money too? Oh, I can't believe it all! How happy we shall be once more! It makes me feel just like a young girl again, when you and I used to roam in the berry pastures, and never coveted anything in the wide world but to be together. You haven't forgot that, have you, James? or the old cedar on the cliff where you asked me for your own wife, and the sky over us and the sea at our feet, all so beautiful and we so happy? Do come quick. Surely God has helped me to wait all this long, weary time, but now it seems as if I couldn't bear it another day. And the little boy, James, just your image; it's all he can say, 'Papa, come home.' How can you have the heart to stay in that wicked place?" When the reading was finished some of the women passengers were crying softly. The men stood grimly pulling their long mustaches. After a short pause the captain read aloud the fatal certificate of deposit, holding it up so that all might see. "Now, ladies and gentlemen," he went on, "you've heard the story and can put this and that together. When we get to Panama I'm going to write a letter to the widow. It's for you to say what kind of a letter it shall be. Now, purser, you may put up the certificate of deposit." "How much am I offered--how much?" said the purser, waving the worthless bit of paper to right and left. Ten, twenty, forty, fifty dollars were bid before the words were fairly out of the purser's mouth. Then a woman's voice said seventy, another's one hundred, and the men, accepting the challenge, ran the bidding up fifty more, at which price the certificate was knocked down to a red-shirted miner who laid three fifty-dollar pieces on the capstan, saying as he did so: "'Tain't a patchin', boys. Sell her agin, cap--sell her agin." So the purser, at a nod from the captain, put it up again, and the sale went on, each buyer in turn turning the certificate over to the purser, until the noble emulation covered the capstan with gold. "Stop a bit, purser," interrupted Captain M----, counting the money. "That will do," he continued. "The sale is over. Here are just two thousand dollars. The certificate of deposit is redeemed." XI SEEING THE SIGHTS IN 'FRISCO It was a fine, sunny afternoon when the _Pacific_ turned her prow landward, and stood straight on for a break in the rugged coast line, like a hound with its nose to the ground. In an hour she was moving swiftly through the far-famed Golden Gate. A fort loomed up at the right, then a semaphore was seen working on a hilltop. In ten minutes more the last point was rounded, the last gun fired, and the city, sprung like magic from the bleak hillsides of its noble bay, welcomed the weary travelers with open arms. The long voyage was ended. The wharf was already black with people when the steamer came in sight. When within hailing distance a perfect storm of greetings, questions, and answers was tossed from ship to shore. Our two friends scanned the unquiet throng in vain for the sight of one familiar face. No sooner did the gangplank touch the wharf than the crowd rushed pell-mell on board. Women were being clasped in loving arms. Men were frantically hugging each other. While this was passing on board, Walter and Bill made their escape to the pier, hale and hearty, but as hungry as bears. Forty days had passed since their long journey began. What next? Our two adventurers presently found themselves being hurried along with the crowd, without the most remote idea of where they were going. As soon as possible, however, Bill drew Walter to one side, to get their breath and to take their bearings, as he phrased it. "Well," said he, clapping Walter on the back, "here we be at last!" Walter was staring every passer-by in the face. From the moment he had set foot on shore his one controlling thought and motive had come back to him with full force. "Come, come, that's no way to set about the job," observed the practical-minded Bill. "One thing to a time. Let's get sumfin' t' eat fust; then we can set about it with full stomachs. How much have you got?" Walter drew from his pocket a solitary quarter-eagle, which looked astonishingly small as it lay there in the palm of his hand. Bill pulled out a handful of small change, amounting to half as much more. "But coppers don't pass here, nor anything else under a dime, I'm told," observed Walter. "No matter, they'll do for ballast," was Bill's reply, whose attention was immediately diverted to a tempting list of eatables chalked upon the door-post of a restaurant. Beginning at the top of the list, Bill began reading in an undertone, meditatively stroking his chin the while: "'Oxtail soup, one dollar.' H'm, that don't go down. 'Pigs' feet, one dollar each.' Let 'em run. 'Fresh Californy eggs, one dollar each.' Eggs is eggs out here. 'Corned beef, one dollar per plate.' No salt horse for Bill. 'Roast lamb, one dollar.' Baa! do they think we want a whole one? 'Cabbage, squash, or beans, fifty cents.' Will you look at that! Move on, Walt, afore they tax us for smellin' the cookin'. My grief!" he added with a long face, as they walked on, "I'm so sharp set that if a fun'ral was passin' along, I b'leeve I could eat the co'pse and chase the mo'ners." Fortunately, however, Bill was not driven to practice cannibalism, for just that moment a Chinaman came shuffling along, balancing a trayful of pies on his head. Bill was not slow in hailing the moon-eyed Celestial in pigtail, to which the old fellow could not resist giving a sly tweak, just for the fun of the thing: "Mawnin', John. Be you a Whig or Know-Nothin'?" at the same time helping himself to a juicy turn-over, and signing to Walter to do the same. "Me cakes. Melican man allee my fliend. Talkee true. You shabee, two bitee?" This last remark referred to the pie which Bill had just confiscated. Sauntering on, jostling and being jostled by people of almost every nation on the face of the earth, they soon reached the plaza, or great square of the city. Not many steps were taken here, when the strains of delicious music floated out to them from the wide-open doors of a building at their right hand. Attracted by the sweet sounds of "Home, Sweet Home," our two wayfarers peered in, and to Walter's amazement at least, brought up as he had been at home, for the first time in his life he found himself gazing into the interior of a gambling-house, in full swing and in broad daylight, like any legitimate business, courting the custom of every passer-by. "Walk in, gentlemen," said a suave-looking individual who was standing at the door. "Call for what you like. Everything's free here. Free lunch, free drinks, free cigars; walk in and try your luck." "'Walk into my parlor, sez the spider to the fly,'" was Bill's ironical comment upon this polite invitation. "Walt," he continued, a moment later, "I'm 'feared we throw'd our money away on that Chinee. Here's grub for nothin'." If they had only known it, the person they were looking for was inside that gambling den at that very moment. After rambling about until they were tired, the two companions looked up a place in which to get a night's lodging--a luxury which cost them seventy-five cents apiece for the temporary use of a straw mattress, a consumptive pillow, and a greasy blanket. After making the most frugal breakfast possible, it was found that their joint cash would provide, at the farthest, for only one meal more. The case began to look desperate. They were sitting on the sill of the wharf, silently ruminating on the situation, when the booming of a cannon announced the arrival of a steamer which had been signaled an hour earlier from Telegraph Hill. A swarm of people was already setting toward the plaza. The movement of a crowd is always magnetic, so Walter and Bill followed on in the same direction. When within two blocks of the plaza they saw a long zigzag line of men and boys strung out for that distance ahead of them, some standing, some leaning against a friendly awning, some squatted on the edge of the plank sidewalk, while newcomers were every moment lengthening out the already long queue. "What a long tail our cat's got!" was Bill's pithy remark. "Be they takin' the census, or what?" It was learned that all these people were impatiently waiting for the opening of the post-office, but how soon that event was likely to happen nobody could tell. So the men smoked, whistled, chaffed every late arrival, and waited. [Illustration: Waiting for the opening of the mail.--_Page 160._] On the instant Walter was struck with a bright idea. Charley had never written him one word, it is true; but as it was ten to one everybody in the city would be at the post-office during the day, this seemed as likely a place as any to meet with him. Shoving Bill into a vacant place in the line, Walter started toward the head of it, staring hard at every one, and being stared at in return, as he walked slowly along. When nearing the head, without seeing a familiar face, a man well placed in the line sang out, "I say, _hombre_, want a job?" "What job?" "Hold my place for me till I kin go git a bite to eat." "I would in a minute, only I can't stop. I'm looking for some one," said Walter, starting on. "You can't make five dollars no easier." This startling proposition to a young fellow who did not know where his next meal was coming from, hit Walter in his weak spot. "Talk fast. Is it a whack?" the hungry man demanded. "I've been here two hours a'ready; be back before you can say Jack Robinson." This singular bargain being struck, Walter stepped into line, when his file-leader turned to him with the remark, "Fool you hadn't stuck out for ten. That man runs a bank." "Does he?" Walter innocently inquired. "What kind of a bank?" "Faro-bank." A loud guffaw from the bystanders followed this reply. As soon as the hungry man came back to claim his place, and had paid over his five dollars, Walter hurried off to where he had left Bill, who stopped him in his story with the whispered words, "I seed him." "Him? Who? Not Charley?" "No; t'other duffer." Walter gave a low whistle. "Where? Here? Don't you see I'm all on fire?" "Right here. Breshed by me as large as life, and twice as sassy. Oh, I know'd him in spite of his baird. Sez I to myself, 'Walk along, sonny, and smoke your shugarette. Our turn's comin' right along.'" "Too bad, too bad you didn't follow him." Walter was starting off again, with a sort of blind purpose to find Ramon, collar him, and make him disgorge his ill-gotten gains on the spot, when Bill held him back. "Tut, tut, Walt," he expostulated, "if the lubber sees you before we're good and ready to nab him, won't he be off in a jiffy? Now we know he's here, ain't that something? So much for so much. Lay low and keep shady, is our best holt." To such sound reasoning Walter was fain to give in. Besides, Bill now insisted upon staying in the line until he could sell out too. With a jerk of the thumb, he pointed to where one or two patient waiters were very comfortably seated on camp-stools, and in a husky undertone proposed finding out where camp-stools could be had. Taking the hint, Walter started off, instanter, in search of a dealer in camp-stools, with whom he quickly struck a bargain for as many as he could carry, by depositing his half-eagle as security. The stools went off like hot cakes, and at a good profit. Bill, too, having got his price, by patient waiting, the two lucky speculators walked away to the first full meal they had eaten since landing, the richer by twenty dollars from the morning's adventure. Bill called it finding money; "just like pickin' it up in the street." XII AN UNEXPECTED MEETING It was getting along toward the middle of the afternoon when the two newly fledged speculators turned their steps to the waterside, Bill to have his after-dinner smoke in peace and quiet, while scanning with critical eye the various craft afloat in that matchless bay. Something he saw there arrested his attention wonderfully, by the way he grasped Walter's arm and stretched out his long neck. "Will you look! Ef that arn't the old _Argonaut_ out there in the stream, I'm a nigger. The old tub! She's made her last v'y'ge by the looks--topmasts sent down, hole in her side big 'nuff to drive a yoke of oxen through. Ain't she a beauty?" After taking a good look at the dismantled hulk, Walter agreed that it could be no other than the ship on which he and Charley met with their adventure just before she sailed. It did seem so like seeing an old friend that Walter was seized with an eager desire to go on board. Hailing a Whitehall boatman, they were quickly rowed off alongside, and in another minute found themselves once more standing on the _Argonaut's_ deck. A well-grown, broad-shouldered, round-faced young fellow, in a guernsey jacket and skull-cap, met them at the gangway. There were three shouts blended in one: "Walter!" "Charley!" "Well, I'm blessed!" Then there followed such a shaking of hands all round, such a volley of questions without waiting for answers, and of answers without waiting for questions, that it was some minutes before quiet was restored. Charley then took up the word: "Why, Walt, old fel'," holding him off at arm's length, "I declare I should hardly have known you with that long hair and that brown face. Yes; this is the _Argonaut_. She's a storeship now; and I'm ship-keeper." He then went on to explain that most of the fleet of ships moored ahead and astern were similarly used for storing merchandise, some merchants even owning their own storeships. "You see, it's safer and cheaper than keeping the stuff on shore to help make a bonfire of some dark night." "Don't you have no crew?" Bill asked. "No; we can hire lightermen, same's you hire truckmen in Boston. All those stores you see built out over the water get in their goods through a trap-door in the floor, with fall and tackle." It may well be imagined that these three reunited friends had a good long talk together that evening. Charley pulled a skillet out of a cupboard, on which he put some sliced bacon. Bill started a fire in the cabin stove, while Walter made the coffee. Presently the bacon began to sizzle and the coffee to bubble. Then followed a famous clattering of knives and forks, as the joyous trio set to, with appetites such as only California air can create. Walter told his story first. Charley looked as black as a thundercloud, as Ramon's villainy was being exposed. Bill gave an angry snort or grunt to punctuate the tale. Walter finished by saying bitterly, "I suppose it's like looking for a needle in a haystack." "Not quite so bad as that," was Charley's quick reply. "It's a pity if we three," throwing out his chest, "can't cook his goose for him. Bill has seen him. Didn't you say he gambled? Thought so. Oh, he won't be lonesome; there's plenty more here of that stripe. Gamblers, thieves, and sharks own the town. They do. It ain't safe to be out late nights alone, unless you've got a Colt or a Derringer handy, for fear of the Hounds." "The Hounds!" echoed Walter and Bill. "Yes, the Hounds; that's what they call the ruff-scuff here. There's a storm brewing," he added mysteriously, then suddenly changing the subject, he asked, "Where do you _hombres_ ranch?" "Under the blue kannerpy, I guess," said Bill in a heavy tragedian's voice. "Not by a jugful! You'll both stop aboard here with me. I'm cap'n, chief cook, and bottle-washer. Bill's cut out for a lighterman, so he's as good as fixed. Something 'll turn up for Walt." "What did you mean by ranching?" Walter asked. "This is it. This is my ranch. You hire a room or a shanty, do your own cooking and washing, roll yourself up in your blanket at night and go it alone, as independent as a hog on ice. Oh, you'll soon get used to it, never fear, and like it too; bet your life. Women's as scarce as hens' teeth out here. You can't think it. Why, man alive, a nice, well-dressed lady is such a curiosity that I've seen all hands run out o' doors to get a sight of one passin' by. Come, Bill, bear a hand, and pull an armful of gunny-bags out of that bale for both your beds. Look out for that candle! That's a keg of blastin' powder you're settin' on, Walt! If I'd only known I was goin' to entertain company I'd 'a' swep' up a bit. Are you all ready? Then one, two, three, and out she goes." And with one vigorous puff out went the light. When Bill turned out in the morning he found Charley already up and busying himself with the breakfast things. "What's this 'ere craft loaded with?" was his first question. "Oh, a little of everything, assorted, you can think of, from gunny-bags to lumber." Walter was sitting on a locker, with one boot on and the other in his hand, listening. At hearing the word lumber he pricked up his ears. "That reminds me," he broke in. "Bright & Company shipped a cargo out here; dead loss; they said it was rotting in the ship that brought it." Charley stopped peeling a potato to ask her name. "The _Southern Cross_." "Bark?" "Yes, a bark." "Well, p'r'aps now that ain't queer," Charley continued. "That's her moored just astern of us. Never broke bulk; ship and cargo sold at auction to pay freight and charges. Went dirt cheap. My boss, he bought 'em in on a spec. And a mighty poor spec it's turned out. Why, everybody's got lumber to burn." Charley seemed so glum over it that Walter was about to drop the subject, when Charley resumed it. "You see, boys," he began, "here's where the shoe pinches. I had scraped together a tidy little sum of my own, workin' on ship work at big wages, sometimes for this man, sometimes for that. I was thinkin' all the while of buying off those folks at home who fitted me out (Walt here knows who I mean), when along comes my boss and says to me, 'I say, young feller, you seem a busy sort of chap. I've had my eye on you some time. Now, I tell you what I'll do with you. No nonsense now. Got any dust?' 'A few hundreds,' says I. 'Well, then,' says he, 'I don't mind givin' you a lift. Here's this _Southern Cross_ goin' to be sold for the freight. I'll buy it in on halves. You pay what you can down on the nail, the rest when we sell out at a profit. _Sabe?_' Like a fool I jumped at the chance." "Well, what ails you?" growled the irrepressible Bill; "that 'ar ship can't git away, moored with five fathoms o' chain, can she? Pine boards don't eat nor drink nothin', do they?" "Who said they did?" Charley tartly retorted. It was plain to see that with him the _Southern Cross_ was a sore subject. "Waal, 'tain't ushil to cry much over bein' a lumber king, is it?" persisted Bill, in his hectoring way. "Down East, whar I come from, they laugh and grow fat." "You don't hear me through. Listen to this: My partner went off to Australia seven or eight months ago, to settle up some old business there, he said. I've not heard hide nor hair of him since. Every red cent I'd raked and scraped is tied up hard and fast in that blamed old lumber. Nobody wants it; and if they did, I couldn't give a clean bill o' sale. Now, you know, Walt, why I never sent you nothin'!" Walter was struck with an odd idea. In a laughing sort of way, half in jest, half in earnest, he said, "You needn't worry any more about what you owe me, Charley; I don't; but if it will ease your mind any, I'll take as much out in lumber as will make us square, and give you a receipt in full in the bargain." "You will?" Charley exclaimed, with great animation. "By George!" slapping his knee, "it's a bargain. Take my share for what I owe you and welcome." "Pass the papers on't, boys. Put it in black an' white; have everything fair and square," interjected the methodical Bill. Charley brought out pen and ink, tore a blank leaf out of an account book, and prepared himself to write the bill of sale. "Hold on!" cried Walter, who seemed to be in a reckless mood this morning. "Put in that I'm to have the refusal of the other half of the cargo for ninety days at cost price. In for a penny, in for a pound," he laughed, by way of reply to Charley's wondering look. For a minute or two nothing was heard except the scratching of Charley's busy pen. Walter's face was a study. Bill seemed lost in wonder. "There. Down it is," said Charley, signing the paper with a flourish. "'Pears to me as if we was doin' a big business on a small capital this morning. And now it's done, what on earth did you do it for, Walt?" "Oh, I've an idea," said Walter, assuming an air of impenetrable mystery. "Have your own way," rejoined Charley, whose mind seemed lightened of its heavy load. "Here, Bill, you put these dirty dishes in that bread pan, douse some hot water over them--there! Now look in that middle locker and you'll find a bunch of oakum to wipe 'em with. Walter, you get a bucket of water from the cask with the pump in it, on deck, and fill up the b'iler." Under Charley's active directions the breakfast things were soon cleared away. Walter then asked to be put on shore, giving as a reason that he must find something to do without delay. "Whereabouts do they dig gold here?" he innocently asked. At this question Charley laughed outright. He then told Walter how the diggings were reached from there, pointing out the steamboats plying to "up-country" points, and then to distant Monte Diablo as the landmark of the route. "There ain't no actual diggin's here in 'Frisco," he went on to say, "but there's gold enough for them as is willin' to work for it, and has sense enough not to gamble or drink it all away. Mebbe you won't get rich quite so fast, and then again mebbe you will. _Quien sabe?_" "Queer sitivation for a lumber king," grumbled Bill. "I didn't come out here to get rich; you know I didn't," said Walter excitedly, rising and putting on his cap with an air of determination. "Easy now," urged Charley, putting an arm around Walter; "now don't you go running all over town in broad daylight after that fellow. Better send out the town crier, and done with it. That's not the way to go to work. Do you s'pose a chap in his shoes won't be keepin' a sharp lookout for himself? Bet your life. Yes, sir-ee! Now, look here. My idee is not to disturb the nest until we ketch the bird. This is my plan. We three 'll put in our nights ranging about town, lookin' into the gambling dens, saloons, and hotels. If the skunk is hidin' that's the time he'll come out of his hole, eh, Bill?" "Sartin sure," was the decided reply. "Well, then, Walt, hear to reason. Don't you see that if there's anything to be done, the night's our best holt to do it in?" Walter was not more than half convinced. "Couldn't I have him arrested on the strength of the handbill Marshal Tukey got out, offering a reward, and describing Ramon to a hair? See, here it is," drawing it out of an inside pocket and holding it up to view. "I could swear to him, you know, and so could Bill." "On a stack of Bibles," Bill assented. "Let me see it," Charley demanded, rapidly running his eye over the precious document. "'Five hundred dollars reward!' Five hundred fiddlesticks! Why, he'd go five hundred better and be off in a jiffy, with just a nod and a wink from the officers to keep out of the way a while." Having expressed this opinion, Charley tossed the handbill on the table with a disdainful sniff. Walter was dumb. He had actually thought for a whole month that the mere sight of this accusing piece of paper would make the guilty wretch fall on his knees and beg for mercy. And to be told now that it was only so much waste paper struck him speechless. Charley again came to the rescue. "Come, come; don't stand there looking as if you'd lost every friend you had on earth, but brace up. If you'd wanted to have that robber arrested, you should have gone a different way to work--'cordin' to law." "What's to be done, then?" "My idee is like this. Californy law is no good, anyhow. It's on the side that has most dust. But here's three of us and only one of him. We can lay for him, get him into some quiet corner, and then frighten him into doing what we say. How's that?" "Capital! Just the thing. I always said you had the best head of the three." "All right, then," cried Charley in his old, sprightly way; "I give you both a holiday, so you can see the sights. Walter, you take care that Bill don't get lost or stolen." "Me take care o' him, you mean," Bill retorted. Getting into the boat the two friends then pulled for the shore. Walter's first remark, as they slowly sauntered along, was: "What a wooden-looking town! Wooden houses, wooden sidewalks, plank streets. It looks as if everything had sprung up in a night." And so it had. At this time the city was beginning to work its way out from the natural beach toward deeper water; for as deep water would not come to the city, the city had to go out to deep water. And as many of the coming streets were as yet only narrow footways, thrust out over the shallow waters of the bay, the entire ragged waterfront seemed cautiously feeling its way toward its wished-for goal. Cheap one-story frame buildings were following these extensions of new and old streets, as fast as piles could be driven for them, so that a famous clattering of hammers was going on on every side from morning to night. The two friends soon had an exciting experience. Just ahead of them, a dray was being driven down the wharf at a rapid rate, making the loose planks rattle again. In turning out to let another dray pass him, the driver of the first went too near the edge of the wharf, when the weight of horse and dray suddenly tilted the loose planks in the air, the driver gave a yell, and over into the dock went horse, dray, and man with a tremendous splash. It was all done so quickly that Walter and Bill stood for a moment without stirring. Fortunately their boat was only a few rods off, so both ran back for her in a hurry. A few strokes brought them to where the frightened animal was still helplessly floundering in the water, dragged down by the weight of the dray. The man was first pulled into the boat, dripping wet. Bill then cut the traces with his sheath-knife, while the drayman held the struggling animal by the bit. He was then towed to the beach safe and sound. By this time a crowd had collected. Seeing his rescuers pushing off, the drayman elbowed his way out of the crowd, and shouted after them, "I say, you, _hombres_, this ain't no place to take a bath, is it? This ain't no place to be bashful. Come up to my stand, Jackson and Sansome, and ask for Jack Furbish." "Is your name Furbish?" asked Bill, resting on his oars. "Yes; why?" "Oh, nothin', only we lost a man overboard onct off Cape Horn. His name was Furbish." "Well, 'twarn't me. I was lost overboard from Pacific Wharf. Jackson and Sansome! Git up, Jim!" bringing his blacksnake smartly down on his horse's steaming flanks. XIII IN WHICH A MAN BREAKS INTO HIS OWN STORE, AND STEALS HIS OWN SAFE Walter's idea, as far as he had thought it out, was to hold on to this lumber cargo until Mr. Bright could be notified just how the matter stood. Should the merchant then choose to take any steps toward recovering the cargo of the _Southern Cross_, Walter thought this act on his part might go far to remove the unjust suspicions directed against himself. For this reason he had secured, as we have seen, a refusal of the cargo long enough for a letter to go and return. Walter now set about writing his letter, but he now found that what had seemed so simple at first was no easy matter. As he sat staring vacantly at the blank paper before him, tears came into his eyes; for again the trying scene in the merchant's counting-room rushed vividly upon his memory. An evil voice within him said, "Why should I trouble myself about those who have so ill-used me and robbed me of my good name?" Yet another, and gentler, voice answered, "Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you." Compressing his lips resolutely, he succeeded in writing a very formal letter, not at all like what he had intended. But the main thing was to make himself clearly understood. So he carefully studied every word before putting it down in black and white, as follows: "MR. BRIGHT, "_Sir_: This is to inform you of my being here. I could not bear to be suspected of dishonesty when I knew I was innocent of wrongdoing. So I left. This is to inform you that the _Southern Cross_ is in charge of my friend Mr. Charles Wormwood. You may recollect him. He is a fine young man. Between us, we've got hold of half the cargo, and I have the refusal of the other half for ninety days. The man who owns it has gone away. If you think it worth while, send directions to somebody here what to do about it. This is a great country, only I'm afraid it will burn up all the time. "Your true friend, "WALTER SEABURY." While on his way uptown to post his letter, Walter heard a familiar voice call out, "Hi, _hombre_! lookin' for a job?" It was the drayman of yesterday's adventure, placidly kicking his heels on the tail of his dray. Walter candidly admitted that he would like something to do. The drayman spoke up briskly: "Good enough. Not afraid of dirty hands? No? Good again. Got some _plata_? No? Cleaned out, eh? So was I. Say, there's a first-rate handcart stand, on the next corner above here, I've had my eye on for some time. More people pass there in a day than any other in 'Frisco. Talk biz. That comer has been waiting for you, or it would 'a' been snapped up long ago. No job less than six bits. You can make anywhere from five to ten dollars a day. Come, what do you say? Do we hitch hosses or not?" Walter had a short struggle with his pride. It did seem rather low, to be sure, to be pushing a handcart through the streets, like the rag-men seen at home, but beggars should not be choosers, he reflected. So, putting his pride in his pocket, the bargain was closed without more words. Certainly Walter's best friends would hardly have known him when he made his first appearance on the stand, bright and early next morning, rigged out in a gray slouch hat, red woolen shirt, and blue overalls tucked into a pair of stout cowhide boots. His face, too, was beginning to show signs of quite a promising beard which Walter was often seen caressing as if to make sure it was still there overnight and which, indeed, so greatly altered his looks that he now felt little fear of being recognized by Ramon, should they happen to meet some day unexpectedly in the street. Walter ranched with his employer in a loft. With a hammer, a saw, and some nails, he had soon knocked together a bunk out of some old packing boxes. In this he slept on a straw mattress also of his own make, with a pair of coarse blankets for bedclothes. Another packing box, a water pail, a tin wash-basin, towel, and soap comprised all necessary conveniences, with which the morning toilet was soon made. The bed required no making. Rather primitive housekeeping, to be sure; yet Walter soon learned, from actual observation, that a majority of the merchants, some of whom were reputed worth their hundreds of thousands, were no better lodged than himself. On the whole, Walter rather liked his new occupation, as soon as his first awkwardness had worn off. Here, at any rate, he was his own master, and Walter had always chafed at being ordered about by boys no older than himself. Then, he liked the hearty, democratic way in which everybody greeted everybody. It made things move along much more cheerfully. Walter was attentive. Business was good. At the close of each day he handed over his earnings to his employer, who kept his own share, punctually returning Walter the rest. "You'll be buyin' out Sam Brannan one of these days, if you keep on as you're goin'," was Furbish's encouraging remark, as he figured up Walter's earnings at twenty-five dollars, at the end of the first week. "Who's Sam Brannan?" "Not know who Sam Brannan is?" asked the drayman, lifting his eyebrows in amazement. "He's reputed the richest man in 'Frisco. Owns a big block on Montgomery Street. Income's two thousand a day, they tell me." Walter could only gape, open-mouthed, in astonishment. The bare idea of any one man possessing such unheard-of wealth was something that he had never dreamed of. "Fact," repeated the drayman, observing Walter's look of incredulity. The restaurant at which Walter took his meals, until circumstances suggested a change, was one of the institutions peculiar to the San Francisco of that day. An old dismantled hulk had been hauled up alongside the wharf, the spar-deck roofed over, and some loose boards, laid upon wooden trestles, made to serve the purpose of a table, while the ship's caboose performed its customary office of scullery and kitchen. The restaurant keeper was evidently new to the business, for he was in the habit of urging his customers to have a second helping of everything, much to the annoyance of his wife, who did the cooking. This woman was one of the class locally known as Sydney Ducks, from the fact that she had come from Australia under the sanction of a ticket-of-leave. She was fat, brawny, red-faced, and quick-tempered,--in fact, fiery,--and when out of sorts gave her tongue free license. The pair were continually quarreling at meal-times, regardless of the presence of the boarders, some of whom took a malicious pleasure in egging on the one or the other when words failed them. But it happened more than once that, when words failed, man and wife began shying plates, or cups and saucers, at each other's head, which quickly cleared the table of boarders. Walter stood this sort of thing stoically until, one noon, when he was just entering the dining room, a flat-iron came whizzing by him, narrowly missing his head. The language that accompanied it showed madam to be mistress of the choicest Billingsgate in profusion. By the time a second flat-iron sailed through the door Walter was a block away, and still running. It was shrewdly surmised that man and wife had broken up housekeeping. Meanwhile the search for Ramon was faithfully kept up, yet so far with no better success than if the ground had opened and swallowed him up. Nobody knew a person of the name of Ingersoll. No doubt he had assumed another less incriminating. A decoy letter dropped in the post-office remained there unclaimed until sent to the dead-letter office. "Fool if he hadn't changed his name," muttered Bill, as Walter and he stood at a street corner, looking blankly into each other's face. They were taking their customary stroll uptown in the evening, when the big bell on the plaza suddenly clanged out an alarm of fire. There was no appearance of fire anywhere,--no shooting flames, no smoke, no red glare in the sky,--yet every one seemed flocking, as if by a common understanding, toward the Chinese quarter. Catching the prevailing excitement, the three friends pressed forward with the crowd, which at every step was visibly increasing. Upon reaching the point where the fire-engines were already hard at work, the crowd grew more and more dense, shouts and cries broke out here and there, lights were glancing hither and thither, and still no sign of fire could be detected. What could it all mean? It meant that by a secret understanding among the firemen, winked at by the city authorities, the fire department was "cleaning out" the Chinese quarter, which had become an intolerable nuisance, dangerous to health on account of the filthy habits of the moon-eyed Celestials. The fire lads were only too willing to undertake the job, which promised to be such a fine lark, and at the first tap of the bells they had rushed their machines to the indicated spot, run their hose into the houses, and, regardless of the screams and howlings of the frightened inmates, who were wildly running to and fro in frantic efforts to escape, a veritable deluge of water was being poured upon them from a dozen streams, fairly washing the poor devils out of house and home, some by the doors, some by leaping out of the windows, and some by the roofs. Whenever one made his appearance, the shouts of the mob would direct the firemen where to point their powerful streams, which quickly sent the unresisting victim rolling in the dirt, from which he scrambled to his feet more dead than alive. Meantime the Chinese quarter had been thoroughly drenched, inside and out, the terrified inhabitants scattered in every direction, their belongings utterly ruined either by water or by being thrown into the street pell-mell, and they themselves chased and hunted from pillar to post like so many rats drowned out of their holes by an inundation, until the last victim had fled beyond the reach of pursuit. When the whole district had been thus depopulated the vast throng turned homeward in great good humor at having shown those miserable barbarians how things were done in civilized America. Time slipped away in this manner, and gradually the edge was being taken off from the keenness of the search, though never completely lost sight of. Not a nook or corner of the town had been left unvisited, and still no Ramon. It was, even as Walter had first described it, quite like looking for a needle in a haystack. One morning Walter was called to help Furbish move some goods from a downtown wharf to a certain warehouse uptown. The owner was found standing among his belongings, which were piled and tossed about helter-skelter, in a state of angry excitement, which every now and then broke forth in muttered threats and snappy monosyllables, directed to a small crowd of bystanders who had been attracted to the spot. "There'll be some hanging done round here before long," he muttered, scowling darkly at two or three rough-looking men, each armed with a brace of pistols, who stood with their backs against the door of the building from which the man's goods had been so hastily thrown out. This building stood on one of the new streets spoken of in a former chapter as built out over the water, or on what was then known as a water-lot. It seems that the title to this lot was claimed by two parties. The late occupant had taken a lease from one claimant for a term of years, and had built a store upon the lot, wholly ignorant that another party claimed it. He had punctually paid his rent to his landlord every month, and was therefore dumfounded when, late one afternoon, the second claimant, armed with an order of a certain judge and accompanied by a sheriff's posse, walked into his store, and after demanding payment of all back rents, which was stoutly refused, promptly ejected the unfortunate tenant, neck and heels, from his place of business. His goods were then thrown out into the street after him, and the door locked against him, with an armed guard keeping possession. This was the state of things when Furbish and Walter arrived on the ground. "It's a wicked shame," declared Walter indignantly. "Makes business good for us," was Furbish's careless reply. Then lowering his voice, he added, "Talk low and keep shady. Mark my words. There'll be hanging done before long," thus unconsciously echoing the very words of the dispossessed tenant. Walter took the hint. He stared, it is true, but went to work without further comment, though he could see that the sympathy of the crowd was clearly with the unfortunate tenant. When the last load had been carted away, the crowd slowly dispersed, leaving only the surly-looking guards on the spot. "Is all out?" demanded Furbish of the merchant, nodding his head toward the empty building. "All but my safe. I want that bad; but you see these robbers won't let me in. It was too heavy for them to move, or they were too lazy, and now they won't even let me take my papers out of it. Curse them!" "Got the key?" "Oh, yes! That's all safe in my pocket. But what's a man going to do with a key?" "You want that safe bad?" "I'd give a hundred dollars for it this minute; yes, two hundred." Furbish now held a whispered colloquy with Walter. "Do you think your friends would take a hand?" "Oh, I'll answer for them," was the ready reply. "Enough said." A place of meeting was then fixed upon, after which the three conspirators went their several ways--Furbish to mature his plan of action, the merchant to nurse his new-found hopes, Walter to enlist his two friends in the coming adventure. Charley was in high spirits at the prospect. Bill thought it a risky piece of business, but if his boys were going to take a hand in it he would have to go too. Charley put an end to further argument by declaring that it was a burning shame if a man couldn't go into his own store after his own property, law or no law. For his part, he was bound to see the thing through. Walter stipulated that there should be no violence used, and that he should not be asked to enter the building if it was found to be still in the hands of the sheriff's men. Just at midnight a row-boat, with an empty lighter in tow, put off from the _Argonaut's_ side, care being taken to keep in the deep shadows as much as possible. Not a word was exchanged as the tow was quietly brought to the place agreed upon, where it lay completely hidden from curious eyes, if any such had been abroad at that hour. As the lighter lightly grazed the wharf a dark figure stole cautiously out from the shadow cast by a neighboring warehouse, and dropped into the hands stretched out to receive it: still another followed, and the party, now complete, held a short council in whispers. Furbish had reconnoitered the store, finding only one watchman on guard outside. Yet he was positive that there were two or more inside, as he had seen a light shining through a crevice in the window-shutters, which suddenly disappeared while he was watching it. The evicted merchant then explained that this light must have come from the little office, at the right hand of the street door, where he usually slept. This information confirmed the belief that the men inside had turned in until their turn should come to relieve the guard outside. If this should prove true, the midnight intruders felt that they would have a more easy task than they had supposed. This, however, remained to be seen. After listening to a minute description of the store, inside and out, Furbish gave the signal to proceed. Making the boat fast to the scow's stern, the latter was poled along in the shadows of the wharves until, under Bill's skillful guidance, she glided between the two piers which supported the building that the party was in search of. All listened intently for any sound indicating that their approach had been detected. As all seemed safe, the scow was quickly made fast directly underneath the trap-door contrived for hoisting up merchandise into the store by means of a block and tackle secured to a stout rafter overhead--an operation at which Charley had often assisted. It was, therefore, through this same trap-door that the intruders now meant to effect an entrance. But a first attempt, very cautiously made, to raise it, proved it to be bolted on the inside. This contingency, however, had been provided against, for Charley now produced a large auger, on which he rubbed some tallow to deaden the sound, while the merchant held a dark lantern in such a way as to show Charley where to use his tool to advantage. Very cautiously, and with frequent pauses to listen, a large hole was bored next to the place where the bolt shot into the socket. Two or three minutes were occupied in this work. Charley then succeeded in drawing back the bolt with his fingers, a little at a time, when the trap was carefully lifted far enough to let the merchant squeeze his body through it, and so up into the store. As this was felt to be the critical moment, those who were left below listened breathlessly for any sound from above, as the trap was immediately lowered after the merchant passed through it. It was, of course, pitch-dark in the store, but knowing the way as well in the dark as in the daytime, and being in his stocking-feet, the merchant stood only a moment to listen. Out of the darkness the sleeping watchmen could be heard snoring heavily away in the little corner office. Groping his way with cat-like tread, the merchant, with two or three quick turns of the wrist, screwed a gimlet into the woodwork of the office door, over the latch, thus securely fastening the sleepers in. Observing the same precautions, he then felt for the lock on the front door, and finding the key in the lock he turned it softly, putting the key in his pocket. Even should they awake, the watchmen inside the office could only get out by breaking down the door; while their comrade outside would be kept from coming to their assistance. The merchant had certainly shown himself not only to be a man of nerve, but no mean strategist. The merchant having signaled that all was safe, all the rest of the party, except Walter, immediately joined him. The safe was speedily located, some loose gunny-bags were spread upon the floor to deaden the sound, two stout slings were quickly passed around the safe, the tackle hooked on, and in less than ten minutes the object of the adventure was safely lowered into the lighter. No time was lost in getting the scow clear of her dangerous berth, nor was it until they had put a long stretch of water behind them that the adventurers breathed freely. The daring midnight burglary was duly chronicled in the evening papers as one of the boldest and most successful known to the criminal annals of San Francisco. Would it be believed, it was asked, that with three heavily armed guards on the watch inside and outside of the building, the burglars had actually succeeded in carrying off so bulky an article as an iron safe under the very noses of these alleged guardians? Connivance on their part was strongly hinted at. The police were on the track of the gang who did the job, and the public might rest assured that when caught they would be given short shrift. The burglars were supposed to have sunk the safe in the harbor after rifling it of its contents. XIV CHARLEY AND WALTER GO A-GUNNING Charley frequently came ashore in the evening, leaving Bill in charge of the ship. Walter ranched at Clark's Point, near the waterside, and only a few steps from the landing place. The neighborhood, to tell the truth, did not bear a very good reputation, it being a resort for sailors of all nations, whose nightly carousals in the low dramshops generally kept the place in an uproar till morning, and often ended in bloodshed. Walter was busily engaged in sewing up a rip in his overalls, meantime humming to himself snatches of "The Old Folks at Home," when Charley came stamping into the room. Seating himself on an empty nail-keg, he proceeded to free his mind in the following manner: "You've been working pretty steady now for--how long?" "Three months last Monday," assisted Walter, consulting a chalk mark on the wall. "Long 'nuff to entitle you to a bit of a vacation, I'm a-thinkin'. What say to takin' a little gunnin' trip up country? Bill knows the ropes now pretty well. A friend of mine 'll lend me the shootin' fixin's. Couldn't you get off for a few days, think? Come, get that Ramon chap out of your head for a bit. It's wearin' on you." Walter jumped at the offer. Thus far he had never set foot out of the city, and Charley, an enthusiast in anything that he had set his mind upon, now portrayed the delights of a tramp among the foothills of the Coast Range in glowing colors. Walter easily found a substitute for the few days he expected to be away, while Charley had nobody's permission to ask. So the very next afternoon saw the two sportsmen crossing the ferry to Contra Costa, Charley carrying a rifle and Walter a shotgun, the necessary traps for camping out being divided equally between them. "I only hope we may set eyes on a grizzly," Charley remarked, slapping the breech of his rifle affectionately, as they stepped on shore. "That's why I chose this feller," he added. "Better let grizzlys alone. From all I hear they're pretty tough customers," was Walter's cautious comment. "I don't care. Just you wait till I see one, that's all. I'm all fixed for him--lock, stock, and barrel." They soon struck into the well-beaten road leading to the Coast Range, and after steadily tramping until dark entered a small settlement where travelers, coming and going over this route, usually put up for the night. A night's lodging was soon arranged for at the only public house that the place could afford, and after eating a hearty supper, and leaving word with the landlord to call them up as soon as it was light in the morning, the two amateur hunters were glad to tumble into bed. The house was a two-story frame building, with the second-story windows in front opening upon a veranda, after the Southern style of public houses. The air being hot and close in their room, Walter threw up a window the first thing upon going into it. He saw that one might easily step out from the room onto the veranda, or in, for that matter. Then, there was no lock on the door, but as neither he nor Charley was afraid of being robbed, the want of a lock did not prevent their going to sleep as soon as they struck their beds. It is probable that they did not even turn over once during the night. Walter was awakened by the sound of a gentle scratching, or tapping, at the door. Upon opening his eyes he perceived that it was beginning to be quite light. He listened until the sound was repeated, sat up in bed, and being satisfied that it must be some one calling them to get up, slipped out of bed, yawning and stretching himself, went to the door, half opened it, and, still only half awake, peered out. What he saw made him start back in affright, and his hair to rise up on his head In an instant. Standing erect on his hind feet, clumsily beating the air with his forepaws and lolling out a long red tongue, was an enormous, shaggy grizzly bear at least a foot taller than Walter himself. One look was enough. Giving one yell, Walter made a dash for the open window, leaped out upon the veranda, vaulted over it, and grasping firm hold of the railing, let himself drop down into the street. Imagining that the bear was close behind, he incontinently took to his heels, not even turning to look back over his shoulder to see what had become of Charley. Startled out of a sound sleep by Walter's cry of alarm, Charley threw off the bedclothes, rubbed his eyes, and, with their aid, saw the bear waddling with rolling gait into the room on all fours. He too made a dash for the window, adopting without hesitation the only route of escape open to him. The bear quickly followed suit, sliding with ease down an upright, and, on touching the ground, immediately set off after the fugitives, upon whom the discovery that the bear was after them acted like a spur upon a mettled charger. They no longer ran, they flew. [Illustration: The hunters hunted by a grizzly bear.--_Page 208._] Up to this hour the village had not shaken off its slumbers, but the frantic shouts of the fugitives, who saw that the faster they ran the faster ran the bear, quickly aroused other sleepers from their morning nap. Dogs began to bark and give chase to the bear. Windows began to be thrown up, and heads to appear at them. Still the race for life continued. Bruin was evidently gaining upon the fugitives, who could not much longer keep up the pace at which they were going. Feeling his breath failing him, Charley, who was a few rods behind Walter, had even almost made up his mind to stop short in his tracks, face about, and let the bear work its will upon him, so giving his bosom friend a chance to escape. Fortunately, however, this heroic self-sacrifice was not to be made. At the last house a street door was seen very cautiously to open, while a head protruded from it. Ceremony here was quite out of the question. Walter instantly dashed into this welcome haven of refuge, with Charley, now quite spent, at his heels, overturning the man of the house in their mad rush for safety. It took but a moment to shut and bolt the door, and, as if that was not enough, Walter braced his back against it, panting and breathless. Only when this was done, did the two friends draw a free breath. Both were completely done up. Excited by the chase, enraged at seeing his victims escaping, the bear snuffed the air, pawed at the door, swayed his huge bulk to and fro, and gave vent to his rage in loud and unearthly roarings that could be heard by every inhabitant of the village. Meantime the man into whose premises the two young men had so unceremoniously entered, after taking a good look at the bear out of the window, almost bent double in the effort to control his laughter. "Why, boys," said he, between fits of choking, "that's Jem Stackpole's tame grizzly." He had recognized the animal now holding them besieged as one that had been taken when a cub, and brought up by the landlord of the public house from which the boys had made their sudden exit, as an object of curiosity to his guests. The iron collar which Bruin still wore confirmed this account. It was all plain enough now. Having contrived to free himself from his chain, the bear had easily gained access to the house by climbing up the before-mentioned veranda bear-fashion. He was considered quite harmless, the man explained, but on seeing the young men run away the bear had run after them, at first out of mere playfulness. So Walter and Charley had been running a race with a tame grizzly, through the public street of the village, in broad daylight, in their night clothes. By this time something of a crowd had collected, all tongues going at once. The laugh of course went against the boys, though some were in favor of shooting the bear, and so putting an end to his wild pranks. His master, however, who now came forward with a pitchfork in one hand and an earthenware dish containing a stiff mixture of whisky and honey in the other, objected to having the bear killed, although the creature was now so ferocious that no one dared to go near him. Setting the dish down upon the ground, and silently waving the crowd back, the man began calling the bear by his pet name of "Rusty" in a coaxing tone, and presently Bruin, having scented the seductive mixture, marched toward it and began lapping it up, occasionally emitting a fierce growl by way of notifying the bystanders to keep their distance. By the time the dish was licked clean Bruin was dead-drunk and rolling helplessly in the dirt. His chain was then securely fastened on, and the brute ignominiously dragged off to the stable to sleep off his potations. Walter and Charley were compelled to borrow a pair of trousers apiece before they could venture back to the public house, the observed of all observers. Needless to say, they made all haste to leave the inhospitable spot. Upon calling for their bill, the landlord declared there was nothing to pay, and, with a straight face, politely hoped they would recommend his house to their friends. Walter insisted upon paying, but the landlord was firm. The fame of the tame-bear hunt would attract customers to his house, he said. Under the circumstances he could not think of making any charge whatever. When they were well out of the village, Charley, who had maintained a dogged silence, suddenly turned to Walter and exclaimed, "I won't tell if you won't!" "Don't be a ninny," was the curt reply. "If I'd only had my rifle!" muttered Charley, who, all the same, could not forbear looking backward every few minutes as they trudged on. The disconsolate pair made their way up among the foothills, but neither seemed to be in the right mood for keen sportsmen, or else game was not so plenty as they had expected to find it. After Charley had blown the nipple out of his rifle in firing at a coyote, and Walter had shot half a dozen rabbits, which, though wounded, succeeded in reaching their holes and crawling into them, the twain willingly turned their faces homeward. Footsore and weary, but with appetites sharpened by their long tramp, they were only too glad to set foot once again in the streets of the city. With a brief "So long, Charley," "So long, Walt," "Mum, you know," "Hope to die," they separated to go their respective ways. XV THE YOUNG VIGILANTES While on his way to work on Saturday morning, full of his own thoughts, Walter could not help noticing the absence of the usual bustle and movement in the streets. If the shops had not been open, he would have thought it was Sunday, instead of the last day of the week. All business seemed to be at a standstill. Merchants stood outside their doors, glancing uneasily up and down the street and from time to time holding whispered talks with their neighbors. Every one wore a sober face; every one seemed expecting something to happen. But what was it? What could it be? Yesterday Walter would have passed along the same streets hardly noticed. To-day he wondered why everybody stared at him so. Furbish was about starting off on his dray when Walter reached the stand. He, too, hardly replied when Walter gave him the customary "Good-morning." What could it all mean? Suddenly the big bell on the plaza thundered out three heavy strokes--one, two, three, and no more--boom! boom! boom! To the last day of his life Walter never forgot the sight that followed. At the first stroke of that deep-toned bell the strange quiet burst its bounds. Those already in the streets started off on the run for the plaza. Those who were indoors rushed out, buckling on their weapons as they ran. Workmen threw down their tools to join in the race. Furbish jumped off his dray, shouting to Walter as he ran, "Come on! Don't you hear it?" There was no noise except the trampling of feet. Nobody asked a question of his neighbor. But every eye wore a look of grim determination, as if some matter of life and death dwelt in the imperious summons of that loud alarm-bell. After gazing a moment in utter bewilderment, Walter started off on the run with the rest. He, too, had caught the infection. The distance was nothing. He found the plaza already black with people. Beyond him, above the heads of the crowd, he saw a glittering line of bayonets; nearer at hand men were pouring out of a building at the right, with muskets in their hands. Walter stood on tiptoe. Some one was speaking to the crowd from an open window fronting the plaza, but Walter was too far off to catch a single word. The vast throng was as still as death. Then as the speaker put some question to vote, one tremendous "aye" went up from a thousand throats. It was the voice of an outraged people pronouncing the doom of evil-doers. By the gleam of satisfaction on the faces around him, Walter knew that something of unusual moment had just been decided upon. Burning with curiosity he timidly asked his nearest neighbor what it all meant. First giving him a blank look the man addressed curtly replied, "Get a morning paper," then moved off with the crowd, which was already dispersing, leaving the plaza in quiet possession of a body of citizen soldiers, with sentinels posted, and the strong arm of a new power uplifted in its might. That power was the dreaded Vigilantes, organized, armed, and ready for the common protection. Though terribly in earnest, it was by far the most orderly multitude Walter remembered ever having seen, and he had seen many. In the newspaper he read what everybody else already knew, that one of the most prominent citizens had been brutally murdered in cold blood by a well-known gambler, in a crowded street and at an early hour of the previous evening. The victim's only provocation consisted in having spoken out like a man against the monstrous evils under which the law-abiding citizens had so long and so silently been groaning. This murder was the last straw. The murderer had been promptly taken by members of the secret Committee of Vigilance; the trial had been swift; and the hangman's noose was being made ready for its victim. The account closed with a burning appeal to all law-abiding citizens, at every cost, to rid the city of the whole gang of gamblers, thieves, and outlaws infesting it like a plague. "When the sworn officers of the law are so notoriously in league with such miscreants, nothing is left for the people but to rise in their might. _Vox populi, vox Dei!_ Down with the Hounds!" Charley and Bill were quietly eating their noonday meal, when Walter burst into the _Argonaut's_ cabin in a state of wild excitement. Without stopping to take breath, he rapidly related what he had seen and heard that morning, while his listeners sat with wide-open eyes until the tale was finished. For a few moments the three friends stared at each other in silence. Ever prompt, Charley was the first to break it. Jumping to his feet, he struck the haft of his knife on the table with such force as to set the dishes rattling, then waving it in the air he cried out exultingly, "Now we've got him!" As the others made no reply except to look askance, he went on to say, "Don't you see that, foxy as he is, Ramon will be smoked out of his hole? Didn't I tell you there would be hanging before long? Why, there won't be one of his kidney left in 'Frisco inside of a week." "You're right," said Walter, "for as I came along I saw men putting up posters ordering all criminals out of the city, on pain of being put on board an outbound vessel and shipped off out of the country." "Good enough for 'em, too. The heft of 'em is Sydney Ducks an' ticket-o'-leave men, anyhow," quoth Bill, with a shake of the head. "Hark!" commanded Walter, holding up his hand for silence. Even as he spoke, the deep tones of a bell came booming across the water. At that moment the bodies of two condemned murderers were swinging from crossbeams from an upper window of the plaza. "If we're ever going to catch that chap, we'd better set about it before it's too late. What's to hinder our working this Vigilante business a little on our own hook? Nothing. Who's going to ask any questions? Nobody. Do you catch my idee?" questioned Charley. Without more words the three friends hastened on shore, Walter leading the way to his stand. They had agreed not to separate again, and were busy talking over their plans when a Chinaman came up to Walter and slipped a paper in his hand. Walter ran his eye over it, then crushed it in his hand. Turning to the Chinaman he simply said, "All right, John; I'll be there." "Allee light," repeated the Chinaman, making off into the crowd. Walter drew the heads of his two friends close to his own. Then he whispered: "What do you think? This is an order to take some things from a certain house on Dupont Street to a warehouse on Long Wharf, at ten o'clock to-night. (Night work's double pay.) I can't be mistaken. The order is in _his_ handwriting; I could swear to it." "I consait we orter follow the Chinee," Bill suggested tentatively. "No," objected Charley. "Prob'ly he'd lead us a wild-goose chase all over town. If Walter's right, we're hot on the scent now. Don't muddy the water, I say. The eel's a slippery cuss, and might wiggle away. Bill, let's you and I go take a look at that warehouse. Walt, don't you let on that you suspicion a thing. Why, you're all of a tremble, man! Straighten out your face. Anybody could read it like a book. Pull yourself together. Look at me! By jings, I feel like a fighting-cock just now!" "What a bantam!" muttered Bill, following in Charley's springing footsteps. At ten o'clock Walter was at the door of the house on Dupont Street with his cart. His knock was answered by the same Chinaman who had brought him the note in the morning. Several parcels were brought out and placed in the cart, but still no sign of the owner. The Chinaman then explained, in his pigeon English, that this person would meet Walter at the warehouse on the wharf, for which place Walter immediately started, revolving in his own mind whether this was not some trick of Ramon's contriving to throw him, Walter, off the scent. Nobody appeared to answer Walter's knock at the warehouse door. Evidently it was deserted, but a low whistle gave notice that Charley and Bill were close at hand. Indeed, so well had they concealed themselves that Walter had passed on without seeing them. "Have you got the rope all right, Bill?" Walter nervously whispered, as the three crouched in the friendly shadow of a narrow passageway, while waiting for their victim to show himself. "Sartin," that worthy calmly replied, "and all I wish is that what's-his-name was on one end, and I on t'other." "I don't half like this way of doing things; looks too much like kidnapping," Walter whispered, half to himself. "Come, Walt, you're not going to show the white feather now, after all this trouble, I hope," Charley impatiently said. "Ssh! here he comes. It's now or never." Sure enough, the sound of approaching footsteps was now plainly heard. As Ramon came nearer, walking fast, Bill, stepping out of the shadows, slowly lurched along ahead, cleverly imitating the zigzag walk of a tipsy sailor--no unusual sight at that time of night. When Ramon had passed a few rods beyond their hiding place, Charley quietly slipped out behind him, taking care to tread as softly as one of Cooper's Indians on the warpath. This plan had been carefully devised, for fear that Ramon might give an alarm if they attempted, all at once, to rush out upon him unawares. They now held their intended victim, as it were, between two fires. At that hour the street was so lonely and deserted that there was little fear of interruption, so Charley did not hurry. When Bill had reached the place agreed upon, where the street narrowed to a lane in which not more than two persons could walk abreast, he began to slacken his pace, so as to let Ramon come up with him. As nothing could be seen, at a few rods off, in that uncertain light, the signal agreed upon was to be given by Bill's striking a match, when Walter and Charley were to come up as rapidly as possible. As Ramon tried to push on by Bill, that worthy placed himself squarely in the way, pulled out his pipe, and gruffly demanded a light. He acted his part so well as completely to disarm Ramon's suspicions, had he had any. At being thus suddenly brought to a stand, Ramon attempted to shoulder Bill out of his path, but on finding himself stoutly opposed, he instinctively drew back a step. "Refuse a gen'leman a light, does yer? Want a whole street to yourself, does yer?" sputtered Bill, obstinately holding his ground. Ramon made a threatening movement. "Shove! I dare ye, ye lubber," continued the irate sailor, purposely raising his voice as his companion came in sight. "I'm a match for you any day in the week," he grumbled, striking a light as if to enforce the challenge. By the light of the match Bill instantly recognized Ramon. At the same moment Ramon saw that the speaker was a total stranger. Charley barred the way behind him. Ramon's first thought had been that he was being waylaid by footpads and, instinctively his hand went to his pistol; but as no demand was made for his valuables, he quickly concluded it to be a chance encounter with a couple of tipsy sailors. A street row was the very thing he most dreaded. He was in a fever to be off. Then the thought struck him that perhaps he might turn these fellows to his own advantage. So he altered his tone at once. "Oh, it's all right, lads," he said apologetically, "but one must be careful in these times, you know; and you certainly did give me a start. Never mind. If you've got a boat handy, I'll make this the best night's work you ever did in the whole course of your lives." Charley, who had edged up closer, now nudged Bill to hold his tongue. Speaking thickly, Charley said: "If you wants a boat we've got the one we was just goin' off in aboard ship. She lays right here, just ahead of us. If you come down han'some, we're the lads you want. 'Nuff said." Ramon was completely deceived. "All right, then. I've got some traps yonder. They're waiting for me, I see. We'll get them, and you can set me aboard the _Flamingo_. Hurry up! I've no time to lose." Walter was nonplused when he saw the trio approaching in so friendly a manner. He was about to say something, when Charley trod sharply on his foot to enforce silence. All four then went down to the boat with Ramon's luggage. After handing Walter a gold piece, Ramon stepped lightly into the boat, Bill shipped the oars, and Charley took the tiller. Walter first cast off the painter, gave the boat a vigorous shove, and then leaped on board himself. He could not make out what had happened to change their plans, but this was no time for explanations. Seeing the supposed cartman get into the boat, it then first flashed upon Ramon that he had been tricked. Half rising from his seat, he made a movement as if to leap overboard, but a big, bony hand dragged him backward. Maddened to desperation, Ramon then reached for his revolver, but before he could draw it, Walter threw his arms around him, and held him fast in spite of his struggles. Meantime Bill was taking two or three turns round Ramon's body with a stout rope, brought along for that very purpose, and in a twinkling that worthy found himself bound and helpless. No word was spoken until the boat touched the _Argonaut's_ side. Thoroughly cowed, shivering with cold and fright, Ramon's terror was heightened by the thought that he was being carried off to sea. As the black hull of the _Argonaut_ loomed up before him the dreadful truth seemed to break upon him clearly. Yes, there was no doubt of it: he was being shanghaied, as the forcible kidnaping of sailors was called. Charley went up the side first. In a minute he reappeared with a lighted lantern. A dull numbness had seized Ramon. He did not even attempt to cry out when Charley called to the others, in a guarded undertone, to "pass him along." Four stout arms then lifted, or rather boosted, Ramon on board the vessel, as limp and helpless as a dead man. "I knew it," he groaned, with chattering teeth; "shanghaied, by all that's horrible!" XVI RAMON FINDS HIS MATCH Charley at once led the way into the cabin. When all four had passed in he shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and set down the lantern on the table, when, by its dim light, Ramon saw, for the first time, the faces of his abductors. Stealing a quick glance around him he met Walter's set face and stern eye. The faces of the others gave him as little encouragement. Greatly relieved to find his worst fears unfounded, his courage began to rise again. He met Walter's look with one of defiance, and inwardly resolved to brazen it out. His life, he knew, was safe enough. To show that he was not afraid, he assumed a careless tone, as if he looked upon the whole thing as a joke. "You've got me, boys. But now you've got me, what do you want with me?" he demanded, twisting a cigarette in his trembling fingers. "First," said Walter, a trifle unsteadily, for the sight of his enemy was almost too much for him, "first we want you to sign this paper," taking it out of his pocket. "It is--you can read it--a full confession of your robbery of Bright & Company." In spite of his effrontery, Ramon could not help wincing a little. Walter went on without mercy, "And of your clever little scheme to throw suspicion on me as your accomplice." Ramon merely gave a contemptuous little shrug. "And lastly, of what you've done with all the property you--you stole." Ramon scowled and gnawed his mustache. Now that he knew the worst, Ramon began to bluster. "Oh, you shall smart for this when I get on shore--yes, all of you," he declared hotly. "You've got the wrong pig by the ear this time; yes, you have. As for you," this to Bill, "you hoary-headed old villain, I'll have you skinned alive and hung up by the heels for a scarecrow." Bill could hold in no longer. "Who said anything about your goin' ashore, I'd like to know?" he asked, in his bantering way. "You never'd be missed, nohow. Here yer be, and here you stop till we've done with you. So none of your black looks nor cheap talk. They won't pass here." "Stop me if you dare! It's abduction, kidnaping, felony!" cried Ramon, glancing fiercely from one face to the other. "I despise you and your threats. Where are your proofs? Where is your authority?" "Ugly words those, big words. You want proofs, eh? What do you say to this?" Walter asked, in his turn, unfolding a handbill before Ramon's eyes with one hand, while with the other he held the lantern up so that the accusing words, in staring print, might be the more easily read: STOP THIEF!!! $500 REWARD! The above reward will be paid for the apprehension of one Ramon Ingersoll, an absconding embezzler. This was followed by a detailed description of his personal appearance. "Now will you sign?" Walter again demanded of the branded thief and fugitive from justice. Ramon smiled a sickly smile. "Oh! it's the reward you're after, is it? Hope you may get it, that's all." At this fresh insult two red spots flamed up on Walter's cheeks. Ramon's dark eyes sparkled at having so cleverly seen through the motives of his captors. "Is that your last word?" "Before I'll sign that paper I'll rot right here!" "You had better sleep on it," replied Walter, turning away. "What! before s'archin' him for the stealin's?" Bill asked, with well-feigned surprise, at the same time critically looking Ramon over from head to foot. Ramon's hand went to his neckcloth, as if already he felt the hangman's noose choking him, the observant Bill meanwhile watching him as a cat does a mouse. "Come, my lad, turn out your pockets," he commanded, in a most business-like way. Pale with anger, Ramon first pulled out a leather pocket-book, which he threw upon the table, with something that sounded very much like a muttered curse, after which he folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "Now you've got it, much good may it do you," he sneered. The pocket-book contained only a few papers of little value to anybody. "What has become of all the money you took?" Walter demanded. "Gone," was the curt reply. "What! gone! You can't have spent it all so soon. Think again. There must be a trifle left." Ramon shrugged his shoulders by way of reply. "Feel for his belt, Bill," Charley struck in. Charley had been growing impatient for some time over so much waste of words. Bill hastened to take the hint. "Hands off! I tell you, I'll not be searched," shouted Ramon, carrying his hands to the threatened spot like a flash. In spite of his struggles, however, the belt, which every one wore in that day, was secured, and in it ten new fifty-dollar gold pieces were found, and turned out upon the table. Again Ramon's hand went to his neckcloth, nervously, tremblingly. In a twinkling Bill had twitched that article off and tossed it to Walter. "Good's a belt, hain't it?" asked Bill in answer to Walter's look. "I seed him grabbin' at it twicet. S'arch it! s'arch it!" [Illustration: Ramon made to give up his stealing's.--_Page 236._] Rolled up in a little wad, in the folds of the neckerchief, they found two certificates of deposit of a thousand dollars each, and in another similar roll several notes of hand for quite large sums, made payable to Bright & Company, but with forged indorsements to a third party, who, it is needless to say, was no other than Ramon himself, who had thus added forgery to his catalogue of crime. Fortunately, his hurried departure had prevented the negotiating of these notes, which now furnished the most damning evidence of his misdeeds. "Now, then," said Walter, sweeping the money and papers together in a heap, "we've drawn his teeth, let him bite if he can." At this cutting taunt, Ramon summoned to his aid the remains of his fast-waning assurance. "Oho! my fine gentlemen, suppose I'm all you say I am, if you take my money you're as deep in the mud as I am in the mire; eh, my gallant highwaymen?" he hissed out. "Enough of this. We shall take good care of you to-night; but to-morrow we mean to hand you over to the Vigilantes. You can then plead your own cause, Master Embezzler." So saying, Walter pointed to a stateroom opposite, to signify that the last word had been said. Ramon's face instantly turned of a sickly pallor. As Bill afterwards said, "Walter's threat took all the starch out of him." In a broken voice he now pleaded for mercy. "I give it up. I'll confess. I'll sign all you say--anything--if you'll promise not to give me up to those bloodhounds," he almost whimpered. Truly, his craven spirit had at last got the mastery. Walter pretended to hesitate, but in truth he was only turning over in his own mind how best to dispose of Ramon. Hitherto the wish for revenge had been strong within him, had really gone hand-in-hand with that to see wrong made right. But Ramon was now only an object of pity, of contempt. The confession was again placed before him with the addition of a clause stating that the money surrendered was the same he had taken from his employers. He himself added the words, "This is my free act and deed," after which he signed his full name as if in a hurry to have it over with. The two friends then witnessed it. Walter put this precious document in his pocket with a feeling of real triumph. At last his good name would be vindicated before all the world. Once again he could look any man in the face without a blush. It seemed almost too good to be true, yet there sat Ramon cowering in a corner, while he, Walter, held the damning proofs of the robbery in his possession. No, it was not a dream. Right was might, after all. Instead of asking to be set at liberty, Ramon now begged to be kept hid from the dreaded Vigilantes. "Give me just money enough to get away with, set me on shore after dark, and I'll take my chances," he pleaded. Only too glad to be well rid of him, the three friends willingly agreed to this proposal. After darkness had set in, Bill pulled Ramon to a distant spot above the town, among the sand dunes. Handing the discomfited wretch his own pocket-book, with the contents untouched, Bill gave him this parting shot: "Take it, and go to Guinea! If this is the last on ye, well an' good, but it's my 'pinion there's more rascality stowed away in that cowardly carkiss o' yourn." Without replying, Ramon stole away in the darkness, and was soon lost to sight. XVII A SHARP RISE IN LUMBER "Isn't that the Sacramento boat?" asked Charley, looking off in the direction of a rapidly approaching bank of lights. "How plainly we can hear the drumming of her big paddles. Listen!" "If it is, she's all of two hours ahead of time," was Walter's reply. "Yes, it's the old _Senator's_ day. She's a traveler all the time, and to-night she has the tide with her. Do you know, they say she's made more money for her owners than she could carry on one trip?" "Sho! You don't mean it." "True as you stand there." They stood watching the _Senator_ work her way into her dock, when Charley suddenly asked, "What are you so glum about to-night, Walt?" "I was thinking what I would do if I had a boatload of money." "Hope you may get it, that's all. Hark! Ah, here's Bill back again." By the way that Bill was rowing, he seemed in a great hurry. Greatly to the surprise of the two friends, he was closely followed up the side by a stranger, to whom Bill lent a helping hand as this person stumbled awkwardly to the deck. At first both Walter and Charley thought it must be Ramon returning. "Hello! what's up now?" both exclaimed in one breath. "What's up? Lumber's up. Got any?" answered a quick, sharp voice not at all like Ramon's. As nobody spoke Bill made a hurried explanation. "Sacramento's all burnt up, lock, stock, and barrel. Boat's goin' right back to-night. I seen her comin' lickety-split, fit to bust her b'iler; so I kinder waited round for the news. I heered this man askin' who had lumber, so I jest mittened onto him, and here he is." "Whar's this yer lumber--afloat or on shore?" the newcomer impatiently demanded. "Afloat," Charley replied. "Good enough! How's it stowed: so's it can be got at?" "It's a whole cargo. Never been broken out." "Good again! What sort is it? Can I see it?" "Come into the cabin and I'll get out the manifest. You can't see anything till daylight." "Burn the manifest!" returned the stranger, still more impatiently. "Daylight's wuth dollars now. Show me the man can tell what that thar lumber is, or isn't." "I can," Walter put in, "'cause I saw it loaded." "Then you're the very man I want. Talk fast. I'm bound to go back on that thar boat." Thus urged, Walter began the inventory on his fingers. "There's six two-story dwelling houses, all framed, ready to go up." "Whoop-ee! how big?" "About 24x36, high-studded, pitched roof, luthern windows. The rest is building stuff--all of it--sills, joists, rough and planed boards, matched boards----" "Any shingles?" the impatient man broke in. "Yes, a big lot; and clapboards too." "Talk enough. Whar's the owner?" "You're talking to him now," said Charley quickly. "Well, then, I reck'n we'd better have a little light on the subject, hadn't we?" the stranger suggested. Upon this hint Charley led the way to the cabin, where the parties took a good look at each other. The stranger glanced over the manifest, laid a big, brawny hand upon it, then, turning to Walter, but without betraying surprise at his youthful appearance, said pointedly, "Name your price, cash down, stranger, for the lot. I'm here for a dicker." Walter began a rapid mental calculation. "Those houses are worth all of twenty-five hundred apiece," he declared, glancing at Charley. "More," Charley assented positively. "Wuth more for firewood," added Bill. "Houses and all; all or none. How much for the hull blamed cargo?" the stranger again demanded, getting up to expectorate in a corner. "Lumber is lumber," observed Charley, wrinkling his forehead in deep thought. "Do I ask you to give it away? Name your figure," the would-be purchaser insisted. "Come up to the scratch. I've no time to waste here palavering. What do you take me for?" he added angrily. Walter again had recourse to his mental arithmetic. "Six times two fifty, fifteen; lump the rest at ten; freight money five, storage five more, insurance five. Forty thousand dollars!" he exclaimed desperately at a venture, feeling the cold sweat oozing out all over him. "It's mine. I'll take it," said the stranger, coolly suiting the action to the word by dragging out of his coat pockets first one chuggy bag of gold dust and then another, which he placed before Walter on the table. "Here's something to bind the bargain." Then, seeing Bill critically examining a pinch of the dull yellow grains in the palm of his hand, he added: "Oh! never fear! That's the real stuff. You get the rest when that lumber's delivered alongside Sacramento levee at my expense. Talk fast. Is it a whack?" "Hold on, stranger," cried the acute Charley, pushing back the gold. "We don't agree to no such thing, mister. We deliver it right here from the ship." The stranger smote the table with his clenched fist. "Can't waste no time loading and unloading," he declared; "that's half the battle. I must have this cargo ahead of everybody, up river. You say it's all loaded. That's why I pay high for it. I don't care shucks how you get it there; so fix it somehow; for it's make or break with me this time. _Sabe?_" "Why not tow her up and back, if he pays for it?" Bill suggested. The buyer caught as eagerly at the idea as a drowning man does at a straw. "Sartin. Tow her up!" he exclaimed. "I hire the boat and pay all expenses. How many hands of you? Three. All right. You get ten dollars apiece a day till the ship's unloaded." The man's eagerness to buy his way through all obstacles rather confused Walter, who now turned inquiringly toward Bill. "She draws nigh onto twenty feet this blessed minute," Bill said in a doubtful undertone. "Why, the river is booming!" cried the stranger, looking from one to the other, with eager, restless eyes, as this unforeseen difficulty presented itself to his mind. Again Bill came to the rescue. "I'll tell ye, mates, what we can do. Lash an empty lighter on each side of her; that'll lift her some; then if she takes the ground, we might break out cargo into the lighters, till she floats agin." The lumber speculator listened like one who hears some one speaking in a strange tongue. He, however, caught at Bill's idea. "Yes, that's the how, shoah," he joyfully assented. "I'll hire a towboat to-night, if one's to be had in 'Frisco for money. I don't know shucks 'bout these yer ships, but when it comes to steamboats I reck'n I kin tell a snag from a catfish." "I think we may risk it, then," observed Charley, who, as ship-keeper, felt all his responsibility for her safety. Walter then drew up the contract in proper form, after which it was duly signed, sealed, and witnessed. "Now, then," resumed the stranger, "you boys get everything good and ready for a quick start. Thar's your dust. You play fa'r with me, an' I'll play fa'r with you. Shake." He then put off with Bill for the shore. "Dirt cheap," said Charley, eying Walter sidewise. "Thrown away," groaned Walter peevishly, by way of reply. And to think that only the day before the lumber would not have paid for the unloading! XVIII A CORNER IN LUMBER By dint of hard work the _Southern Cross_ was got ready to cast off her moorings by the time the tug came puffing up alongside, early in the morning. They were soon under weigh, but the ship's bottom was so foul that she towed like a log. Bill steered, while Charley and Walter went forward to pass the word from the tug or tend the hawser, as might be necessary. It being smooth water here, in an hour or so the tow passed out into San Pablo Bay, where it met not only a stiff head wind, but a nasty little choppy sea. That made towing slow work, but by noon they were abreast of Benicia and entering the Straits of Carquinez, with old Monte Diablo peering down upon them on the starboard hand. Beyond this point the tow steamed across still another bay, for some fifteen miles more, without mishap. They had now left the coast mountains far behind, and were heading straight for what seemed an endless waste of tall reeds, through which both the Sacramento and San Joaquin wind their way out to the sea. So far plenty of water and plenty of sea room had been found. The worst was yet to come. The young navigators, however, pushed boldly on between the low mud-banks without delay, feeling much encouraged by their success thus far, and wishing to make the most of the short two hours of daylight remaining, after which the captain of the tug declared it would be unsafe to proceed. After seeing the ship tied up to the bank for the night, the tug pushed on in search of a wood-yard some miles farther on. It was quite ten o'clock the next morning before the boys saw her come puffing back around the next bend of the river above. She had run so far after wood, that the captain said he would not risk putting back before daylight again. All went smoothly until the middle of the afternoon, when, to their great annoyance, the ship suddenly brought up on a mud-bank, where she stuck hard and fast. A hawser was quickly carried out astern, at which the tug pulled and hauled for some time to no purpose. The _Southern Cross_ would not budge an inch. It being evident that the ship would not come off by that means, hatches were taken off, the boys threw off their coats, and, spurred on by Bill's report that he believed the river was falling, all hands went to work breaking out cargo into the lighters, as if their very lives depended upon their haste. It was now that Bill's foresight came in for the warmest commendations, as without the lighters the voyage must have ended then and there. They worked on like beavers all the rest of that afternoon, the tug giving an occasional pull at the hawser, without starting the ship from her snug berth. They, therefore, made themselves some coffee, and were talking the situation over in no very happy frame of mind, when a large, high-pressure steamboat was seen heading down the river, half of which she seemed pushing in front of her, and dragging the other half behind. "Stand by to haul away!" shouted Bill, with quick presence of mind, to the men on the tug, running aft to take another turn in the hawser. As the steamer passed by, churning the muddy water into big waves, the tug put on all steam, the hawser straightened out as tense as iron, the big ship gave a lazy lurch as a wave struck her, and to the unspeakable delight of all hands they found themselves once more afloat and in deep water. Although the ship was aground several times after this, they were so lucky in getting her off, that by noon of the third day the _Southern Cross_ lay snugly moored, stem and stern, to a couple of live oaks at the Sacramento levee. The first person to jump on board was the purchaser himself, followed by a gang of laborers, who had been waiting only for the ship's arrival to set to work at unloading her cargo. Meantime the boys set about making all snug aboard, and then after seeing the balance of the purchase money weighed out, on a common counter-scale in the cabin, they took turns in mounting guard over what had been so fairly earned. In plain truth, all three were fairly dazed by the possession of so much wealth. [Illustration: Arrival of the _Southern Cross_ at Sacramento.--_Page 254._] This duty of standing watch and watch kept the friends from leaving the ship even for a single moment, if indeed they had felt the least desire to do so. In fact all that there was left of the late bustling city was spread out stark and grim before their wondering eyes from the deck of the ship, and a dismal sight it was. Acres of ground, so lately covered with buildings so full of busy life, were now nothing but a blackened waste of smoldering rubbish. Here and there some solitary tree, scorched and leafless, lifted up its skeleton branches as if in silent horror at the surrounding desolation. Men, singly, or in little groups, were moving about in the gray-white smoke like so many uneasy specters. Others were carefully poking among the rubbish for whatever of value might have escaped the flames. But more strange than all, even while the ruins were ablaze about them, it was to see a gang of workmen busy laying down the foundations for a new building. There was to be no sitting down in sackcloth and ashes here. That was California spirit. All this time the lumber dealer was by great odds the busiest man there. He was fairly up to his ears in business, selling lumber, in small parcels or great, from the head of a barrel, to a perfect mob of buyers, who pushed and jostled each other in their eagerness to be first served. All were clamoring as loudly for notice as so many Congressmen on a field-day to the Speaker of the House. To this horde of hungry applicants the lumberman kept on repeating, "First come, first served. Down with your dust." The man was making a fortune hand over fist. Scarcely had our boys the time to look about them, when they were beset with offers to lease or even to buy the ship outright. One wanted her for a store, another for a hotel, another for a restaurant, a saloon, and so on. Men even shook pouches of gold-dust in their faces, as an incentive to close the bargain on the spot. As such a transaction had never entered their heads, the three friends held a hurried consultation over it. Charley firmly held to the opinion that he had no right to dispose of the ship without the owner's consent, and that was something which could not be obtained at this time. Walter was non-committal. Bill was nothing if not practical. Bill was no fool. "Ef she goes back, what does she do?" he asked, squinting first at one and then at the other. "Why, she lays there to her anchors rottin', doin' nobody no good," he added. "She won't eat or drink anything if she does," Charley said rather ambiguously. "Seems as though we ought to put her back where we found her," Walter suggested, in a doubtful sort of way. "Settle it to suit yourselves," was Bill's ready rejoinder. "But how does the case stand? Here's a lot of crazy _hombres_ e'en a'most ready to fight for her. 'Twould cost a fortin to get her ready for sea. Her bottom's foul as a cow-yard; some of her copper's torn off; upper works rotten; she needs calkin', paintin', new riggin', new----" "There, hold on!" cried Charley, laughing heartily at Bill's truly formidable catalogue of wants; "I give in. I vote to lease the old barky by the month--that is, if Walt here thinks as I do." "In for a penny, in for a pound," Walter assented decisively. So the bargain was concluded before the cargo was half out of the ship, so eager was the lessee to get possession. Walter drew up the lease, a month's rent was paid in advance, and the thing was done. "Well, now, boys, that's off our minds," said Charley gleefully; "my head's been turning round like a buzz-saw ever since this thing's been talked about." "And a good job, too, seein' as how we skipped without a clearance," Bill put in quietly. The two friends looked at him blankly, then at each other. It was plain that no such matter had ever entered their minds. Charley gave a long, low whistle. "By George, I never thought of that!" he exclaimed, in great ill humor with Bill. "What'll they do to us?" "No use cryin' over spilt milk," said that worthy. "Keep dark's our lay. Didn't Noah's Ark sail without a clearance, without papers or flag, and for no port?" he added. "We 'cleared out,' as the sayin' is, with a vengeance," Charley remarked, trying to turn the matter off with a joke. "There's only one thing for us to do," said Walter, "and that is to go right up to the custom-house and explain matters to the collector, when we get back to the Bay. Perhaps he'll let us off with a fine, when he finds we didn't mean to run away with the ship and turn pirates." The idea of turning the old, water-logged _Southern Cross_ into a pirate was so comical that all three joined in a hearty laugh. What to do with all their money was the most perplexing question. They could neither eat nor sleep for thinking of it. In every face they saw a thief, every footstep startled them. In their dilemma it was determined that the safer way would be to divide it up between them. Three miner's belts were therefore procured, and after locking themselves up in the cabin the three friends stuffed these belts as full as they would hold with the precious metal. But there was still a good-sized pile left to be disposed of when this was done, so Bill suggested sewing the remainder in their shirts. At it they went, without more words, sitting meantime in their trousers and undershirts; and a truly comical sight was this original sewing circle, stitching away for dear life under lock and key. But even when this operation was finished, a heap of the shining metal still lay on the table before them. All were so weighed down with what they had about them that they waddled rather than walked. Bill declared that if anything happened to the boat at their returning they would all sink to the bottom like so much lead. While thus at their wits' end, Charley's eagle eye chanced to fall upon an old fowling piece hung up by some hooks in the cabin. This was quickly torn from its resting place, the charges drawn, and while the others looked on in silent wonder Charley filled both barrels with gold dust, after which the muzzles were tightly fitted with corks. "She's loaded for big game. We take turns carryin' her, don't you see?" he remarked with a broad grin. Towards dusk the trio took passage on board the first boat bound for the Bay, nor did they feel themselves wholly safe with their treasure until they once more trod the deck of the old _Argonaut_, fairly worn out with a week of such rapidly shifting fortunes as no one but an old Californian has ever experienced. The three inseparables were snugly rolled up in their blankets, Bill loudly snoring in his bunk, when the distant booming of a gun caused Walter to raise his head and say drowsily, "Hello! a steamer's in." "I don't care if there's twenty steamers," Charley yawned, at the same time burying his nose still deeper under his blanket; "I was almost gone and now you've made me begin all over again. All ashore that's goin' ashore." XIX HEARTS OF GOLD Mr. Bright came in that steamer. As Walter's letter seemed to hold out fair hopes of recovering some part of the _Southern Cross_ and her cargo, the merchant had decided to look into the matter himself, though in truth both he and his partners had long regarded the venture as a dead loss. Had he suddenly dropped from the clouds, the _Argonaut's_ little company could not have been more astonished than when the merchant stepped on deck, smiling benignantly at the evident consternation he thus created. After a hearty greeting all round, though poor Walter turned all colors at the remembrance of how and where they had last met, Mr. Bright began by explaining that he had found them out through the consignee of the _Southern Cross_. "But where in the world is the _Southern Cross_?" he asked. "Here has the boatman been rowing me around for the last hour, trying to find her. Nothing has happened to her, I hope," he hastily added, observing the friends exchanging sly glances. This question, of course, led to an explanation from Walter, during which the old merchant's face was a study. His first look of annoyance soon changed to one of blank amazement, finally settling down into a broad smile of complete satisfaction when the story was all told. Then he shook his gray head as if the problem was quite too knotty for him to solve, how these boys, hardly out of their teens, should have dared, first to engage in such a brilliant transaction, and then have succeeded in carrying it through to the end without a hitch. "Pretty well for beginners, I must say," he finally declared. "Taken altogether that's about the boldest operation I ever heard of, and I've known a few in my experience as a business man. But," looking at Walter, "where's all this money? Quite safe, I hope." By way of answer, the young men brought out their treasure from various ingenious hiding-places, the fowling piece included. When all the belts and parcels of dust were piled in a heap on the table, Mr. Bright sat for some time with his hand over his eyes without speaking. What the merchant's thoughts were it were vain to guess. Finally he said, "You seem to have done everything for the best. Bill here was quite right about the ship. She is earning something where she is, at least. Now about the cargo?" turning to Walter; "I think you said in your letter that Charley here bought half of that in?" Walter gave a nod of assent. "Why, then," resumed Mr. Bright, "as the other half belongs to his partner, I don't see that we've anything to do with this money. Perhaps we may compromise as to the ship," he added, looking at Charley. Charley then explained his agreement with his partner, who had so mysteriously disappeared. "I sold out to Walter. Settle it with him," he finished, jamming his hands in his pockets and turning away. "Well, then, Walter, what do you say?" "I say that Charley ought to have half the profits. Why, when I wrote you, the lumber was worthless. Besides, Charley did all the business. Settle it with him." "I see. The situation was changed from a matter of a few hundreds to thousands shortly after your letter was written." Walter nodded. "And you don't care to take advantage of it?" Walter simply folded his arms defiantly. "But between you you saved the cargo," the merchant rejoined. "We've no claim. You must come to terms. Was there no writing?" Walter scowled fiercely at Charley, who, notwithstanding, immediately produced his copy of the agreement. The merchant glanced over it with a smile hovering on his lips. "Why, this is perfectly good," he declared. "Well, then, as neither of you has a proposition to make, I'll make you one. Perhaps Walter here felt under a moral obligation to look after our interests in spite of the unjust treatment he had received. That I can now understand, and I ask his pardon. But you, Charles, had no such inducement." "No inducement!" Charley broke out, with a quivering lip; "no inducement, heh, to see that boy righted?" he repeated, struggling hard to keep down the lump in his throat. "Axin' pardons don't mend no broken crockery," observed Bill gruffly. Mr. Bright showed no resentment at this plain speech. He sat wiping his glasses in deep thought. Perhaps there was just a little moisture in his own eyes, over this evidence of two hearts linked together as in bands of steel. The silence was growing oppressive, when Walter nerved himself to say: "You see, sir, Charley and me, we are of one mind. As for me, I'm perfectly satisfied to take what I put in to fit Charley out, provided you pay him back his investment, and what's right for his and Bill's time and trouble." Charley coughed a little at this liberal proposal, but Walter signed to him to keep quiet. Bill grunted out something that might pass for consent. But Mr. Bright was not the man to take advantage of so much generosity. In truth, he had already formed in his own mind a plan by which to come to an agreement. Changing the subject for the moment, he suddenly asked, "By the way, have you never heard anything of Ramon?" At this unexpected question a broad grin stole over the faces of the three kidnapers. "I was coming to that," Walter replied, bringing out from his chest the money and papers which Ramon had been so lately compelled to disgorge. The merchant took them in his hands, ran his eye rapidly over them, and exclaimed in astonishment, "What! did he make this restitution of his own accord? Wonders will never cease, I declare." "Well, no, sir, not exactly that; the truth is, he was a trifle obstinate about it at first, but we found a way to persuade him. That confession was signed in the very same chair you are now sitting in." Mr. Bright again said, with a sigh of deep satisfaction, "Marvelous! We shall now pay everything we owe, except our debt to you, Walter; that we can never pay." "If my good name is cleared, I'm perfectly satisfied," Walter rejoined, a little nervously, yet with a feeling that this was the happiest day of his life. "And his good name, too, why don't you say?' interrupted the matter-of-fact Bill, from his corner. "Seems to me that's about the size of it," he finished, casting a meaning look at the dignified old merchant, who sat there twiddling his glasses, clearly oppressed by the feeling that, as between himself and Walter, Walter had acted the nobler part. He could hardly control a slight tremor in his voice when he began to speak again. "I see how it is," he said. "You return good for evil. It was nobly done, I grant you--nobly done. But you must not wonder at my surprise, for I own I expected nothing of the sort. Still, all the generosity must not be on one side. By no means. Since I've sat here I've been thinking that now we are embarked in the California trade, we couldn't do better than to start a branch of the concern in this city. Now, don't interrupt," raising an admonitory hand, "until you hear me through. If you, Walter, and you, Charles, in whom I have every confidence--if you two will accept an equal partnership, your actual expenses to be paid at any rate, we will put all the profits of this lumber trade of yours into the new house to start with. Suppose we call it Bright, Seabury & Company. Fix that to suit yourselves, only my name ought to stand first, I think, because it will set Walter here right before the world." Neither Walter nor Charley could have said one word for the life of him, so much were they taken by surprise. Bill's eyes fairly bulged out of his shaggy head. Mr. Bright went on to say, "With our credit restored, we can send you all the goods you may want. Suppose we now go and deposit this money--one-half to the new firm's credit, one half in trust for Charles' former partner. I myself will put a notice of the copartnership in to-morrow's papers, and as soon as I get home in the Boston papers, and I should greatly like to see the new sign up before I go." It was a long speech, but never was one listened to with more rapt attention. Charley turned as red as a beet, Walter hung his head, Bill blew his nose for a full half-minute. "Where does Bill come in?" he demanded, with a comical side glance at the merchant. His question, with the long face he put on, relieved the strain at once. "Oh, never fear, old chap; you shall have my place and pay on the old ship," Charley hastened to assure him. "Then you accept," said Mr. Bright, shaking hands with each of the new partners in turn. "Something tells me that this is the best investment of my life. The papers shall be made out to-day, while we are looking up a store together. Really, now, I feel as if I ought to give a little dinner in honor of the new firm--long life and prosperity to it! Where shall it be?" "What ails this 'ere old ship where the old house came to life agin, an' the new babby wuz fust born inter the world?" was Bill's ready suggestion. "Capital! couldn't be better," exclaimed the merchant. "And now," taking out his notebook, "tell me what I can do for each of you personally when I get back to the States?" Walter spoke first. "Please look up my old aunty, and see her made comfortable." Mr. Bright jotted down the address with an approving nod, then looked up at Charley. "Send out a couple of donkey engines; horses are too slow." Mr. Bright then turned to Bill. "Me? Oh, well, I've got no aunt, I've no use for donkeys. You might lick that sneakin' perleeceman on the wharf an' send me his resate." When the two young men took leave of Mr. Bright, on board the _John L. Stephens_, after a hearty hand-shaking all round, that gentleman gave them this parting advice: "Make all the friends you can, and keep them if you can. Remember, nothing is easier than to make enemies." At a meaning look from Walter, Charley withdrew himself out of earshot. Walter fidgeted a little, blushed, and then managed to ask, "Have I your permission to write to Miss Dora, sir?" Mr. Bright looked surprised, then serious, then amused. "Oho! now I begin to catch on. That's how the land lies, is it? So that was the reason why you were prowling around our house one night after dark, was it? Well, well! Certainly you may write to Dora. And by the way, when next you pass through our street you may ring the doorbell." XX BRIGHT, SEABURY & COMPANY Thus the new firm entered upon its future career with bright prospects. A suitable warehouse on the waterfront was leased for a term of years. True to their determination to stick together, the two junior partners fitted up a room in the second story, and on the day that the doors were first opened for business they moved in. The next thing was to get some business to do. Charley had a considerable acquaintance among the ranchmen across the Bay, which he now improved by making frequent trips to solicit consignments of country produce. The sight of an empty store and bare walls was at first depressing, but their first shipments from the East could not be expected for several months. There was a sort of tacit understanding that Walter should attend to the financial end of the business, while Charley took care of the outdoor concerns. They were no longer boys. The sense of assumed responsibilities had made them men. The two partners were busy receiving a sloop-load of potatoes, with their shirt sleeves rolled up, when a big, burly, bewhiskered individual dropped in upon them. Scenting a customer, Charley, always forward, briskly asked what they could do for him. "I want to see the senior partner." Charley nodded toward Walter, who was checking off the weights. The man gave a quick look at the tall, straight young fellow before him, then said, "Can I speak to you in private for five minutes?" "Come this way," Walter replied, showing the stranger into the little office. The newcomer sat down, crossed one leg over the other, stroked his long beard reflectively a little, and said, "I've come on a very confidential matter. Can I depend upon the strictest privacy?" "You may," said Walter, quite astonished at this rather unexpected opening. "Nobody will interrupt us here." The man cast an inquisitive look around, as if to make sure there were no eavesdroppers near, then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, said pointedly, "You may have heard something about a plan to aid the poor, oppressed natives of Nicaragua to throw off the tyrannical yoke of their present rulers?" "I've seen something to that effect in the papers," said Walter evasively. "So much the better. That clears the way of cobwebs. I want your solemn promise that what passes between us shall not be divulged to a human being." "I have no business secrets from my partners," Walter objected. "Your partners! Oh! of course not." "I've already promised," Walter assented, more and more mystified by the stranger's manner. "Nobody asked you for your secrets. You can do as you like about telling them," he continued rather sharply. "I'll trust you. You are a young concern. Well connected. Bang-up references. Likely to get on top of the heap, and nat'rally want to make a strike. Nothing like seizing upon a golden opportunity. 'There is a tide'--you know the rest. Now, I'm just the man to put you in the way of doing it, as easy as rolling off a log." As Walter made no reply, the visitor, after waiting a moment for his words to take effect, went on: "Now, listen. I don't mind telling you, in the strictest confidence, then, that I'm fiscal agent for this here enterprise. I'm in it for glory and the _dinero_. We want some enterprising young firm like yours to furnish supplies for the emigrants we're sending down there," jerking his head toward the south. "There's a big pile in it for you, if you will take hold with us and see the thing through." Walter kept his eyes upon the speaker, but said nothing. "You see, it's a perfectly legitimate transaction, don't you?" resumed the fiscal agent a little anxiously. "Then why so much secrecy?" "Oh! there's always a lot of people prying round into what don't concern them. Busybodies! If it gets out that our people aren't peaceable emigrants before we're good and ready, the whole thing might get knocked into a cocked hat. They'd say--well, they even might call us filibusters," the man admitted with an injured air. Walter smiled a knowing smile. "What do you want us to do?" he asked. "In the first place, we want cornmeal, hard bread, bacon, potatoes, an' sich, for a hundred and fifty men for two months. I can give you the figures to a dot," the agent rejoined, on whom Walter's smile had not been lost. "See here." He drew out of his pocket a package of freshly printed bonds, purporting to be issued by authority of the Republic of Nicaragua, and passed them over for Walter's inspection. "Now, the fact is, we want all our ready funds for the people's outfit, advance money, vessel's charter, and so on. Now, I'm going to be liberal with you. I'll put up this bunch of twenty thousand dollars in bonds, payable on the day Nicaragua is free, for five thousand dollars' worth of provisions at market price. Think of that! Twenty thousand dollars for five thousand dollars. You can't lose. We've got things all fixed down there. Why, man, there's silver and gold and jewels enough in the churches alone to pay those bonds ten times over!" "What! rob the churches!" Walter exclaimed, knitting his brows. "Why, no; I believe they call that merely a forced loan nowadays," objected the fiscal agent in some embarrassment. Seeing that he paused for a reply, Walter observed that he would consult his partner. Charley was called in and the proposal gone over again with him. As soon as advised of its purport he turned on his heel. "Not any in mine," was his prompt decision. "Mine either," assented Walter. The stranger seemed much disappointed, but not yet at the end of his resources. "Well, then," he began again, "you take the bonds, sell them for a fair discount for cash, and use the proceeds towards those provisions?" "Hadn't you better do that yourself? We're not brokers. We're commission merchants. If you come to us with cash in hand we'll sell you anything money will buy, and no questions asked; but Nicaragua bonds, payable any time and no time, are not in our line." So said Walter. "Not much," echoed Charley. "Your line seems to be small potatoes," muttered the stranger testily. Then quickly checking himself, he carelessly asked, "I suppose you'd have no objection to keeping these bonds in your safe for a day or two for me, giving me a receipt for them, or the equivalent? I don't feel half easy about carrying them about with me." "Why, no," said Charley, looking at Walter, to see how he would take it. "Yes," objected Walter, "most decidedly." "'No;' 'yes;' who's boss here, anyhow?" sneered the agent, dismissing his wheedling tone, now that he had played his last card. Even Charley seemed a trifle nettled at being snubbed by Walter in the presence of a stranger. After all, it seemed a trifling favor to ask of them. "My partner and I can settle that matter between ourselves. Once for all, we don't choose to be mixed up in your filibustering schemes in any way. Your five minutes have grown to three-quarters of an hour already. This is our busy day," he concluded, as a broad hint to the stranger to take leave, and at once. "Very well," said the unmoved fiscal agent, buttoning up his coat. "But you'll repent, all the same, having thrown away the finest opportunity of making a fortune ever offered----" "This way out, sir," Charley interrupted, throwing wide the office door. When the strange visitor had gone Charley asked Walter why he refused to let the bonds be put in the safe. "Now we've made an enemy," he said resignedly. "To let him raise money on that receipt for twenty thousand dollars, _or equivalent_--on Mr. Bright's name? No, sir-ee. Where were your wits, Charles Wormwood? That fellow's a sharper!" "Guess I'd better attend to those potatoes," was all the junior partner could find to say, suiting the action to the word. As was quite natural, much curiosity was felt as to what had become of Ramon, by his former business associates. In some way he had found out that Mr. Bright was in San Francisco, and taking counsel of his fears of being sent back to Boston as a confessed felon, he cast his lot among the most lawless adventurers of the day. Learning that a filibustering expedition was being fitted out at San Francisco against Lower California, under command of Walker, the "Gray-eyed Man of Destiny," Ramon joined it, keeping in hiding meanwhile, until the vessel was ready to sail. As is well known, the affair was a complete failure, Walker's famished band being compelled to surrender to the United States officers at San Diego. From this time Ramon disappeared. * * * * * Some five years later a young man, ruddy-cheeked, robust, and well though not foppishly dressed, drove up to the door of a pretty cottage in one of the most fashionable suburbs of Boston. Alighting from his buggy and hitching his horse, he walked quickly up the driveway to the house. The front door flew open by the time he had put his hand on the knob; and a young woman, with the matchless New England pink and white in her cheeks, called out, "Why, Walter, what brings you home so early to-day? Has anything happened?" "Yes, Dora; Charles Wormwood is coming out to dine with us to-day. He only arrived to-day overland. I want to show him my wife." THE END The transcriber made these changes to the text: 1. p. 152, "the the certificate" changed to "the certificate" 2. p. 224, "eend" changed to "end" 3. p. 246, "Charlay" changed to "Charley" 4. p. 281, "dimissing" changed to "dismissing" 
34860	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM _Plays_: EAST OF SUEZ THE CIRCLE THE EXPLORER MRS. DOT A MAN OF HONOUR PENELOPE JACK STRAW LADY FREDERICK THE TENTH MAN LANDED GENTRY THE UNKNOWN SMITH _Novels_: OF HUMAN BONDAGE THE MOON AND SIXPENCE THE TREMBLING OF A LEAF LIZA OF LAMBETH MRS. CRADDOCK THE EXPLORER THE MAGICIAN THE MERRY-GO-ROUND ON A CHINESE SCREEN THE LAND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN (_Sketches and Impressions in Andalusia_) EAST OF SUEZ A PLAY IN SEVEN SCENES BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM NEW [Illustration] YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1922. BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY [Illustration] EAST OF SUEZ. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA DRAMATIS PERSONÆ DAISY GEORGE CONWAY HENRY ANDERSON HAROLD KNOX LEE TAI CHENG SYLVIA KNOX AMAH WU _The action of the play takes place in Peking_ SCENES SCENE PAGE I A STREET IN PEKING 11 II A SMALL VERANDAH ON AN UPPER STOREY OF THE BRITISH AMERICAN TOBACCO COMPANY'S PREMISES 17 III THE TEMPLE OF FIDELITY AND VIRTUOUS INCLINATION 37 IV THE SITTING-ROOM IN THE ANDERSONS' APARTMENTS 59 V THE COURTYARD IN THE ANDERSONS' PART OF THE TEMPLE 81 VI A SMALL ROOM IN A CHINESE HOUSE IN PEKING 101 VII THE SITTING-ROOM IN THE ANDERSONS' APARTMENTS 121 SCENE I EAST OF SUEZ SCENE I SCENE: _A street in Peking_ _Several shops are shown. Their fronts are richly decorated with carved wood painted red and profusely gilt. The counters are elaborately carved. Outside are huge sign-boards. The shops are open to the street and you can see the various wares they sell. One is a coffin shop, where the coolies are at work on a coffin: other coffins, ready for sale, are displayed; some of them are of plain deal, others are rich, with black and gold. The next shop is a money changer's. Then there is a lantern shop in which all manner of coloured lanterns are hanging. After this comes a druggist where there are queer things in bottles and dried herbs. A small stuffed crocodile is a prominent object. Next to this is a shop where crockery is sold, large coloured jars, plates, and all manner of strange animals. In all the shops two or three Chinamen are seated. Some read newspapers through great horn spectacles; some smoke water pipes._ _The street is crowded. Here is an itinerant cook with his two chests, in one of which is burning charcoal: he serves out bowls of rice and condiments to the passers-by who want food. There is a barber with the utensils of his trade. A coolie, seated on a stool, is having his head shaved. Chinese walk to and fro. Some are coolies and wear blue cotton in various stages of raggedness; some in black gowns and caps and black shoes are merchants and clerks. There is a beggar, gaunt and thin, with an untidy mop of bristly hair, in tatters of indescribable filthiness. He stops at one of the shops and begins a long wail. For a time no one takes any notice of him, but presently on a word from the fat shopkeeper an assistant gives him a few cash and he wanders on. Coolies, half naked, hurry by, bearing great bales on their yokes. They utter little sharp cries for people to get out of their way. Peking carts with their blue hoods rumble noisily along. Rickshaws pass rapidly in both directions, and the rickshaw boys shout for the crowd to make way. In the rickshaws are grave Chinese. Some are dressed in white ducks after the European fashion; in other rickshaws are Chinese women in long smocks and wide trousers or Manchu ladies, with their faces painted like masks, in embroidered silks. Women of various sorts stroll about the street or enter the shops. You see them chaffering for various articles._ _A water-carrier passes along with a creaking barrow, slopping the water as he goes; an old blind woman, a masseuse, advances slowly, striking wooden clappers to proclaim her calling. A musician stands on the curb and plays a tuneless melody on a one-stringed fiddle. From the distance comes the muffled sound of gongs. There is a babel of sound caused by the talking of all these people, by the cries of coolies, the gong, the clappers, and the fiddle. From burning joss-sticks in the shops in front of the household god comes a savour of incense._ _A couple of Mongols ride across on shaggy ponies; they wear high boots and Astrakhan caps. Then a string of camels sways slowly down the street. They carry great burdens of skins from the deserts of Mongolia. They are accompanied by wild looking fellows. Two stout Chinese gentlemen are giving their pet birds an airing; the birds are attached by the leg with a string and sit on little wooden perches. The two Chinese gentlemen discuss their merits. Round about them small boys play. They run hither and thither pursuing one another amid the crowd._ END OF SCENE I SCENE II _A small verandah on an upper storey of the British American Tobacco Company's premises, the upper part of which the staff lives in. At the back are heavy arches of whitewashed masonry and a low wall which serves as a parapet. Green blinds are drawn. There is a bamboo table on which are copies of illustrated papers. A couple of long bamboo chairs and two or three smaller arm chairs. The floor is tiled._ _On one of the long chairs_ HAROLD KNOX _is lying asleep. He is a young man of pleasing appearance_. _He wears white ducks, but he has taken off his coat, which lies on a chair, and his collar and tie and pin. They are on the table by his side. He is troubled by a fly and, half waking but with his eyes still closed, tries to drive it away._ KNOX. Curse it. [_He opens his eyes and yawns._] Boy! WU. [_Outside._] Ye. KNOX. What's the time? [WU _comes in; he is a Chinese servant in a long white gown with a black cap on his head_. _He bears a tray on which is a bottle of whisky, a glass and a syphon._] WU. My no sabe. KNOX. Anyhow it's time for a whisky and soda. [WU _puts the tray down on the table_. KNOX _smiles_.] Intelligent anticipation. Model servant and all that sort of thing. [WU _pours out the whisky_.] You don't care if I drink myself to death, Wu--do you? [WU _smiles, showing all his teeth_.] Fault of the climate. Give me the glass. [WU _does so_.] You're like a mother to me, Wu. [_He drinks and puts down the glass._] By George, I feel another man. The bull-dog breed, Wu. Never say die. Rule Britannia. Pull up the blinds, you lazy blighter. The sun's off and the place is like a oven. [WU _goes over and pulls up one blind after the other_. _An expanse of blue sky is seen._ HENRY ANDERSON _comes in_. _He is a man of thirty, fair, good-looking, with a pleasant, honest face. His obvious straightforwardness and sincerity make him attractive._] HARRY. [_Breezily._] Hulloa, Harold, you seem to be taking it easy. KNOX. There was nothing to do in the office and I thought I'd get in my beauty sleep while I had the chance. HARRY. I thought you had your beauty sleep before midnight. KNOX. I'm taking time by the forelock so as to be on the safe side. HARRY. Are you going on the loose again to-night? KNOX. Again, Henry? HARRY. You were blind last night. KNOX. [_With great satisfaction._] Paralytic.... Hulloa, who's this? [_He catches sight of the_ AMAH _who has just entered_. _She is a little, thin, wrinkled, elderly Chinawoman in a long smock and trousers. She has gold pins in her sleek black hair. When she sees she has been noticed she smiles obsequiously._] Well, fair charmer, what can we do for you? HARRY. What does she want, Wu? KNOX. Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? AMAH. My Missy have pay my letter. HARRY. [_With sudden eager interest._] Are you Mrs. Rathbone's amah? Have you got a letter for me? AMAH. My belong Missy Rathbone amah. HARRY. Well, hurry up, don't be all night about it. Lend me a dollar, Harold. I want to give it to the old girl. [_The_ AMAH _takes a note out of her sleeve and gives it to_ HARRY. _He opens it and reads._ KNOX. I haven't got a dollar. Give her a chit or ask Wu. He's the only man I know who's got any money. HARRY. Let me have a dollar, Wu. Chop-chop. WU. My go catchee. [_He goes out._ _The_ AMAH _is standing near the table_. _While_ KNOX _and_ HARRY _go on talking she notices_ KNOX'S _pin_. _She smiles and smiles and makes little bows to the two men, but at the same time her hand cautiously reaches out for the pin and closes on it. Then she secretes it in her sleeve._ HARRY. I thought you were going to play tennis this afternoon. KNOX. So I am later on. HARRY. [_Smiling._] Do it now, dear boy. That is a precept a business man should never forget. KNOX. I should hate to think you wanted to be rid of me. HARRY. I dote on your company, but I feel that I mustn't be selfish. KNOX. [_Pulling his leg._] To tell you the truth I don't feel very fit to-day. HARRY. A little bilious, I dare say. Half a dozen hard sets are just what you want. [_He hands_ KNOX _his coat_.] KNOX. What is this? HARRY. Your coat. KNOX. You're making yourself almost more distressingly plain than nature has already made you. [WU _comes back and hands_ HARRY _a dollar, and then goes out_. HARRY _gives the dollar to the_ AMAH. HARRY. Here's a dollar for you, amah. You go back to missy and tell her it's all right and will she come chop-chop. Sabe? AMAH. My sabe. Goo'-bye. KNOX. God bless you, dearie. It's done me good to see your winsome little face. HARRY. [_With a smile._] Shut up, Harold. [_The_ AMAH _with nods, smiles and bows, goes out_. KNOX. Harry, my poor friend, is it possible that you have an assignation? HARRY. What is possible is that if you don't get out quick I'll throw you out. KNOX. Why didn't you say you were expecting a girl? HARRY. I'm not; I'm expecting a lady. KNOX. Are you sure you know how to behave? If you'd like me to stay and see you don't do the wrong thing I'll chuck my tennis. I'm always ready to sacrifice myself for a friend. HARRY. Has it struck you that the distance from the verandah to the street is very considerable? KNOX. And the pavement is hard. I flatter myself I can take a hint. I wonder where the devil my pin is. I left it on the table. HARRY. I expect Wu put it away. KNOX. It's much more likely that old woman pinched it. HARRY. Oh, nonsense. She wouldn't dream of such a thing. I believe Mrs. Rathbone's had her for ages. KNOX. Who is Mrs. Rathbone? HARRY. [_Not wishing to be questioned._] A friend of mine. [GEORGE CONWAY _comes in_. _He is a tall, dark man in the early thirties. He is a handsome, well-built fellow, of a somewhat rugged appearance, but urbane and self-assured._ GEORGE. May I come in? HARRY. [_Eagerly, shaking him warmly by the hand._] At last. By Jove, it's good to see you again. You know Knox, don't you? GEORGE. I think so. KNOX. I wash bottles in the B. A. T. I don't expect the legation bloods to be aware of my existence. GEORGE. [_With a twinkle in his eye._] I don't know that an Assistant Chinese Secretary is such a blood as all that. KNOX. You've just been down to Fuchow, haven't you? GEORGE. Yes, I only got back this morning. KNOX. Did you see Freddy Baker by any chance? GEORGE. Yes, poor chap. KNOX. Oh, I've got no pity for him. He's just a damned fool. HARRY. Why? KNOX. Haven't you heard? He's married a half-caste. HARRY. What of it? I believe she's a very pretty girl. KNOX. I daresay she is. But hang it all, he needn't have married her. GEORGE. I don't think it was a very wise thing to do. HARRY. I should have thought all those prejudices were out of date. Why shouldn't a man marry a half-caste if he wants to? KNOX. It can't be very nice to have a wife whom even the missionary ladies turn up their noses at. HARRY. [_With a shrug of the shoulders._] You wait till Freddy's number one in Hankow and can entertain. I bet the white ladies will be glad enough to know his missus then. GEORGE. Yes, but that's just it. He'll never get a good job with a Eurasian wife. HARRY. He's in Jardine's, isn't he? Do you mean to say it's going to handicap a man in a shipping firm because he's married a woman who's partly Chinese? GEORGE. Of course it is. Jardine's are about the most important firm in China and the manager of one of their principal branches has definite social obligations. Freddy Baker will be sent to twopenny halfpenny outports where his wife doesn't matter. KNOX. I think he's damned lucky if he's not asked to resign. HARRY. It's cruel. His wife may be a charming and cultivated woman. KNOX. Have you ever known a half-caste that was? HARRY. I have. KNOX. Well, I've been in this country for seven years and I've never met one, male or female, that didn't give me the shivers. HARRY. I've no patience with you. You're a perfect damned fool. KNOX. [_A little surprised, but quite good-humoured._] You're getting rather excited, aren't you? HARRY. [_Hotly._] I hate injustice. GEORGE. Do you think it really is injustice? The English are not an unkindly race. If they've got a down on half-castes there are probably very good grounds for it. HARRY. What are they? KNOX. We don't much like their morals, but we can't stick their manners. GEORGE. Somehow or other they seem to inherit all the bad qualities of the two races from which they spring and none of the good ones. I'm sure there are exceptions, but on the whole the Eurasian is vulgar and noisy. He can't tell the truth if he tries. KNOX. To do him justice, he seldom tries. GEORGE. He's as vain as a peacock. He'll cringe when he's afraid of you and he'll bully when he's not. You can never rely on him. He's crooked from the crown of his German hat to the toes of his American boots. KNOX. Straight from the shoulder. Take the count, old man. HARRY. [_Frigidly._] Oughtn't you to be going? KNOX. [_Smiling._] No, but I will. HARRY. I'm sorry if I was rude to you just now, old man. KNOX. Silly ass, you've broken no bones; my self-esteem, thank God, is unimpaired. [_He goes out._ HARRY. I say, I'm awfully glad you're back, George. You can't think how I miss you when you're away. GEORGE. As soon as the shooting starts we'll try and get two or three days together in the country. HARRY. Yes, that would be jolly. [_Calling._] Wu. WU. [_Outside._] Ye'. HARRY. Bring tea for three. GEORGE. Who is the third? HARRY. When you said you could come round I asked somebody I want you very much to meet. GEORGE. Who is that? HARRY. Mrs. Rathbone ... I'm going to be married to her and we want you to be our best man. GEORGE. Harry. HARRY. [_Boyishly._] I thought you'd be surprised. GEORGE. My dear old boy, I am so glad. I hope you'll be awfully happy. HARRY. I'm awfully happy now. GEORGE. Why have you kept it so dark? HARRY. I didn't want to say anything till it was all settled. Besides, I've only known her six weeks. I met her when I was down in Shanghai.... GEORGE. Is she a widow? HARRY. Yes, she was married to an American in the F. M. S. GEORGE. Is she American? HARRY. Only by marriage. I'm afraid she didn't have a very happy married life. GEORGE. Poor thing. I think I'd take a small bet that you won't beat her. HARRY. I mean to try my best to make her happy. GEORGE. You old fool, I've never known a man who was likely to make a better husband. HARRY. I'm most awfully in love with her, George. GEORGE. Isn't that ripping? How old is she? HARRY. Only twenty-two. She's the loveliest thing you ever saw. GEORGE. And is she in love with you? HARRY. She says so. GEORGE. She damned well ought to be. HARRY. I do hope you'll like her, George. GEORGE. Of course I shall. You're not the sort of chap to fall in love with a woman who isn't nice. [HARRY _walks up and down for a moment restlessly_. HARRY. Will you have a whisky and soda? GEORGE. No, thanks ... I'll wait for tea. HARRY. She ought to be here in a moment. [_Suddenly making up his mind._] It's no good beating about the bush. I may as well tell you at once. Her--her mother was Chinese. GEORGE. [_Unable to conceal his dismay._] Oh, Harry. [_A pause._] I wish I hadn't said all that I did just now. HARRY. Of course you didn't know. GEORGE. [_Gravely._] I should have had to say something very like it, Harry. But I shouldn't have put it so bluntly. HARRY. You said yourself there were exceptions. GEORGE. I know. [_Distressed._] Won't your people be rather upset? HARRY. I don't see how it can matter to them. They're nine thousand miles away. GEORGE. Who was her father? HARRY. Oh, he was a merchant. He's dead. And her mother is too. GEORGE. That's something. I don't think you'd much like having a Chinese mother-in-law about the place. HARRY. George, you won't let it make any difference, will you? We've known one another all our lives. GEORGE. My dear old chap, as far as I'm concerned I shouldn't care if you married the first cousin of the Ace of Spades. I don't want you to make a hash of things. HARRY. Wait till you see her. She's the most fascinating thing you ever met. GEORGE. Yes, they can be charming. I was awfully in love with a half--with a Eurasian girl myself years ago. It was before you came out to the country. I wanted to marry her. HARRY. Why didn't you? GEORGE. It was up in Chung-king. I'd just been appointed vice-consul. I was only twenty-three. The Minister wired from Peking that I'd have to resign if I did. I hadn't a bob except my salary and they transferred me to Canton to get me away. HARRY. It's different for you. You're in the service and you may be Minister one of these days. I'm only a merchant. GEORGE. Even for you there'll be difficulties, you know. Has it occurred to you that the white ladies won't be very nice? HARRY. I can do without their society. GEORGE. You must know some people. It means you'll have to hobnob with Eurasian clerks and their wives. I'm afraid you'll find it pretty rotten. HARRY. If you'll stick to me I don't care. GEORGE. I suppose you've absolutely made up your mind? HARRY. Absolutely. GEORGE. In that case I've got nothing more to say. You can't expect me not to be a little disappointed, but after all the chief thing is your happiness, and whatever I can do I will. You can put your shirt on that. HARRY. You're a brick, George. GEORGE. The little lady ought to be here, oughtn't she? HARRY. I think I hear her on the stairs. [_He goes to the entrance and then out._ WU _brings in the tea and sets it on the table_. GEORGE _walks over to the parapet and looks thoughtfully before him_. _There is a sound of voices in the adjoining room._ HARRY. [_Outside._] Come in; he's on the verandah. DAISY. [_Outside._] One brief look in the glass and then I'm ready. [HARRY _enters_. HARRY. She's just coming. GEORGE. I bet she's powdering her nose. DAISY. Here I am. [DAISY _enters_. SHE _is an extremely pretty woman, beautifully, perhaps a little showily, dressed_. _She has a pale, very clear, slightly sallow skin, and beautiful dark eyes. There is only the very faintest suspicion in them of the Chinese slant. Her hair is abundant and black._ HARRY. This is George Conway, Daisy. [GEORGE _stares at her_. _At first he is not quite sure that he recognizes her, then suddenly he does, but only the slightest movement of the eyes betrays him._ DAISY. How do you do. I told Harry I had an idea I must have met you somewhere. I don't think I have after all. HARRY. George flatters himself he's not easily forgotten. DAISY. But I've heard so much about you from Harry that I feel as though we were old friends. GEORGE. It's very kind of you to say so. HARRY. Supposing you poured out the tea, Daisy. GEORGE. I'm dying for a cup. [_She sits down and proceeds to do so._ DAISY. Harry is very anxious that you should like me. HARRY. George and I have known one another since we were kids. His people and mine live quite close to one another at home. DAISY. But I'm not blaming you. I'm only wondering how I shall ingratiate myself with him. HARRY. He looks rather severe, but he isn't really. I think you've only got to be your natural charming self. DAISY. Have you told him about the house? HARRY. No. [_To George._] You know the temple the Harrisons used to have. We've taken that. GEORGE. Oh, it's a ripping place. But won't you find it rather a nuisance to have those old monks on the top of you all the time? HARRY. Oh, I don't think so. Our part is quite separate, you know, and the Harrisons made it very comfortable. [HAROLD KNOX _comes in_. _He has changed into tennis things._ KNOX. I say, Harry ... [_He sees_ DAISY.] Oh, I beg your pardon. HARRY. Mr. Knox--Mrs. Rathbone. [KNOX _gives her a curt nod, but she holds out her hand affably_. _He takes it._ DAISY. How do you do. KNOX. I'm sorry to disturb you, Harry, but old Ku Faung Min is downstairs and wants to see you. HARRY. Tell him to go to blazes. The office is closed. KNOX. He's going to Hankow to-night and he says he must see you before he goes. He's got some big order to give. HARRY. Oh, curse him. I know what he is. He'll keep me talking for half an hour. D'you mind if I leave you? DAISY. Of course not. It'll give me a chance of making Mr. Conway's acquaintance. HARRY. I'll get rid of him as quickly as I can. [_He goes out accompanied by Knox._ KNOX. [_As he goes._] Good-bye. [GEORGE _looks at_ DAISY _for a moment_. _She smiles at him. There is a silence._ GEORGE. Why didn't you warn me that it was you I was going to meet? DAISY. I didn't know what you'd say about me to Harry if you knew. GEORGE. It was rather a risk, wasn't it? Supposing I'd blurted out the truth. DAISY. I trusted to your diplomatic training. Besides, I'd prepared for it. I told him I thought I'd met you. GEORGE. Harry and I have been pals all our lives. I brought him out to China and I got him his job. When he had cholera he would have died if I hadn't pulled him through. DAISY. I know. And in return he worships the ground you tread on. I've never known one man think so much of another as he does of you. GEORGE. All that's rot, of course. Sometimes I don't know how I'm going to live up to the good opinion Harry has of me. But when you've done so much for a pal as I have for him it gives you an awful sense of responsibility towards him. DAISY. What do you mean by that? [_A short pause._ GEORGE. I'm not going to let you marry him. DAISY. He's so much in love with me that he doesn't know what to do with himself. GEORGE. I know he is. But if you were in love with him you wouldn't be so sure of it. DAISY. [_With a sudden change of tone._] Why not? I was sure of your love. And God knows I was in love with you. [GEORGE _makes a gesture of dismay_. _He is taken aback for a moment, but he quickly recovers._ GEORGE. You don't know what sort of a man Harry is. He's not like the fellows you've been used to. He's never knocked around as most of us do. He's always been as straight as a die. DAISY. I know. GEORGE. Have mercy on him. Even if there were nothing else against you he's not the sort of chap for you to marry. He's awfully English. DAISY. If he doesn't mind marrying a Eurasian I really don't see what business it is of yours. GEORGE. But you know very well that that isn't the only thing against you. DAISY. I haven't an idea what you mean. GEORGE. Haven't you? You forget the war. When we heard there was a very pretty young woman, apparently with plenty of money, living at the Hong Kong Hotel on very familiar terms with a lot of naval fellows, it became our business to make enquiries. I think I know everything there is against you. DAISY. Have you any right to make use of information you've acquired officially? GEORGE. Don't be a fool, Daisy. DAISY. [_Passionately._] Tell him then. You'll break his heart. You'll make him utterly wretched. But he'll marry me all the same. When a man's as much in love as he is he'll forgive everything. GEORGE. I think it's horrible. If you loved him you couldn't marry him. It's heartless. DAISY. [_Violently._] How dare you say that? You. You. You know what I am. Yes, it's all true. I don't know what you know but it can't be worse than the truth. And whose fault is it? Yours. If I'm rotten it's you who made me rotten. GEORGE. I? No. You've got no right to say that. It's cruel. It's infamous. DAISY. I've touched you at last, have I? Because you know it's true. Don't you remember when I first came to Chung-king? I was seventeen. My father had sent me to England to school when I was seven. I never saw him for ten years. And at last he wrote and said I was to come back to China. You came and met me on the boat and told me my father had had a stroke and was dead. You took me to the Presbyterian mission. GEORGE. That was my job. I was awfully sorry for you. DAISY. And then in a day or two you came and told me that my father hadn't left anything and what there was went to his relations in England. GEORGE. Naturally he didn't expect to die. DAISY. [_Passionately._] If he was going to leave me like that why didn't he let me stay with my Chinese mother? Why did he bring me up like a lady? Oh, it was cruel. GEORGE. Yes. It was unpardonable. DAISY. I was so lonely and so frightened. You seemed to be sorry for me. You were the only person who was really kind to me. You were practically the first man I'd known. I loved you. I thought you loved me. Oh, say that you loved me then, George. GEORGE. You know I did. DAISY. I was very innocent in those days. I thought that when two people loved one another they married. I wasn't a Eurasian then, George. I was like any other English girl. If you'd married me I shouldn't be what I am now. But they took you away from me. You never even said good-bye to me. You wrote and told me you'd been transferred to Canton. GEORGE. I couldn't say good-bye to you, Daisy. They said that if I married you I'd have to leave the service. I was absolutely penniless. They dinned it into my ears that if a white man marries a Eurasian he's done for. I wouldn't listen to them, but in my heart I knew it was true. DAISY. I don't blame you. You wanted to get on, and you have, haven't you? You're Assistant Chinese Secretary already and Harry says you'll be Minister before you've done. It seems rather hard that I should have had to pay the price. GEORGE. Daisy, you'll never know what anguish I suffered. I can't expect you to care. It's very natural if you hate me. I was ambitious. I didn't want to be a failure. I knew that it was madness to marry you. I had to kill my love. I couldn't. It was stronger than I was. At last I couldn't help myself. I made up my mind to chuck everything and take the consequences. I was just starting for Chung-king when I heard you were living in Shanghai with a rich Chinaman. [DAISY _gives a little moan_. _There is a silence._ DAISY. They hated me at the mission. They found fault with me from morning till night. They blamed me because you wanted to marry me and they treated me as if I was a designing cat. When you went away they heaved a sigh of relief. Then they started to convert me. They thought I'd better become a school teacher. They hated me because I was seventeen. They hated me because I was pretty. Oh, the brutes. They killed all the religion I'd got. There was only one person who seemed to care if I was alive or dead. That was my mother. Oh, I was so ashamed the first time I saw her. At school in England I'd told them so often that she was a Chinese princess that I almost believed it myself. My mother was a dirty little ugly Chinawoman. I'd forgotten all my Chinese and I had to talk to her in English. She asked me if I'd like to go to Shanghai with her. I was ready to do anything in the world to get away from the mission and I thought in Shanghai I shouldn't be so far away from you. They didn't want me to go, but they couldn't keep me against my will. When we got to Shanghai she sold me to Lee Tai Cheng for two thousand dollars. GEORGE. How terrible. DAISY. I've never had a chance. Oh, George, isn't it possible for a woman to turn over a new leaf? You say that Harry's good and kind. Don't you see what that means to me? Because he'll think me good I shall be good. After all, he couldn't have fallen in love with me if I'd been entirely worthless. I hate the life I've led. I want to go straight. I swear I'll make him a good wife. Oh, George, if you ever loved me have pity on me. If Harry doesn't marry me I'm done. GEORGE. How can a marriage be happy that's founded on a tissue of lies? DAISY. I've never told Harry a single lie. GEORGE. You told him you hadn't been happily married. DAISY. That wasn't a lie. GEORGE. You haven't been married at all. DAISY. [_With a roguish look._] Well then, I haven't been happily married, have I? GEORGE. Who was this fellow Rathbone? DAISY. He was an American in business at Singapore. I met him in Shanghai. I hated Lee. Rathbone asked me to go to Singapore with him and I went. I lived with him for four years. GEORGE. Then you went back to Lee Tai Cheng. DAISY. Rathbone died. There was nothing else to do. My mother was always nagging me to go back to him. He's rich and she makes a good thing out of it. GEORGE. I thought she was dead. DAISY. No. I told Harry she was because I thought it would make it easier for him. GEORGE. She isn't with you now, is she? DAISY. No, she lives at Ichang. She doesn't bother me as long as I send her something every month. GEORGE. Why did you tell Harry that you were twenty-two? It's ten years since you came to China and you were seventeen then. DAISY. [_With a twinkle in her eye._] Any woman of my age will tell you that seventeen and ten are twenty-two. [GEORGE _does not smile_. _With frowning brow he walks up and down._ GEORGE. Oh, I wish to God I knew nothing about you. I can't bring myself to tell him and yet how can I let him marry you in absolute ignorance? Oh, Daisy, for your sake as well as for his I beseech you to tell him the whole truth and let him decide for himself. DAISY. And break his heart? There's not a missionary who believes in God as he believes in me. If he loses his trust in me he loses everything. Tell him if you think you must, if you have no pity, if you have no regret for all the shame and misery you brought on me, you, you, you--but if you do, I swear, I swear to God that I shall kill myself. I won't go back to that hateful life. [_He looks at her earnestly for a moment._ GEORGE. I don't know if I'm doing right or wrong. I shall tell him nothing. [DAISY _gives a deep sigh of relief_, HARRY _comes in_. HARRY. I say, I'm awfully sorry to have been so long. I couldn't get the old blighter to go. DAISY. [_With complete self-control._] If I say you've been an age it'll look as though Mr. Conway had been boring me. HARRY. I hope you've made friends. DAISY. [_To_ GEORGE.] Have we? GEORGE. I hope so. But now I think I must bolt. I have a long Chinese document to translate. [_Holding out his hand to_ DAISY.] I hope you'll both be very happy. DAISY. I think I'm going to like you. GEORGE. Good-bye, Harry, old man. HARRY. I shall see you later on in the club, sha'n't I? GEORGE. If I can get through my work. [_He goes out._ HARRY. What have you and George been talking about? DAISY. We discussed the house. It'll be great fun buying the things for it. HARRY. I could have killed that old Chink for keeping me so long. I grudge every minute that I spend away from you. DAISY. It's nice to be loved. HARRY. You do love me a little, don't you? DAISY. A little more than a little, my lamb. HARRY. I wish I were more worth your while. You've made me feel so dissatisfied with myself. I'm such a rotter. DAISY. You're not going to disagree with me already. HARRY. What about? DAISY. About you. I think you're a perfect duck. [_The_ AMAH _appears_. HARRY. Hulloa, who's this? DAISY. Oh, it's my amah. HARRY. I didn't recognize her for a moment. DAISY. She doesn't approve of my being alone with strange gentlemen. She looks after me as if I was a child of ten. AMAH. Velly late, missy Daisy. Time you come along. HARRY. Oh, nonsense. DAISY. She wants me to go and be fitted. She never lets me go out in Peking alone. HARRY. She's quite right. DAISY. Amah, come and be introduced to the gentleman. He's going to be your master now. AMAH. [_Smiling, with little nods._] Velly nice gentleman. You keep missy Daisy old amah--yes? Velly good amah--yes? DAISY. She's been with me ever since I was a child. HARRY. Of course we'll keep her. She was with you when you were in Singapore? DAISY. [_With a little sigh._] Yes, I don't know what I should have done without her sometimes. HARRY. Oh, Daisy, I do want to make you forget all the unhappiness you have suffered. [_He takes her in his arms and kisses her on the lips._ _The_ AMAH _chuckles to herself silently_. END OF SCENE II. SCENE III SCENE: _The Temple of Fidelity and Virtuous Inclination. The courtyard of the temple is shown. At the back is the sanctuary in which is seen the altar table; on this are two large vases in each of which are seven lotus flowers, gilt but discoloured by incense, and in the middle there is a sand-box in which are burning joss-sticks; behind is the image of Buddha. The sanctuary can be closed by huge doors. These are now open. A flight of steps leads up to it._ _A service is finishing. The monks are seen on each side of the altar kneeling in two rows. They are clad in grey gowns and their heads are shaven. They sing the invocation to Buddha, repeating the same words over and over again in a monotonous chaunt._ DAISY _stands outside the sanctuary door, on the steps, listlessly_. _The_ AMAH _is squatting by her side_. _Now the service ends; the monks form a procession and two by two, still singing, come down the steps and go out. A tiny acolyte blows out the oil lamps and with an effort shuts the temple doors._ DAISY _comes down the steps and sits on one of the lower ones_. _She is dreadfully bored._ AMAH. What is the matter with my pletty one? DAISY. What should be the matter? AMAH. [_With a snigger._] Hi, hi. Old amah got velly good eyes in her head. DAISY. [_As though talking to herself._] I've got a husband who adores me and a nice house to live in. I've got a position and as much money as I want. I'm safe. I'm respectable. I ought to be happy. AMAH. I say, Harry no good, what for you wanchee marry? You say, I wanchee marry, I wanchee marry? Well, you married. What you want now? DAISY. They say life is short. Good God, how long the days are. AMAH. You want pony--Harry give you pony. You want jade ring--Harry give you jade ring. You want sable coat--Harry give you sable coat. Why you not happy? DAISY. I never said I wasn't happy. AMAH. Hi, hi. DAISY. If you laugh like that I'll kill you. AMAH. You no kill old amah. You want old amah. I got something velly pletty for my little Daisy flower. DAISY. Don't be an old fool. I'm not a child any more. [_Desperately._] I'm growing older, older, older. And every day is just like every other day. I might as well be dead. AMAH. Look this pletty present old amah have got. [_She takes a jade necklace out of her sleeve and puts it, smiling, into_ DAISY'S _hand_. DAISY. [_With sudden vivacity,_] Oh, what a lovely chain. It's beautiful jade. How much do they want for it? AMAH. It's a present for my little Daisy. DAISY. For me? It must have cost five hundred dollars. Who is it from? AMAH. To-day is my little Daisy's wedding-day. She have married one year. Perhaps old amah want to give her little flower present. DAISY. YOU! Have you ever given me anything but a beating? AMAH. Lee Tai Cheng pay me necklace and say you give to Daisy. DAISY. You old hag. [_She flings the necklace away violently._] AMAH. You silly. Worth plenty money. You no wanchee, I sell rich Amelican. [_She is just going after the necklace, when_ DAISY _catches her violently by the arm_. DAISY. How dare you? How dare you? I told you that you were never to let Lee Tai speak to you again. AMAH. You very angry, Daisy. You very angry before, but you go back to Lee Tai; he think perhaps you go back again. DAISY. Tell him that I loathe the sight of him. Tell him that if I were starving I wouldn't take a penny from him. Tell him that if he dares to come round here I'll have him beaten till he screams. AMAH. Hi, hi. DAISY. And you leave me alone, will you. Harry hates you. I've only got to say a word and he'll kick you out in five minutes. AMAH. What would my little Daisy do without old amah, hi, hi? What for you no talkee true? You think old amah no got eyes? [_With a cunning, arch look._] I got something make you very glad. [_She takes a note out of her sleeve._] DAISY. What's that? AMAH. I got letter. DAISY. [_Snatching it from her._] Give it me. How dare you hide it? AMAH. Have come when you long Harry. I think perhaps you no wanchee read when Harry there. [DAISY _tears it open_.] What he say? DAISY. [_Reading._] "I'm awfully sorry I can't dine with you on Thursday, but I'm engaged. I've just remembered it's your wedding-day and I'll look in for a minute. Ask Harry if he'd like to ride with me." AMAH. Is that all? DAISY. "Yours ever. George Conway." AMAH. You love him very much, George Conway? DAISY. [_Taking no notice of her, passionately._] At last. I haven't seen him for ten days. Ten mortal days. Oh, I want him. I want him. AMAH. Why you no talkee old amah? DAISY. [_Desperately._] I can't help myself. Oh, I love him so. What shall I do? I can't live without him. If you don't want me to die make him love me. AMAH. You see, you want old amah. DAISY. Oh, I'm so unhappy. I think I shall go mad. AMAH. Sh, sh. Perhaps he love you too. DAISY. Never. He hates me. Why does he avoid me? He never comes here. At first he was always looking in. He used to come out and dine two or three days a week. What have I done to him? He only comes now because he does not want to offend Harry. Harry, Harry, what do I care for Harry? AMAH. Sh. Don't let him see. Give amah the letter. [_She snatches it from_ DAISY _and hides it in her dress as_ HARRY _comes in_. DAISY _pulls herself together_. HARRY. I say, Daisy, I've just had the ponies saddled. Put on your habit and let's go for a ride. DAISY. I've got a headache. HARRY. Oh, my poor child. Why don't you lie down? DAISY. I thought I was better in the air. But there's no reason why you shouldn't ride. HARRY. Oh, no, I won't ride without you. DAISY. Why on earth not? It'll do you good. You know when my head's bad I only want to be left alone. Your pony wants exercising. HARRY. The boy can do that. DAISY. [_Trying to conceal her growing exasperation._] Please do as I ask. I'd rather you went. HARRY. [_Laughing._] Of course if you're so anxious to get rid of me.... DAISY. [_Smiling._] I can't bear that you should be done out of your ride. If you won't go alone you'll just force me to come with you. HARRY. I'll go. Give me a kiss before I do. [_She puts up her lips to his._] I'm almost ashamed of myself, I'm just as madly in love with you as the day we were married. DAISY. You are a dear. Have a nice ride, and when you come back I shall be all right. HARRY. That's ripping. I shan't be very long. [_He goes out. The lightness, the smile, with which she has spoken to Harry disappear as he goes, and she looks worried and anxious._ DAISY. Supposing they meet? AMAH. No can. Harry go out back way. DAISY. Yes, I suppose he will. I wish he'd be quick. [_Violently._] I must see George. AMAH. [_Picking up the necklace._] Velly pletty necklace. You silly girl. Why you no take? DAISY. Oh, damn, why can't you leave me alone? [_Listening._] What on earth is Harry doing? I thought the pony was saddled. AMAH. [_Looking at the necklace._] What shall I do with this? DAISY. Throw it in the dust-bin. AMAH. Lee Tai no likee that very much. DAISY. [_Hearing the sound of the pony, with a sigh of relief._] He's gone. Now I'm safe. Where's my bag? [_She takes a little mirror out of it and looks at herself._] I look perfectly hideous. AMAH. Don't be silly. You velly pletty girl. DAISY. [_Her ears all alert._] There's someone riding along. AMAH. That not pony. That Peking cart. DAISY. You old fool, I tell you it's a pony. At last. Oh, my heart's beating so.... It's stopping at the gate. It's George. Oh, I love him. I love him. [_To the_ AMAH, _stamping her foot_.] What are you waiting for? I don't want you here now, and don't listen, d'you hear. Get out, get out. AMAH. All-light. My go away. [_The_ AMAH _slinks away_. DAISY _stands waiting for_ GEORGE, _holding her hands to her heart as though to stop the anguish of its beating_. _She makes a great effort at self-control as_ GEORGE _enters_. _He is in riding kit. He has a bunch of orchids in his hand._ GEORGE. Hulloa, what are you doing here? DAISY. I was tired of sitting in the drawing-room. GEORGE. I remembered it was your wedding-day. I've brought you a few flowers. [_She takes them with both hands._] DAISY. Thank you. That _is_ kind of you. GEORGE. [_Gravely._] I hope you'll always be very happy. I hope you'll allow me to say how grateful I am that you've given Harry so much happiness. DAISY. You're very solemn. One would almost think you'd prepared that pretty speech beforehand. GEORGE. [_Trying to take it lightly._] I'm sorry if it didn't sound natural. I can promise you it was sincere. DAISY. Shall we sit down? GEORGE. I think we ought to go for our ride while the light lasts. I'll come in and have a drink on the way back. DAISY. Harry's out. GEORGE. Is he? I sent you a note this morning. I said I couldn't dine on Thursday and I'd come and fetch Harry for a ride this afternoon. DAISY. I didn't tell him. GEORGE. No? DAISY. I don't see you very often nowadays. GEORGE. There's an awful lot of work to do just now. They lead me a dog's life at the legation. DAISY. Even at night? At first you used to come and dine with us two or three nights a week. GEORGE. I can't always be sponging on you. It's positively indecent. DAISY. We don't know many people. It's not always very lively here. I should have thought if you didn't care to come for my sake you'd have come for Harry's. GEORGE. I come whenever you ask me. DAISY. You haven't been here for a month. GEORGE. It just happens that the last two or three times you've asked me to dine I've been engaged. DAISY. [_Her voice breaking._] You promised that we'd be friends. What have I done to turn you against me? GEORGE. [_His armour pierced by the emotion in her voice._] Oh, Daisy, don't speak like that. DAISY. I've tried to do everything I could to please you. If there's anything I do that you don't like, won't you tell me? I promise you I won't do it. GEORGE. Oh, my dear child, you make me feel such an awful beast. DAISY. Is it the past that you can't forget? GEORGE. Good heavens, no, what do I care about the past? DAISY. I have so few friends. I'm so awfully fond of you, George. GEORGE. I don't think I've given you much cause to be that. DAISY. There must be some reason why you won't ever come near me. Why won't you tell me? GEORGE. Oh, it's absurd, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. DAISY. You used to be so jolly, and we used to laugh together. I looked forward so much to your coming here. What has changed you? GEORGE. Nothing has changed me. DAISY. [_With a passion of despair._] Oh, I might as well batter my head against a brick wall. How can you be so unkind to me? GEORGE. For God's sake ... [_He stops._] Heaven knows, I don't want to be unkind to you. DAISY. Then why do you treat me as an outcast? Oh, it's cruel, cruel. [GEORGE _is excessively distressed_. _He walks up and down, frowning._ _He cannot bear to look at_ DAISY _and he speaks with hesitation_. GEORGE. You'll think me an awful rotter, Daisy, but you can't think me more of a rotter than I think myself. I don't know how to say it. It seems such an awful thing to say. I'm so ashamed of myself. I don't suppose two men have ever been greater pals than Harry and I. He's married to you and he's awfully in love with you. And I think you're in love with him. I was only twenty-three when I--first knew you. It's an awful long time ago, isn't it? There are some wounds that never quite heal, you know. Oh, my God, don't you understand? [_His embarrassment, the distraction of his tone, and the way the halting words fall unwillingly from his lips have betrayed the truth to_ DAISY. _She does not speak, she does not stir, she looks at him with great shining eyes. She hardly dares to breathe._] If ever you wanted revenge on me you've got it now. You must see that it's better that I shouldn't come here too often. Forgive me--Goodby. [_He hurries away with averted face._ DAISY _stands motionless, erect; she is almost transfigured_. _She draws a long breath._ DAISY. Oh, God! He loves me. [_She takes the orchids he has brought her and crushes them to her heart._ _The_ AMAH _appears_. AMAH. You wantchee buy Manchu dress, Daisy? DAISY. Go away. AMAH. Velly cheap. You look see. No likee, no buy. DAISY. [_Impatiently._] I'm sick of curio-dealers. AMAH. Velly pletty Manchu dresses. [_She draws aside a little and allows a man with a large bundle wrapped up in a blue cotton cloth to come in. He is a Chinese. He is dressed in a long black robe and a round black cap._ _It is_ LEE TAI CHENG. _He is big and rather stout. From his smooth and yellow face his black eyes gleam craftily. He lays his bundle on the ground and unties it, showing a pile of gorgeous Manchu dresses._ DAISY _has taken no notice of him_. _Suddenly she sees that a man, with his back turned to her, is there._ DAISY. [_To the_ AMAH.] I told you I wouldn't see the man. Send him away at once. LEE TAI. [_Turning round, with a sly smile._] You look see. No likee, no buy. DAISY. [_With a start of surprise and dismay._] Lee! LEE TAI. [_Coming forward coolly._] Good afternoon, Daisy. DAISY. [_Recovering herself._] It's lucky for you I'm in a good temper or I'd have you thrown out by the boys. What have you brought this junk for? LEE TAI. A curio-dealer can come and go and no one wonders. AMAH. Lee Tai velly clever man. DAISY. Give me that chain. [_The_ AMAH _takes it out of her sleeve and gives it to her_. DAISY _flings it contemptuously at_ LEE TAI'S _feet_.] Take it. Pack up your things and go. If you ever dare to show your face here again, I'll tell my husband. LEE TAI. [_With a chuckle._] What will you tell him? Don't you be a silly girl, Daisy. DAISY. What do you want? LEE TAI. [_Coolly._] You. DAISY. Don't you know that I loathe you? You disgust me. LEE TAI. What do I care? Perhaps if you loved me I shouldn't want you. Your hatred is like a sharp and bitter sauce that tickles my appetite. DAISY. You beast. LEE TAI. I like the horror that makes your body tremble when I hold you in my arms. And sometimes the horror turns on a sudden into a wild tempest of passion. DAISY. You liar. LEE TAI. Leave this stupid white man. What is he to you? DAISY. He is my husband. LEE TAI. It is a year to-day since you were married. What has marriage done for you? You thought when you married a white man you'd become a white woman. Do you think they can look at you and forget? How many white women do you know? How many friends have you got? You're a prisoner. I'll take you to Singapore or Calcutta. Don't you want to amuse yourself? Do you want to go to Europe? I'll take you to Paris. I'll give you more money to spend in a week than your husband earns in a year. DAISY. I'm very comfortable in Peking, thank you. LEE TAI. [_Snapping his fingers._] You don't care that for your husband. He loves you. You despise him. Don't you wish with all your heart that you hadn't married him? AMAH. He very silly white man. He no likee Daisy's old amah. Perhaps one day he b'long sick. Daisy cry velly much if he die? DAISY. [_Impatiently._] Don't be such a fool. AMAH. Perhaps one day he drink whisky soda. Oh, velly ill, velly ill. What's the matter with me? No sabe. No can stand. Doctor no sabe. Then die. Hi, hi. DAISY. You silly old woman. Harry's not a Chinaman and he wouldn't call in a Chinese doctor. LEE TAI. [_With a smile._] China is a very old and a highly civilized country, Daisy. When anyone is in your way, it's not very difficult to get rid of him. DAISY. [_Scornfully._] And do you think I'd let poor Harry be murdered so that I might be free to listen to your generous proposals? You must think I'm a fool if you expect me to risk my neck for that. LEE TAI. You don't take _any_ risk, Daisy. You know nothing. AMAH. Lee Tai velly clever man, Daisy. DAISY. I thought so once. Lee Tai, you're a damned fool. Get out. LEE TAI. Freedom is a very good thing, Daisy. DAISY. What should I do with it? LEE TAI. Wouldn't you like to be free now? [_She looks at him sharply. She wonders if it can possibly be that he suspects her passion for George Conway. He meets her glance steadily._] One day Sen Shi Ming was sitting with his wife looking at a Tang bronze that he had just bought when he heard someone in the street crying for help. Sen Shi was a very brave man and he snatched up a revolver and ran out. Sen Shi forgot that he had cheated his brother out of a house in Hatamen Street or he would have been more prudent. Sen Shi was found by the watchman an hour later with a dagger in his heart. Who killed cock-robin? AMAH. Hi, hi. Sen Shi velly silly man. LEE TAI. His brother knew that. They had grown up together. If I heard cries for help outside my house late in the night, I should ask myself who had a grudge against me, and I should make sure the door was bolted. But white men are very brave. White men don't know the Chinese customs. Would you be very sorry if an accident happened to your excellent husband? DAISY. I wonder what you take me for? LEE TAI. Why do you pretend to me, Daisy? Do you think I don't know you? DAISY. The door is a little on the left of you, Lee Tai. Would you give yourself the trouble of walking through it? LEE TAI. [_With a smile._] I go, but I come back. Perhaps you'll change your mind. [_He ties up his bundle and is about to go._ HARRY _enters_. DAISY. Oh, Harry, you're back very soon! HARRY. Yes, the pony went lame. Fortunately I hadn't gone far before I noticed it. Who's this? DAISY. It's a curio-dealer. He has nothing I want. I was just sending him away. [LEE TAI _takes up his bundle and goes out_. HARRY. [_Noticing the orchids._] Someone been sending you flowers? DAISY. George. HARRY. Rather nice of him. [_To the_ AMAH.] Run along, amah, I want to talk to missy. AMAH. All light. HARRY. And don't let me catch you listening round the corner. AMAH. My no listen. What for I listen? HARRY. Run along--chop-chop. AMAH. Can do. [_She goes out._] HARRY. [_With a laugh._] I couldn't give you a greater proof of my affection than consenting to have that old woman around all the time. DAISY. I don't know why you dislike her. She's devoted to me. HARRY. That's the only reason I put up with her. She gives me the creeps. I have the impression that she watches every movement I make. DAISY. Oh, what nonsense! HARRY. And I've caught her eavesdropping. DAISY. Was it amah that you wanted to talk to me about? HARRY. No, I've got something to tell you. How would you like to leave Peking? DAISY. [_With a start, suddenly off her guard._] Not at all. HARRY. I'm afraid it's awfully dull for you here, darling. DAISY. I don't find it so. HARRY. You're so dear and sweet. Are you sure you don't say that on my account? DAISY. I'm very fond of Peking. HARRY. We've been married a year now. I don't want to hurt your feelings, darling, but it's no good beating about the bush, and I think it's better to be frank. DAISY. Surely you can say anything you like to me without hesitation. HARRY. Things have been a little awkward in a way. The women I used to know before we married left cards on you-- DAISY. Having taken the precaution to discover that I should be out. HARRY. And you returned those cards and that was the end of it. I asked George what he thought about my taking you to the club to play tennis and he said he thought we'd better not risk it. The result is that you don't know a soul. DAISY. Have I complained? HARRY. You've been most awfully decent about it, but I hate to think of your spending day after day entirely by yourself. It can't be good for you to be so much alone. DAISY. I might have known Mrs. Chuan. She's a white woman. HARRY. Oh, my dear, she was--heaven knows what she was! She's married to a Chinaman. It's horrible. She's outside the pale. DAISY. And there's Bertha Raymond. She's very nice, even though she is a Eurasian. HARRY. I'm sure she's very nice, but we couldn't very well have the Raymonds here and refuse to go to them. Her brother is one of the clerks in my office. I don't want to seem an awful snob.... DAISY. You needn't hesitate to say anything about the Eurasians. You can't hate and despise them more than I do. HARRY. I don't hate and despise them. I think that's odious. But sometimes they're not very tactful. I don't know that I much want one of my clerks to come and slap me on the back in the office and call me old chap. DAISY. Of course not. HARRY. The fact is we've been trying to do an impossible thing. It's no good kicking against the pricks. What with the legations and one thing and another Peking's hopeless. We'd far better clear out. DAISY. But if I don't mind why should you? HARRY. Well, it's not very nice for me either. It's for my sake just as much as for yours that I'd be glad to go elsewhere. Of course everybody at the club knows I'm married. Some of them ignore it altogether. I don't mind that so much. Some of them ask after you with an exaggerated cordiality which is rather offensive. And every now and then some fool begins to slang the Eurasians and everybody kicks him under the table. Then he remembers about me and goes scarlet. By God, it's hell. DAISY. [_Sulkily._] I don't want to leave Peking. I'm very happy here. HARRY. Well, darling, I've applied for a transfer. DAISY. [_With sudden indignation._] Without saying a word to me? HARRY. I thought you'd be glad. I didn't want to say anything till it was settled. DAISY. Do you think I am a child to have everything arranged for me without a word? [_Trying to control herself._] After all, you'd never see George. Surely you don't want to lose sight of your only real friend. HARRY. I've talked it over with George and he thinks it's the best thing to do. DAISY. Did he advise you to go? HARRY. Strongly. DAISY. [_Violently._] I won't do it. I won't leave Peking. HARRY. Why should his advice make the difference? DAISY. Why? [_She is confused for a moment, but quickly recovers herself._] I won't let George Conway--or anybody else--decide where I'm to go. HARRY. Don't be unreasonable, darling. DAISY. I won't go. I tell you I won't go. HARRY. Well, I'm afraid you must now. It's all settled. The transfer is decided. DAISY. [_Bursting into tears._] Oh, Harry, don't take me away from here. I can't bear it. I want to stay here. HARRY. Oh, darling, how can you be so silly! You'll have a much better time at one of the outports. You see, there are so few white people there that they can't afford to put on frills. They'll be jolly glad to know us both. We shall lead a normal life and be like everybody else. DAISY. [_Sulkily._] Where do you want to go? HARRY. I've been put in charge of our place at Chung-king. DAISY. [_Starting up with a cry._] Chung-king! Of course you'd choose Chung-king. HARRY. Why, what's wrong with it? Do you know it? DAISY. No--oh, what am I talking about? I'm all confused. Yes, I was there once when I was a girl. It's a hateful place. HARRY. Oh, nonsense! The consul's got a charming wife, and there are quite a nice lot of people there. DAISY. [_Distracted._] Oh, what shall I do? I'm so unhappy. If you cared for me at all you wouldn't treat me so cruelly. You're ashamed of me. You want to hide me. Why should I bury myself in a hole two thousand miles up the river? I won't go! I won't go! I won't go! [_She bursts into a storm of hysterical weeping._] HARRY. [_Trying to take her in his arms._] Oh, Daisy, for God's sake don't cry. You know I'm not ashamed of you. I love you more than ever. I love you with all my heart. DAISY. [_Drawing away from him._] Don't touch me. Leave me alone. I hate you. HARRY. Don't say that, Daisy. It hurts me frightfully. DAISY. Oh, go away, go away! HARRY. [_Seeking to reason with her._] I can't leave you like this. DAISY. Go, go, go, go, go! I don't want to see you! Oh, God, what shall I do? [_She flings herself doom on the steps, weeping hysterically._ HARRY, _much distressed, looks at her in perplexity_. _The_ AMAH _comes in_. AMAH. You make missy cly. You velly bad man. HARRY. What the devil do you want? AMAH. [_Going up to_ DAISY _and stroking her head_.] What thing he talkee my poor little flower? Maskee. He belong velly bad man. HARRY. Shut up, you old ... I won't have you talk like that. I've put up with a good deal from you, but if you try to make mischief between Daisy and me, by God, I'll throw you out into the street with my own hands. AMAH. What thing you do my Daisy? Don't cly, Daisy. HARRY. Darling, don't be unreasonable. DAISY. Go away, don't come near me. I hate you. HARRY. How _can_ you say anything so unkind? DAISY. Send him away. [_She begins to sob again more violently._] AMAH. You go away. You no can see she no wanchee you. You come back bimeby. My sabe talk to little flower. [HARRY _hesitates for a moment_. _He is harassed by the scene. Then he makes up his mind the best thing is to leave_ DAISY _with the_ AMAH. _He goes out._ DAISY _raises her head cautiously_. DAISY. Has he gone? AMAH. Yes. He go drink whisky soda. DAISY. Do you know what he wants? AMAH. What for he tell me no listen? So fashion I sabe he say something I wanchee hear. He wanchee you leave Peking. DAISY. I won't go. AMAH. Harry velly silly man. He alla same pig. You pull thisa way, he pull thata way. If Harry say you go from Peking--you go. DAISY. Never, never, never! AMAH. You go away from Peking you never see George anymore. DAISY. I should die. Oh, I want him! I want him to love me. I want him to hurt me. I want.... [_In her passion she has dug her hands hard into the_ AMAH.] AMAH. [_Pushing away_ DAISY'S _hands_.] Oh! DAISY. He loves me. That's the only thing that matters. All the rest.... AMAH. Harry wanchee you go Chung-king. Missionary ladies like see you again, Daisy. Perhaps they ask you how you like living along Lee Tai Cheng. Perhaps somebody tell Harry. DAISY. The fool. Of all the places in China he must hit upon Chung-king. AMAH. You know Harry. If he say go Chung-king, he go. You cly, he velly solly, he all same go. DAISY. Oh, I know his obstinacy. When he's once made up his mind--[_Contemptuously._]--he prides himself on his firmness. Oh, what shall I do? AMAH. I think more better something happen to Harry. DAISY. No, no, no! AMAH. What you flightened for? You no do anything. I tell Lee Tai more better something happen to Harry. I say you not velly sorry if Harry die. DAISY. [_Putting her hands over her ears._] Be quiet! I won't listen to you. AMAH. [_Roughly tearing her hands away._] Don't you be such a big fool, Daisy. You go to Chung-king and Harry know everything. Maybe he kill you. DAISY. What do I care? AMAH. You go to Chung-king, you never see George no more. George, he love my little Daisy. When Harry gone--George, he come say.... DAISY. Oh, don't tempt me, it's horrible! AMAH. He put his arms round you and you feel such a little small thing, you hear his heart beat quick, quick against your heart. And he throw back your head and he kiss you. And you think you die, little flower. DAISY. Oh, I love him, I love him! AMAH. Hi, hi. DAISY. [_Thinking of the scene with George._] He would hardly look at me and his hands were trembling. He was as white as a sheet. AMAH. [_Persuasively._] I tell you, Daisy. You no say yes, you no say no. I ask Buddha. DAISY. [_Frightened._] What for? AMAH. If Buddha say yes, I talk with Lee Tai; if Buddha say no, I do nothing. Then you go to Chung-king and you never see George any more. [_The_ AMAH _goes up the temple steps and flings open the great doors_. DAISY _watches her with an agony of horror, expectation, and dread. The_ AMAH _lights some joss-sticks on the altar, and strikes a deep-toned gong._ HARRY _comes in, followed by_ LEE TAI _with his bundle_. HARRY. [_Anxious to make his peace._] Daisy, I found this fellow hanging about in the courtyard. I thought I'd like to buy you a Manchu dress that he's got. DAISY. [_After a moment's reflection, with a change of tone._] That's very nice of you, Harry. HARRY. It's a real beauty. You'll look stunning in it. LEE TAI. [_Showing the dress, speaking in Pidgin English._] Firs class dless. He belong Manchu plincess. Manchus no got money. No got money, no can chow. Manchus sell velly cheap. You takee, Missy. [DAISY _and_ LEE TAI _exchange glances_. DAISY _is grave and tragic, whereas_ LEE TAI _has an ironical glint in his eyes. Meanwhile the_ AMAH _has been bowing before the altar. She goes down on her knees and knocks her head on the ground_. HARRY. What in God's Name is amah doing? DAISY. She's asking Buddha a question. HARRY. What question? DAISY. [_With a shadow of a smile._] How should I know? HARRY. What's the idea? DAISY. Haven't you ever seen the Chinese do it? You see those pieces of wood she's holding in her hands. She's holding them out to the Buddha so that he may see them and she's telling him that he must answer the question. [_Meanwhile the_ AMAH, _muttering in a low tone, is seen doing what_ DAISY _describes_.] The Buddha smells the incense of the burning joss-sticks, and he's pleased and he listens to what she says. HARRY. [_Smiling._] Don't be so absurd, Daisy. One might almost think you believed all this nonsense. Why, you're quite pale. DAISY. Then she gets up. The pieces of wood are flat on one side and round on the other. She'll lift them above her head and she'll drop them in front of the Buddha. If they fall with the round side uppermost it means yes. [DAISY _has been growing more and more excited as the ceremony proceeds. Now the_ AMAH _steps back a little and she raises her arms_. DAISY _gives a shriek and starts to run forward_.] No! no! Stop! HARRY. [_Instinctively seizing her arms._] Daisy! [_At the same moment the_ AMAH _has let the pieces of wood fall. She looks at them for an instant and then turns round_. AMAH. Buddha talkee, can do. DAISY. [_To_ HARRY.] Why did you stop me? HARRY. Daisy, how can you be so superstitious? What is the result? DAISY. Amah asked Buddha a question and the answer is yes. [_She puts her hand to her heart for an instant, then looking at_ HARRY _she smiles_.] I'm sorry I was silly and unreasonable just now, Harry. END OF SCENE III SCENE IV _The sitting-room in the_ ANDERSONS' _apartments. At the back are two double doors. The lower part of them is solid, but above they are cut in an intricate trellis. The ceiling is raftered, painted red and decorated with dim, gold dragons; the walls are whitewashed. On them hang Chinese pictures on rolls. Between the doors is a little image of the domestic god, and under it a tiny oil lamp is burning. The furniture is partly Chinese and partly European. There is an English writing-table, but the occasional tables, richly carved, are Chinese. There is a Chinese pallet-bed, covered with bamboo matting, and there is an English Chesterfield. There are a couple of Philippine rattan chairs and one or two of Cantonese blackwood. On the floor is a Chinese carpet. A Ming tile here and there gives a vivid note of colour. It is a summer night and the doors are wide open. Through them you see one of the courtyards of the temple_. _The_ AMAH _is seated in one of the blackwood chairs by the side of a table. She has her water-pipe. She puts a pinch of tobacco in and then going to the lamp under the image lights a taper. She seats herself again and lights her pipe. She smokes quietly_. DAISY _comes in. She wears an evening dress somewhat too splendid for dinner with only her husband and a friend_. AMAH. B. A. T. fellow, when he go? DAISY. You know his name. Why don't you call him by it? I think he's going almost at once. AMAH. What for he go so soon? DAISY. That's his business, isn't it? As a matter of fact his sister is arriving from England, and he has to go to meet her. AMAH. More better he go soon. DAISY. Why do you smoke your pipe here? You know Harry doesn't like it. AMAH. Harry one big fool, I think. When you go to Chung-king? DAISY. Harry hasn't said a word about it since. AMAH. You got key that desk? DAISY. No. Harry keeps all his private papers there. [_The_ AMAH _goes up to the desk and tries one of the drawers. It is locked and she cannot open it_. AMAH. What Harry do now? DAISY. He and Mr. Knox are drinking their port. [_The_ AMAH _takes out a skeleton key out of her pocket and inserts it in the lock. She turns the key_. AMAH. Velly bad lock. I think him made in Germany. Hi, hi. [_She opens the drawer and takes out a revolver. She hands it to_ DAISY.] Lee Tai say, you take out cartridges. DAISY. What do you mean? [_She suddenly guesses the truth and gives a cry._] Oh! AMAH. [_Hurriedly putting her hand over_ DAISY'S _mouth_.] Sh, you no make noise. [_Holding out the revolver._] Lee Tai say, more better you do it. DAISY. Take it away. No, no, I won't, I won't. AMAH. Sh, sh. I do it. I sabe. [_She takes the cartridges out of the revolver and hides them about her._ DAISY _looks at her with horror_. DAISY. It's not for to-night? AMAH. I no sabe. DAISY. I won't have it. Do you hear? Oh, I shall go mad! AMAH. Then Harry shut you up. Hi, hi. All same Chung-king. [_She puts the revolver back into the drawer and shuts it_ _just as_ HARRY _and_ HAROLD KNOX _come in. They wear dinner jackets_. KNOX. Hulloa, there's the little ray of sunshine. I missed your bonny face before dinner. AMAH. You velly funny man. KNOX. No wonder I dote upon you, dearie. You're the only attractive woman I've ever been able to persuade that I was a humourist. HARRY. [_Catching sight of the_ AMAH'S _water-pipe_.] I told you I wouldn't have your disgusting pipe in here, amah. AMAH. Belong velly nice pipe. HARRY. I swore I'd throw the damned thing out myself if I found it lying about. AMAH. [_Snatching it away._] You no touch my pipe. You velly bad man. Velly bad temper. You no Christian. HARRY. A fat lot you know about Christianity. AMAH. I know plentything about Christianity. My father velly poor man. He say, you go and be Christian. I go Catholic mission and they baptize me. English Church missionary, he come along and say, Catholic mission no good, you go to hell, I baptize you. All right I say, you baptize me. By and by Baptist missionary come along and say, English Church mission no good, you go to hell, I baptize you. All right, I say, you baptize me. By and by Presbyterian missionary come along and say, Baptist mission no good, you go to hell, I baptize you. All right, I say, you baptize me. [_To_ KNOX.] You know Seventh Day Adventists? KNOX. I've heard of them. AMAH. By and by Seventh Day Adventist he come along and say, Presbyterian mission no good. KNOX. You go to hell. AMAH. How fashion you sabe what he said? KNOX. I guessed it. AMAH. You go to hell, he say. I baptize you. I been baptized one, two, three, four, five times. I velly Christian woman. HARRY. [_Smiling._] I apologize. AMAH. They all say to poor Chinese, love one another. I no think missionaries love one another velly much. Hi, hi. KNOX. [_Taking out his watch._] D'you mind if I look at the time? I don't want to get to the station late. HARRY. Of course not. I say, won't you have a cigar? [_He goes to his desk._] I have to keep them locked up. I think the boys find them very much to their taste. [_He puts the key into the lock._] Hulloa, the drawer's open. I could have sworn I locked it. [_He takes out a box of cigars and hands it to_ KNOX.] KNOX. [_Helping himself._] Thanks very much. DAISY. You know, you mustn't let me keep you if you want to be off. KNOX. I've got two or three minutes. HARRY. Oh, Daisy, before Harold goes I wish you'd show him that Manchu dress I bought you. DAISY. I'll go and fetch it. [_To the_ AMAH.] Is it hanging up in the cupboard? AMAH. No, I have puttee in paper. I velly careful woman. [_They both go out._ KNOX. I say, old man, I hope you don't think I'm an awful swine to rush off like this the moment I've swallowed my dinner. HARRY. Rather not. As a matter of fact it's not exactly inconvenient, because I'm expecting George. I want him to have a heart to heart talk with Daisy. KNOX. Oh. HARRY. She's grousing rather about going to Chung-king and I want him to tell her it's a very decent place. He was vice-consul up there once. He's dining at the Carmichael's, but he said he'd come along here as soon as he could get away. KNOX. Then it's all for the best in the best of all possible worlds. [DAISY _comes in with the dress_. DAISY. Here it is. KNOX. By George, isn't it stunning? I must try to get one for my sister. She'd simply go off her head if she saw that. DAISY. Harry spoils me, doesn't he? KNOX. Harry's a very lucky young fellow to have you to spoil. DAISY. [_Smiling._] Go away or you'll never arrive in time. KNOX. I'm off. Goodby and thanks very much. Dinner was top-hole. DAISY. Goodby. [_He goes out._ HARRY _accompanies him into the courtyard and for a moment is lost to view. The gaiety on_ DAISY'S _face vanishes and a look of anxiety takes its place_. DAISY. [_Calling hurriedly._] Amah, amah. AMAH. [_Coming in._] What thing? DAISY. What have you done? Have you...? [_She stops, unable to complete the agonised question._] AMAH. What you talk about? I done nothing. I only have joke with you. Hi, hi. DAISY. Will you swear that's true? AMAH. Never tell a lie. Velly good Christian. [DAISY _looks at her searchingly. She does not know whether to believe or not_. HARRY _returns_. HARRY. I say, Daisy, I wish you'd put on the dress. I'd love to see how you look in it. DAISY. [_With a smile._] Shall I? HARRY. Amah will help you. It'll suit you right down to the ground. DAISY. Wait a minute. Bring the dress along, amah. AMAH. All right. [DAISY _goes out, followed by the_ AMAH _with the Manchu dress_. HARRY _goes to his desk and opens the drawer. He examines the lock and looks at the keyhole_. HARRY. [_To himself._] I wonder if that old devil's got a key. [_He shuts the drawer, but does not lock it. He strolls back to the middle of the room._ DAISY. [_In the adjoining room._] Are you getting impatient? HARRY. Not a bit. DAISY. I'm just ready. HARRY. I'm holding my breath. [DAISY _comes in. She is in full Manchu dress. She is strangely changed. There is nothing European about her any more. She is mysterious and enigmatical_.] Daisy! [_She gives him a little smile but does not answer. She stands quite still for him to look at her._] By George, how Chinese you look! DAISY. Don't you like it? HARRY. I don't know. You've just knocked me off my feet. Like it? You're wonderful. In my wildest dreams I never saw you like that. You've brought all the East into the room with you. My head reels as though I were drunk. DAISY. It's strange that I feel as if these things were made for me. They make me feel so different. HARRY. I thought that no one in the world was more normal than I. I'm ashamed of myself. You're almost a stranger to me and by God, I feel as though the marrow of my bones were melting. I hear the East a-calling. I have such a pain in my heart. Oh, my pretty, my precious, I love you. [_He falls down on his knees before her and clasps both his arms round her._ DAISY. [_In a low voice, hardly her own._] Why, Harry, what are you talking about? [_She caresses his hair with her long, delicate Chinese hand._ HARRY. I'm such a fool. My heart is full of wonderful thoughts and I can only say that--that I worship the very ground you walk on. DAISY. Don't kneel, Harry; that isn't the way a woman wants to be loved. [_She raises him to his feet and as he rises he takes her in his arms._ HARRY. [_Passionately._] I'd do anything in the world for you. DAISY. You could make me so happy if you chose. HARRY. I do choose. DAISY. Won't you give up this idea of leaving Peking? HARRY. But, my darling, it's for your happiness I'm doing it. DAISY. Don't you think that everyone is the best judge of his own happiness? HARRY. Not always. DAISY. [_Disengaging herself from his arms._] Ah, that's the English way. You want to make people happy in your way and not in theirs. You'll never be satisfied till the Chinese wear Norfolk jackets and eat roast beef and plum pudding. HARRY. Oh, my dear, don't let's argue now. DAISY. You say you'll give me everything in the world and you won't give me the one thing I want. What's the good of offering me the moon if I have a nail in my shoe and you won't take it out? HARRY. Well, you can smile, so it's not very serious, is it? DAISY. [_Putting her arms round his neck._] Oh, Harry, I'll love you so much if you'll only do what I ask. You don't know me yet. Oh, Harry! HARRY. My darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, but when I've once made up my mind nothing on earth is going to make me change it. We can only be happy and natural if we go. You must submit to my judgment. DAISY. How _can_ you be so obstinate? HARRY. My dear, look at yourself in the glass now. [_She looks down on her Manchu dress. She understands what he means. She is a Chinese woman._ DAISY. [_With a change of tone._] Amah, bring me a tea-gown. [_She begins to undo the long Manchu coat. The_ AMAH _comes in with a tea-gown_. HARRY. [_Dryly._] It's very convenient that you should always be within earshot when you're wanted, amah. AMAH. I velly good amah. Velly Christian woman. [DAISY _slips off the Manchu clothes and is helped by the_ AMAH _into the tea-gown. She wraps it round her. She is once more a white woman._ DAISY. [_Pointing to the Manchu dress._] Take those things away. [_To_ HARRY.] Would you like to have a game of chess? HARRY. Very much. I'll get the men. [DAISY _goes to the gramophone and turns on a Chinese tune. It is strange and exotic. Its monotony exacerbates the nerves._ HARRY _gets the chessboard and sets up the pieces. They sit down opposite one another. The_ AMAH _has disappeared with the discarded dress_. HARRY. Will you take white? DAISY. If you like. [_She moves a piece._] HARRY. I hate your queen opening. It always flummoxes me. I don't know where you learned to play so well. I never have a chance against you. DAISY. I was taught by a Chinaman. It's a game they take to naturally. [_They make two or three moves without a word. Suddenly, breaking across the silence, stridently, there is a shriek outside in the street._ DAISY _gives a little gasp_. HARRY. Hulloa, what's that? DAISY. Oh, it's nothing. It's only some Chinese quarrelling. [_Two or three shouts are heard and then an agonised cry of "Help, help."_ HARRY _springs to his feet_. HARRY. By God, that's English. [_He is just going to rush out when Daisy seizes his arm._] DAISY. What are you going to do? No, no, don't leave me, Harry. [_She clings to him. He pushes her away violently._ HARRY. Shut up. Don't be a fool. [_He runs to the drawer of his desk. The cry is repeated: "For God's sake, help, help, oh!"_ HARRY. My God, they're killing someone. It can't be ... [_He remembers that George is coming that evening._] DAISY. [_Throwing herself on him._] No, Harry, don't go, don't go, I won't let you. HARRY. Get out of my way. [_He pushes her violently aside and runs out._ DAISY _sinks to the floor and buries her face in her hands_. DAISY. Oh, my God! [_The_ AMAH _has been waiting just outside one of the doors, in the courtyard, and now she slips in_. AMAH. Harry velly blave man. He hear white man being murdered. He run and help. Hi, hi. DAISY. Oh, I can't. Harry, Harry. [_She springs to her feet and runs towards the courtyard, with some instinctive idea of going to her husband's help._ The AMAH _stops her_. AMAH. What side you go? DAISY. I can't stand here and let Harry be murdered. AMAH. You stop here. DAISY. Let me go. For God's sake let me go. Wu, Wu. [_The_ AMAH _puts her hand over_ DAISY'S _mouth_. AMAH. You be quiet. You wanchee go prison? DAISY. [_Snatching away her hand._] I'll give you anything in the world if you'll only let me go. AMAH. You silly little fool, Daisy. [DAISY _struggles to release herself, but she is helpless in the_ AMAH'S _grasp_. DAISY. [_In an agony._] It'll be too late. AMAH. Too late now. You no can help him. [_She releases_ DAISY. DAISY _staggers forward and covers her face with her hands_. DAISY. Oh, what have I done? AMAH. [_With a snigger._] You no done nothing, you know nothing. DAISY. [_Violently._] Curse you! It's you, you, you! AMAH. I velly wicked woman. Curse me. Do me no harm. DAISY. I told you I wouldn't have anything done to Harry. AMAH. You say no with your lips but in your belly you say yes. DAISY. No, no, no! AMAH. You just big damned fool, Daisy. You no love Harry. Him not velly rich. Not velly big man. No good. You velly glad you finish with him. DAISY. But not that way. He never did me any harm. He was always good to me and kind to me. AMAH. That velly good way. Velly safe way. DAISY. You devil! I hate the sight of you. AMAH. What for you hate me? I do what you want. Your father velly clever man. He say: no break eggs, no can eat omelette. DAISY. I wish I'd never been born. AMAH. [_Impatiently._] What for you tell me lies? You want Harry dead. Well, I kill him for you. [_With a sudden gust of anger._] You no curse me or I beat you. You velly bad girl. DAISY. [_Giving way._] Oh, I feel so awfully faint! AMAH. [_Tenderly, as though_ DAISY _were still a child_.] You sit down. You take smelly salts. [_She helps_ DAISY _into a chair and holds smelling salts to her nostrils_.] You feel better in a minute. Amah love her little Daisy flower. Harry him die and Daisy velly sorry. She cry and cry and cry. George velly sorry for Daisy. By and by Daisy no cry any more. She say, more better Harry dead. Good old amah, she do everything for little Daisy. [DAISY _has been looking at her with terrified eyes_. DAISY. What a brute I am! I'd give anything in the world to have Harry back, and yet in the bottom of my heart there's a feeling--if I were free there'd be nothing to stand between George and me. AMAH. I think George he marry you maybe. DAISY. Oh, not now! It'll bring me bad joss. AMAH. You no wanchee fear, my little flower. You sit still or you feel bad again. DAISY. [_Jumping up._] How can I sit still? The suspense is awful. Oh, my God, what's happened? AMAH. [_With a cunning smile._] I tell you what's happened. Harry run outside and he see two, three men makee fighting. They a little way off. One man cry, "Help, help!" Harry give shout and run. He fall down and him not get up again. DAISY. He's as strong as a horse. With his bare hands he's a match for ten Chinamen. AMAH. Lee Tai velly clever man. He no take risks. I think all finish now. DAISY. Then for God's sake let me go. AMAH. More better you stay here, Daisy. Perhaps you get into trouble if you go out. They ask you why you go out,--why you think something happen to your husband. DAISY. I can't let him lie there. AMAH. He no lie velly long. By and by night watchman come here, and he say white man in the street--him dead. I think his throat cut. DAISY. Oh, how horrible! Harry, Harry! [_She buries her face in her hands._ AMAH. I light joss-stick. Make everything come all right. [_She goes over to the household image and lights a joss-stick in front of it. She bows before it and going on her knees knocks her head on the ground._ DAISY. How long is it going on? How long have I got to wait? Oh, what have I done? The silence is awful. [_There is a silence. Suddenly_ DAISY _breaks out into a shriek_.] No, no, no! I won't have it. I can't bear it. Oh, God help me! [_In the distance of the next courtyard is heard the chanting of the monks at the evening service. The_ AMAH, _having finished her devotions, stands at the doorway looking out steadily_. DAISY _stares straight in front of her. Suddenly there is a loud booming of a gong_. DAISY _starts up_.] What's that? AMAH. Be quiet, Daisy. Be careful. [_The door of the courtyard is flung open._ HARRY _comes in, through the courtyard, into the room, pushing before him a coolie whom he holds by the wrists and by the scruff of the neck_. DAISY. Harry! HARRY. I've got one of the blighters. [_Shouting._] Here, bring me a rope. DAISY. What's happened? HARRY. Wait a minute. Thank God, I got there when I did. [WU _brings a rope and_ HARRY _ties the man's wrists behind his back_.] Keep quiet, you devil, or I'll break your ruddy neck. [_He slips the rope through the great iron ring of one of the doors and ties it so that the man cannot get away._] He'll be all right there for the present. I'll just go and telephone to the police station. Wu, you stand outside there. You watch him. Sabe? WU. I sabe. [_As_ HARRY _goes out a crowd of people surge through the great open doorway of the courtyard. They are monks of the temple, attracted to the street by the quick rumour of accident, coolies, and the night watchman with his rattle. Some of them bear Chinese lanterns, some hurricane lamps. The crowd separates out as they approach the room and then it is seen that three men are bearing what seems to be the body of a man_. DAISY. What's that? AMAH. I think belong foreign man. [_The men bring in the body and lay it on the sofa. The head and part of the chest are covered with a piece of blue cotton._ DAISY _and the_ AMAH _look at it with dismay. They dare not approach. The_ ABBOT _drives the crowd out of the room and shuts the doors, only leaving that side of one open at which the prisoner is attached. The_ AMAH _turns on the god in the niche_.] You say can do. What for you make mistake? [_She seizes a fan which is on the table under her hand and with angry violence hits the image on the face two or three times._ DAISY _has been staring at the body. She goes up to it softly and lifts the cloth slightly, she gives a start, and with a quick gesture snatches it away. She sees George Conway_. DAISY. George. [_She opens her mouth to shriek._] AMAH. Sh, take care. Harry hear. DAISY. What have you done? AMAH. I do nothing. Buddha, he makee mistake. DAISY. You fiend! AMAH. How do I know, Daisy? I no can tell George coming here to-night. [_The words come gurgling out, for_ DAISY _has sprung upon her and seized her by the throat_.] Oh, let me go. DAISY. You fiend. [HARRY _comes in. He is astounded at what he sees_. HARRY. Daisy, Daisy. What in God's name are you doing? [_Restrained by his voice_, DAISY _releases her hold of the_ AMAH, _but violently, pushing her so that she falls to the ground. She lies there, putting her hand to her throat_. DAISY _turns to_ HARRY. DAISY. It's George. HARRY. [_Going up to the sofa and putting his hand on George's heart._] Confound it, I know it's George. DAISY. Is he dead? HARRY. No, he's only had a bang on the head. He's stunned. I've sent for the doctor. Luckily he was dining at the Carmichaels' and I sent George's rickshaw to bring him along as quick as he could come. DAISY. Supposing he's gone? HARRY. He won't have gone. They were going to play poker. By God, what's this? [_He takes away his hand and sees blood upon it._] He's been wounded. He's bleeding. [DAISY _goes up to the body and kneeling down, feels the pulse_. DAISY. Are you sure he's alive? HARRY. Yes, his heart's beating all right. I wish the doctor would make haste. I don't know what one ought to do. DAISY. How do you know he's at the Carmichaels'? HARRY. George told me yesterday he was going to be there. George said he did not want to play poker and he'd come along here after dinner. DAISY. [_Springing to her feet._] Did you know George was coming? HARRY. Of course I did. When I heard someone shouting in English the first thing I thought of was George. [DAISY _bursts into a scream of hysterical laughter. The_ AMAH _suddenly looks up and becomes attentive_. HARRY. Daisy, what's the matter? AMAH. [_Sliding to her feet and going up to Daisy, trying to stop her._] Maskee. She only laughy laughy. You no trouble. HARRY. Get some water or something. AMAH. [_Frightened._] Now, my pletty, my pletty. DAISY. [_Recovering herself, violently._] Let me be. HARRY. By George, I believe he's coming to. Bring the water here. [DAISY _takes the glass and leaning over the sofa, moistens_ GEORGE'S _lips. He slowly opens his eyes_. GEORGE. Funny stuff. What is it? HARRY. [_With a chuckle that is half a sob._] Don't be a fool. Oh, George, you have given me a nasty turn. GEORGE. There's something the matter with the water. DAISY. [_Looking at it quickly._] What? GEORGE. Damn it all, there's no brandy in it. DAISY. If you make a joke I shall cry. [_He tries to move, but suddenly gives a groan._ GEORGE. Oh Lord. I've got such a pain in my side. HARRY. Keep quiet. The doctor will be here in a minute. GEORGE. What is it? HARRY. I don't know. There's a lot of blood. GEORGE. I hope I haven't made a mess on your nice new sofa. HARRY. Damn the sofa. It's lucky I heard you shout. GEORGE. I never shouted. HARRY. Oh, nonsense, I heard you. I thought it was you at once. GEORGE. I heard a cry for help too. I was just coming along. I nipped out of my rickshaw and sprinted like hell. I saw some fellows struggling. I think someone hit me on the head. I don't remember much. HARRY. Who did cry for help? GEORGE. [_After a pause._] Nobody. HARRY. But I heard it. Daisy heard it too. It sounded like someone being murdered. [_As_ GEORGE _gives a little chuckle_.] What's the joke? GEORGE. Someone's got his knife into you, old man, and the silly ass stuck it into me instead. [_The_ AMAH _pricks up her ears_. DAISY. I'm sure you oughtn't to talk so much. GEORGE. It's a very old Chinese trick. They just got the wrong man, that's all. HARRY. By George, that explains why I tripped. GEORGE. Did you trip? A piece of string across the street. HARRY. I wasn't expecting it. I went down like a ninepin. I was up again in a flash and just threw myself at the blighters. You should have seen 'em scatter. Luckily I got one of them. GEORGE. Good. Where is he? HARRY. He's here. I've tied him up pretty tight. GEORGE. Well, we shall find out who's at the bottom of this. The methods of the Chinese police may be uncivilized, but they are ... Oh, Lord, I do feel rotten. HARRY. Oh, George. [DAISY _gives_ HARRY _the glass and he helps_ GEORGE _to drink_. GEORGE. That's better. HARRY. We'd better get you to bed, old man. GEORGE. All right. HARRY. Wu and I will carry you. Wu, come along here. [_The boy approaches. The_ AMAH _realizes that for a moment the prisoner is to be left unguarded. There is a table knife on one of the occasional tables with which_ DAISY _has been cutting a book. The_ AMAH'S _hand closes over it_. GEORGE. Oh, no, that's all right. I can walk. [_He gets up from the sofa._ HARRY _gives him an arm. He staggers._ HARRY. Wu, you fool. [DAISY _springs forward_.] No, let me take him, Daisy. You're not strong enough. GEORGE. [_Gasping._] Sorry to make such an ass of myself. [HARRY _and_ WU, _holding him one on each side, help him out of the room_. DAISY. Shall I come? HARRY. Oh, I'll call you if you're wanted. [DAISY _sinks into a chair, shuddering, and covers her face with her hands. The_ AMAH _seizes her opportunity. She cuts the rope which binds the prisoner. As soon as he is free he steps out into the darkness. The_ AMAH _watches for a moment and then cries out_. AMAH. Help, help! [DAISY _springs up and_ HARRY _hurries in_. HARRY. What's the matter? AMAH. Coolie. Him run away. HARRY. [_Looking at the place where he had been tied up._] By God! AMAH. Missy feel velly ill. No can stand blood. Feel faint. I run fetch smelly salts and when I come back him gone. Him bad man. [HARRY _goes to the door and looks at the rope_. HARRY. This rope's been cut. AMAH. Perhaps he have knife. Why you no look see before you tie him. HARRY. [_Looking at her sternly._] How do you think he could get at a knife with his hands tied behind his back? AMAH. I no sabe. Maybe he have friend. HARRY. Didn't you hear anything, Daisy? DAISY. No. I wasn't thinking about him. Oh, Harry, George isn't going to die, is he? HARRY. I hope not. I don't know what sort of a wound he's got. [_The_ AMAH, _thinking attention is withdrawn from her, is slipping away_.] No, you don't. You stop here. AMAH. What thing you wantchee? HARRY. You let that man go. AMAH. You velly silly man. What for I want let him go? HARRY. [_Pointing._] What's that knife doing there? That's one of our knives. AMAH. Missy takey knife cutty book. HARRY. When I got into the street I wanted to fire my revolver to frighten them. There wasn't a cartridge in it. I always keep it loaded and locked up. AMAH. Revolver. I don't know him. I never have see revolver. Never. Never. [_She makes a movement as though to go away. He seizes her wrist._ HARRY. Stop. AMAH. My go chow. My belong velly hungly. You talk by and by. HARRY. If I hadn't come in just now, Daisy would have strangled you. AMAH. Daisy velly excited. She no sabe what she do. She never hurt old amah. HARRY. Why were you angry with her, Daisy? DAISY. [_Frightened._] I was beside myself. I don't know what I was doing. HARRY. [_With sudden suspicion_.] Are you trying to shield her? DAISY. Of course not. Why on earth should I do that? HARRY. I suppose you look on it as a matter of no importance that she tried to kill me. DAISY. Oh, Harry, how can you say anything so cruel? Why should she try and kill you? HARRY. I don't know. How do you expect me to guess what is at the back of a Chinese brain? She's hated me always. AMAH. You no love me velly much. HARRY. I've put up with her just because she was attached to you. I knew she was a liar and a thief. It was a trap and I escaped by a miracle. Only, George has got to suffer for it. DAISY. Harry, you're nervous and excited. HARRY. What are you defending her for? DAISY. I'm not defending her. HARRY. One would almost think she had some hold on you. I've never seen anyone let an amah behave as you let her behave. DAISY. She's been with me since I was a child. She--she can't get it into her head that I'm grown up. HARRY. Well, I've had about enough of her. [_To the_ AMAH.] The police will be here in ten minutes and I shall give you in charge instead of the man you allowed to escape. AMAH. You give me policeman? I no have do wrong. What for you send me to prison? HARRY. I daresay you know what a Chinese prison is like better than I do. I don't think it'll be long before you find it worth while to tell the truth. DAISY. [_With increasing nervousness._] Oh, Harry, I don't think you ought to do anything before you've had time to think. After all, there's absolutely no proof. HARRY. [_Looking at her with perplexity._] I don't understand. What is the mystery? DAISY. There is no mystery. Only I can't bear the idea that my old amah should go to prison. She's been almost a mother to me for so many years. [_There is a pause._ HARRY _looks from_ DAISY _to the_ AMAH. HARRY. [_To the_ AMAH.] Then get out of here before the police come. AMAH. You talkee so quick. No can understand. HARRY. Yes, you can. Unless you're out of here in ten minutes I shall give you in charge ... Go while the going's good. AMAH. I think I go smoke pipe. HARRY. No, you don't, you get out quick or I'll throw you out myself. AMAH. You no throw me out and I no go to prison. HARRY. We'll soon see about that. [_He seizes her roughly and is about to run her out into the courtyard._ DAISY. No, don't, Harry. She's my mother. HARRY. That! [_He is aghast. He releases the_ AMAH. _He looks at her with horror._ DAISY _covers her face with her hands. The_ AMAH _gives a little snigger_. AMAH. Yes, Daisy, my daughter. She no wanchee tell. I think she a little ashamed of her mother. HARRY. My God! AMAH. I velly pletty girl long time ago. Daisy's father, he call me his little lotus flower, he call me his little peach-blossom. By and by I no velly pletty girl any more and Daisy's father he call me you old witch. Witch, that's what he call me. Witch. He call me, you old hag. You velly bad man, I say to him. You no Christian. You go to hell, he say. All right, I say, you baptize me. [HARRY _turns away, with dismay, and repulsion. The_ AMAH _takes her pipe and lights it_. END OF SCENE IV SCENE V _The courtyard in the_ ANDERSONS' _part of the temple_. _At the back is the outer wall raised by two or three steps from the ground. From the top of the wall, projects a shallow roof of yellow tiles supported by wooden pillars painted red, shabby and rather weather-worn, and this roof is raised in the middle of the wall, where there is a huge wooden gateway. When this is opened the street is seen and on the other side of it a high, blank, white wall. The courtyard is paved with great flags. On each side of it are living rooms._ _There is a long rattan chair; a round table and a couple of armchairs._ GEORGE _is lying on the long chair, looking at an illustrated paper, and the_ AMAH _is seated on the ground, smoking her water-pipe_. GEORGE. [_With a smile, putting down the paper._] You're not as chatty as usual this afternoon, amah. AMAH. Suppose I got nothing to talk about I no talk. GEORGE. You are an example to your sex, amah. Your price is above rubies. AMAH. No likee rubies velly much. No can sell velly much money. GEORGE. In point of fact I wasn't thinking of giving you rubies, even reconstructed, but if I did I can't think you'd be so indelicate as to sell them. AMAH. I no think you velly funny man. GEORGE. I was afraid you didn't. Would you think it funny if I sat on my hat? AMAH. Yes, I laugh then. Hi, hi. GEORGE. The inscrutable heart of China expands to the self-same joke that convulses a duchess in London and a financier in New York. AMAH. You more better read the paper. GEORGE. Where's Missy? AMAH. I think she in her room. You wanchee? GEORGE. No. AMAH. I think she come by and by. GEORGE. [_Looking at his watch._] Mr. Anderson ought to be back from the office soon. [_There is a loud knocking at the door._] Hulloa, who's that? [_A_ SERVANT _comes out of the house and going to the gateway withdraws the bolt_. AMAH. I think doctor come see you, maybe. GEORGE. Oh no, he's not coming to-day. He said he'd look in to-morrow before I started. [_The_ AMAH _gets up and looks at the doorway of which now the_ SERVANT _has opened one side_. HAROLD KNOX _and his sister_ SYLVIA _are seen_. KNOX. May we come in? GEORGE. Good man. Of course. [_They come towards_ GEORGE. SYLVIA _is a very pretty, simple, healthy, and attractive girl. She is dressed in a light summer frock. There is in her gait and manner something so spring-like and fresh that it is a pleasure to look at her_. KNOX. I've brought my young sister along with me. [_As_ GEORGE _rises to his feet_.] Don't get up. You needn't put on any frills for a chit like that. GEORGE. Nonsense. I'm perfectly well. [_Shaking hands with_ SYLVIA.] How d'you do? My name is Conway. KNOX. I only omitted to inform her of that fact because she already knew it. SYLVIA. Strangely enough that happens to be true. But I wish you'd lie down again. GEORGE. I'm sick of lying down. The doctor says I'm perfectly all right. I'm going home to-morrow. KNOX. [_Catching sight of the_ AMAH.] Hulloa, sweetheart, I didn't see you. Sylvia, I want you to know the only woman I've ever loved. GEORGE. [_Smiling._] This is Mrs. Anderson's amah. SYLVIA. [_With a little friendly nod._] How do you do? AMAH. [_All in a breath._] Velly well, thank you. How do you do? Velly well, thank you ... You Mr. Knox sister? SYLVIA. Yes. AMAH. You missionary lady? SYLVIA. No. AMAH. What for you come China then? SYLVIA. I came to see my brother. AMAH. How old are you? KNOX. Be truthful, Sylvia. SYLVIA. I'm twenty-two. AMAH. How many children you got? SYLVIA. I'm not married. AMAH. What for you no married if you twenty-two? SYLVIA. It does need an explanation, doesn't it? The truth is that nobody's asked me. KNOX. What a lie! AMAH. You come China catchee husband? SYLVIA. Certainly not. AMAH. You Christian? SYLVIA. Not a very good one, I'm afraid. AMAH. Who baptized you? SYLVIA. Well, you know, it's an awfully long time ago. I forget. KNOX. She's like me, amah, she's a Presbyterian. AMAH. You go to hell then. Only Seventh Day Adventists no go to hell. SYLVIA. It'll be rather crowded then, I'm afraid. AMAH. You only baptized once? SYLVIA. So far as I know. AMAH. I baptized one, two, three, four, five times. I velly Christian woman. KNOX. I say, old man, I don't want to dash your fond hopes, but in point of fact we didn't come here to see you. GEORGE. Why not? Surely Miss Knox must want to see the principal sights of Peking. KNOX. The man is not a raving lunatic, Sylvia. His only delusion is that he's a humourist ... Sylvia thought she'd like to call on Mrs. Harry. GEORGE. I'm sure Daisy will be very glad. Amah, go and tell Missy that there's a lady. AMAH. Can do. [_Exit._ KNOX. I say, have they caught any of those blighters who tried to kill you? GEORGE. No, not a chance. They weren't after me, you know; they were after Harry. KNOX. Is there anyone who has a grudge against him? GEORGE. I don't think so. He doesn't seem very keen on discussing the incident. [DAISY _comes in_. KNOX. Here she is. I've brought my sister to see you, Mrs. Harry. DAISY. [_Shaking hands._] How do you do? SYLVIA. What a wonderful place you live in! DAISY. It's rather attractive, isn't it? You must see the temple before you go. SYLVIA. I'd love to. DAISY. Do sit down. [_To_ KNOX.] What do you think of my patient? KNOX. I think he's a fraud. I never saw anyone look so robust. DAISY. [_Delighted._] He's made a wonderful recovery. GEORGE. Thanks to you, Daisy. You can't think how she nursed me. KNOX. It was rather a narrow escape, wasn't it? DAISY. For two days we thought he might die at any minute. It was--it was rather dreadful. GEORGE. And do you know, all that time she never left me a minute. [_To_ DAISY.] I don't know how I can ever thank you. DAISY. Oh, well, Harry had his work. I didn't think he ought to be robbed of his night's rest for a worthless creature like you, and I hated the idea of a paid nurse looking after you. SYLVIA. You must have been worn out at the end of it. DAISY. No, I'm as strong as a horse. And it was such a relief to me when the doctor said he was out of danger, I forgot I was tired. KNOX. I don't know why you bothered about him. There are such a lot of fellows who want his job and they all know they could do it much better than he can. GEORGE. Everyone's been so extraordinarily good to me. I had no idea there was so much kindness in the world. DAISY. [_To_ SYLVIA, _very pleasantly_.] Will you come and look at the temple now while they're bringing tea? SYLVIA. Yes, I'd like to very much. DAISY. I think you'll enjoy your tea more if you feel you've done the sight. SYLVIA. It's all so new to me. Everything interests me. I've fallen passionately in love with Peking. [_They wander off, talking gaily._ GEORGE. Harold, you're a very nice boy. KNOX. That's what the girls tell me. But I don't know why you should. GEORGE. I think it was rather sporting of you to bring your sister to see Daisy. KNOX. I don't deserve any credit for that. She insisted on coming. GEORGE. Oh? KNOX. She met Harry at the club and took rather a fancy to him. When I told her Daisy was a half-caste and people didn't bother much about her she got right up on her hind legs. I told her she'd only just come out to China and didn't know what she was talking about and then she gave me what she called a bit of her mind. I was obliged to remark that if that was a bit I didn't much care about knowing the rest. GEORGE. It sounds as though you'd had a little tiff. KNOX. She said she had no patience with the airs people gave themselves in the East. A Eurasian was just as good as anybody else. And when I happened to say I was coming here to-day to see how you were she said she'd come too. GEORGE. It's very kind of her. Daisy leads a dreadfully lonely life. It would mean so much to her if she knew one or two white women. If they take to one another, you won't try to crab it, will you? I fancy Daisy wants a friend rather badly. KNOX. I shouldn't like it very much, you know. Would you much care for your sister to be very pally with a half-caste? GEORGE. Daisy is one in a thousand. You can't think what she's done for me during my illness. My mother couldn't have taken more care of me. KNOX. They're often very good-hearted. But as a matter of fact nothing I can say will have the least effect on Sylvia. Girls have changed a lot since the war. If she wants to do a thing and she thinks it right, she'll do it. And if I try to interfere she's quite capable of telling me to go to the devil. GEORGE. She seems to be a young woman of some character. KNOX. Perhaps because she's had rather a rough time. The fellow she was engaged to was killed in the war and she was awfully cut up. She drove an ambulance for the last two years and then she went up to Girton. After that my father thought she'd better come out here for a bit. GEORGE. She ought to like it. KNOX. If she doesn't put up people's backs too much. She can't stand anything like injustice or cruelty. If she thinks people are unkind to Daisy or sniffy about her, she'll stick to her like a leech. However, I daresay she'll get married. GEORGE. [_Smiling._] That'll learn her. KNOX. Why don't you marry her? It's about time you settled down. GEORGE. [_With a chuckle._] You fool. KNOX. Why? You're by way of being rather eligible, aren't you? GEORGE. I don't know why you want to get rid of her. She seems a very nice sister. KNOX. Of course I love having her with me, but she does cramp my style a bit. And she ought to marry. She'd make you a first-rate wife. GEORGE. Much too good for the likes of me. KNOX. Of course she's a bit independent, but one has to put up with that in girls nowadays. And she's as good as gold. GEORGE. One can see that at a mile, my son. KNOX. I say, who was Rathbone, Daisy's first husband, do you know? GEORGE. [_His face a blank._] Harry told me he was an American. He said he was in business in the F. M. S. KNOX. That's what Harry told me. I met a fellow the other day who lives in Singapore who told me he'd never heard of Rathbone. GEORGE. [_Chaffing him._] Perhaps he didn't move in the exalted circles that a friend of yours would naturally move in. KNOX. I suppose there was a Mr. Rathbone? [_There is a distant sound in the street of Chinese instruments being played._ GEORGE. Hulloa, there's the procession coming along. KNOX. What procession? GEORGE. It's a Manchu wedding. The amah was talking about it this morning. KNOX. I must call Sylvia. She'd love to see it. Sylvia. [DAISY _and_ SYLVIA _come out of the house just as he calls_. SYLVIA. Don't shout, Harold. KNOX. Come along and have your education improved. A Manchu wedding is just going to pass by.... SYLVIA. Oh, good, let's go out into the street! DAISY. You can see it just as well from here. I'll have the doors opened. Boy, open the gate. KNOX. Yes, that's the ticket. We shall see it better from here. [WU _during the last few speeches has appeared with the tea, which he sets down on the table. On receiving_ DAISY'S _order he goes to the doorway and draws the bolt. He pulls back one heavy door while_ KNOX _pulls back the other. The empty street is seen. The music grows louder. Now the procession comes, gay, brilliant, and barbaric against the white wall of the street; first men on horseback, then Buddhist monks in gray, with their shaven heads; then the band, playing wild, discordant music; after them passes a long string of retainers in red, with strange shaped hats; then come retainers bearing in open palanquins great masses of cardboard fruits and all manner of foodstuffs, silver vessels and gold; these are followed by two or three youths on horseback, gorgeously dressed, and these again by the palanquin, carved and richly painted and gilt, of the bride. Then pass more priests and another band and finally a last string of retainers in red. When the last one has disappeared a beggar shows himself at the open doorway. He is excessively thin, and he has a bush of long, bristly hair; he is clothed in pale rags, torn and patched; his legs and feet are bare. He puts out a bony hand and breaks into a long, high-pitched whine_. KNOX. Oh, Lord, get out! DAISY. Oh, no, please, Harold, give him a copper or two. GEORGE. Daisy never lets a beggar go away without something. DAISY. It's not because I'm charitable. I'm afraid they'll bring me bad luck. KNOX. [_Taking a coin from his pocket._] Here you are, Clarence. Now buzz off. [_The beggar takes his dole and saunters away._ WU _closes the doors_. SYLVIA. [_Enthusiastically._] I _am_ glad I saw that. DAISY. You'll get very tired of that sort of thing before you've been here long. Now let's have tea. SYLVIA. Oh, I don't think we'll stay, thank you very much. We have another call to make. DAISY. How tiresome of you. Harry ought to be back in a few minutes. He'll be disappointed not to have seen you. SYLVIA. I promised to go and see Mrs. Stopfort. Do you know her? DAISY. I know who you mean. SYLVIA. I think people are being absolutely beastly to her. It simply makes my blood boil. DAISY. Oh, how? SYLVIA. Well, you know that her husband's a drunken brute who's treated her abominably for years. At last she fell in love with a man and now her husband is going to divorce her. It's monstrous that he should be able to. DAISY. Are the ladies of Peking giving her the cold shoulder? KNOX. The cold _shoulder_ hardly describes it. The frozen silverside. GEORGE. I think she's well rid of Reggie Stopfort at any price, but I'm sorry the other party is André Leroux. SYLVIA. Why? She introduced me to him. I thought he was a very nice fellow. GEORGE. Well, you see, if he'd been English or American, he would have married her as a matter of course. SYLVIA. So I should hope. DAISY. Because she was divorced on his account, you mean? GEORGE. Yes. But the French haven't our feeling on that matter. I'm not quite sure if André will be willing to marry her. SYLVIA. Oh, that would be dreadful! Under those circumstances the man must marry the woman. He simply must. GEORGE. Of course. KNOX. Come along, Sylvia. We won't discuss women's rights now. SYLVIA. [_Giving_ DAISY _her hand very cordially._] And if there's anything I hate it's people who say they're going and then don't go. Good-bye, Mrs. Anderson. DAISY. It's been very nice to see you. SYLVIA. I do hope you'll come and see me soon. I'm so very much alone you'd be doing me a charity if you'd look me up. We might do the curio shops together. DAISY. That would be great fun. SYLVIA. Good-bye, Mr. Conway. I'm glad to see you so well. GEORGE. Thank you very much, good-bye. [KNOX _and_ SYLVIA _go out._ DAISY _has walked with them towards the doorway and now returns to_ GEORGE. GEORGE. What a very nice girl, Daisy. DAISY. She seems to make a specialty of speckled peaches. First me and then Mrs. Stopfort. GEORGE. I was hoping you'd like her. DAISY. It's hardly probable. She's everything that I'm not. She has everything that I haven't. No, I don't like her. But I'd give anything in the world to be her. GEORGE. [_Smiling._] I don't think you need envy her. DAISY. Don't you think she's pretty? GEORGE. Yes, very. But you're so much more than pretty. I expect you have more brains in your little finger than she has in her whole body. DAISY. [_Gravely._] She has something that I haven't got, George, and I'd give my soul to have. GEORGE. [_Embarrassed._] I don't know what you mean. [_Changing the conversation abruptly._] Daisy, now that I'm going away.... DAISY. [_Interrupting._] Are you really going to-morrow? GEORGE. [_Breezily._] I'm quite well. I'm ashamed to have stayed so long. DAISY. I don't look forward very much to the long, empty days when you're no longer here. GEORGE. [_Seriously._] I must go, Daisy. I really must. DAISY. [_After a moment's pause._] What were you going to say to me? Don't thank me for anything I may have done. It's given me a happiness I never knew before. GEORGE. Except for you I should have died. And when I think of the past I am ashamed. DAISY. What does the past matter? The past is dead and gone. GEORGE. And I'm ashamed when I think how patient you were when I was irritable, how kind and thoughtful. I hardly knew I wanted a thing before you gave it to me. Sometimes when I felt I couldn't breathe, the tenderness of your hand on my forehead--oh, it was like a dip in a highland stream on a summer day. I think I never knew that there was in you the most precious thing that anyone can have, goodness. Oh, Daisy, it makes me feel so humble. DAISY. Goodness? [_With the shadow of a laugh._] Oh, George. GEORGE. It's because Harry is better and simpler than I am that he was able to see it in you. He felt it in you always and he was right. [_The_ AMAH _comes in_. DAISY. [_Sharply._] What d'you want? [_The_ AMAH _crosses from one to the other and a thin smile crosses her eyes_. AMAH. Master telephone, Daisy. DAISY. Why didn't you take the message? [_She is about to go into the house._ AMAH. He have go now. He say very much hurry. I say no can findee you. I think you go out. DAISY. Why did you say that? AMAH. I think more better, maybe. GEORGE. [_Smiling._] That's right, amah. Never tell the truth when a lie will do as well. DAISY. Well, what was the message? AMAH. Master say he must to go Tientsin. Very important business. No come back to-night. Come back first train to-morrow. DAISY. Very well. Tell the boy that we shall be only two to dinner. AMAH. I go talkee he. [_Exit._ GEORGE. [_Urbanely._] I say, I don't want to be an awful trouble to you. I think I'd better go back to my own place to-night. DAISY. [_Looking at him._] Why should you do that? GEORGE. I was going to-morrow anyway. DAISY. Do you think my reputation is such a sensitive flower? GEORGE. [_Lightly._] Of course not. But people aren't very charitable. It seems rather funny I should stay here when Harry's away. DAISY. What do you suppose I care if people gossip? GEORGE. I care for you. DAISY. [_With a smile, almost archly._] It's not very flattering to me that you should insist on going the moment Harry does. Do I bore you so much as all that? GEORGE. [_With a chuckle._] How can you talk such nonsense? I haven't wanted to get well too quickly. I've so enjoyed sitting quietly here while you read or sewed. I've got so much in the habit of seeing you about me that if I don't go at once I shall never be able to bring myself to go at all. DAISY. Since that horrible accident I've been rather nervous at the thought of sleeping here by myself. I'm terrified at the thought of being left alone to-night. GEORGE. Come in with me, then. The Knoxes will be delighted to put you up for the night. DAISY. [_With a sudden change of manner._] I don't want you to go, George. I want you to stay. GEORGE. [_As serious as she is._] Daisy, don't be too hard on me. You don't know. You don't know. [_With an effort he regains his self-control and returns to his easy, chaffing tone._] Don't forget it's not only a wound in the lung that I've been suffering from. While you and the doctor between you have been patching that up, I've been busy sticking together the pieces of a broken heart. It's nicely set now, no one could tell that there'd ever been anything wrong with it, but I don't think it would be very wise to give it a sudden jolt or jerk. DAISY. [_In a low quivering voice._] Why do you say things like that? What is the good of making pretences? GEORGE. [_Determined to keep the note of lightness._] It was very silly of me to bother you with my little troubles. It was very hot. I was overworked and nervous at the time or I shouldn't have made so much of it. I'm sure that you'll be as pleased as I am to know that I'm making a very good recovery, thank you. DAISY. [_As though asking a casual question._] You don't care for me any more? GEORGE. I have the greatest affection for you. I admire you and of course I'm grateful to you. But if I thought I was in love with you I was mistaken. DAISY. Do you know why I wouldn't have a professional nurse and when you were unconscious for two days refused to leave you for a minute? Do you know why, afterwards, at night when you grew delirious I wouldn't let Harry watch you? I said it would interfere with his work. I dared not leave you for a single moment. And it was your secret and mine. I wouldn't let anybody in the world share it with me. Do you know what you said in your delirium? GEORGE. [_Disturbed._] I expect I talked an awful lot of rot. People always do, I believe. DAISY. [_Passionately._] You used to call me, "Daisy, Daisy," as though your heart was breaking. And when I leaned over you and said: "I'm here," you would take my face in your hands so that I could hardly believe you weren't conscious. And you said: "I love you." GEORGE. Oh, God! DAISY. And sometimes I didn't know how to calm you. You were frantic because you thought they were taking me away from you. "I can't bear it," you said, "I shall die." I had to put my hands over your mouth so that no one should hear. GEORGE. I didn't know what I was saying. I wasn't myself. It was just the madness of the fever. DAISY. And sometimes you were so exquisitely tender. Your voice was soft and caressing. And you called me by sweet names so that the tears ran down my cheeks. You thought you held me in your arms and you pressed me to your heart. You were happy then; you were so happy that I was afraid you'd die of it. I know what love is and you love me. GEORGE. For God's sake, stop. Why do you torture me? DAISY. And then you were madly jealous. You hated Harry. I think you could have killed him. GEORGE. That's not true. That's infamous. Never. Never. DAISY. Oh, you can say that with your lips! Sometimes you thought he put his arms round me and kissed me and you sobbed aloud. Oh, it was so painful. I forgot that you were unconscious and I took your hands and said: "He's not here. You and I are alone, alone, alone." And sometimes I think you understood. You fell back. And a look of peace came on your face as if you were in heaven and you said--do you know what you said? You said: "Beloved, beloved, beloved." [_Her voice breaks and the tears course down her cheeks._ GEORGE _is shattered by what she has told him_. GEORGE. I suppose there are few of us that wouldn't turn away from ourselves in horror if the innermost thoughts of our heart, the thoughts we're only conscious of to hate, were laid bare. But that shameful thing that showed itself in me isn't me. I disown it.... DAISY. I thought you had more courage. I thought you had more sense. Do you call that you, a few conventional prejudices? The real you is the love that consumes you more hotly than ever the fever did. The only you is the you that loves me. The rest is only frills. It's a domino that you put on at a masked ball. GEORGE. You don't know what you say. Frills? It's honour, and duty, and decency. It's everything that makes it possible for me to cling to the shadow of my self-respect. DAISY. Oh, all that means nothing. You fool. You might as well try with your bare hands to stop the flow of the Yangtze. GEORGE. If I perish I perish. Oh, of course I love you. All night I'm tortured with love and tortured with jealousy, but the day does come at last and then I can get hold of myself again. My love is some horrible thing gnawing at my heart-strings. I hate it and despise it. But I can fight it, fight it all the time. Oh, I've been here too long. I ought to have got back to work long ago. Work is my only chance. Daisy, I beseech you to let me go. DAISY. How can I let you go? I love you. GEORGE. [_Thunderstruck._] You? [_Impatiently, with a shrug of the shoulders._] Oh, you're talking nonsense. DAISY. Why do you suppose I've said all these things? Do you think a woman cares twopence for a man's love when she doesn't love him? GEORGE. Oh, it's impossible. You don't know what you're saying. I know how good and kind you are. You've been touched by my love. You mistake pity for love. DAISY. I'm not good and I'm not kind. There's no room in my soul for pity. In my soul there's only a raging hunger. If I know what you feel it's because I feel it too. I love you, I love you, I love you. GEORGE. And Harry? DAISY. What do I care about Harry? I hate him because he's stood between me and you. GEORGE. He is your husband. He is my friend. DAISY. He doesn't exist. I've loved you always from the first day I saw you. The others were nothing to me, Lee Tai and Harry and the rest. I've loved you always. I've never loved anyone but you. All these years I've kept the letters you wrote to me. I've read them till I know every word by heart. They're all blurred and smudged with the tears I've wept over them. They were all I had. Do you think I'm going to let you go now? All my pain, all my anguish, are nothing any more. I love you and you love me. GEORGE. Oh, don't, don't! DAISY. You can't leave me now. If you leave me I shall kill myself. GEORGE. I must go away. I must never see you again. Whatever happens we must never meet. DAISY. [_Exasperated and impatient._] That's impossible. What will you say to Harry? GEORGE. If need be I'll tell him the truth. DAISY. What difference will that make? Will you love me any the less? Yes, tell him. Tell him that I love you and you only and that I belong to you and to you only. GEORGE. Oh, Daisy, for God's sake try and control yourself. We must do our duty, we must, we must. DAISY. I know no duty. I only know love. There's no room in my soul for anything else. You say that love is like a wild beast gnawing at your entrails. My love is a liberator. It's freed me from a hateful past. It's freed me from Harry. There's nothing in the world now but you and me and the love that joins us. I want you, I want you. GEORGE. Don't, don't! Oh, this is madness! There's only one thing to be done. God, give me strength. Daisy, you know I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul. But it's good-bye. I'll never see you again. Never. Never. So help me God. DAISY. How can you be so cruel? You're heartless. I've wanted you all these years. I've hungered for you. You don't know what my humiliation has been. Pity me because I loved you. If you leave me now I shall die. You open the doors of heaven to me and then you slam them in my face. Haven't you made me unhappy enough? You'd have done better to kill me ten years ago. You trampled me in the mud and then you left me. Oh, what shall I do? [_She sinks down to the ground, weeping as though her heart would break._ GEORGE _looks at her for a minute, his face distorted with agony; he clenches his hands in the violence of his effort to control himself. He takes his hat and walks slowly towards the gate. He withdraws the bolt that holds it. When_ DAISY _hears the sound of this she starts to her feet and staggers towards him_.] George. No, no. Not yet. [_She staggers and with a cry falls headlong. She has fainted._ GEORGE. [_Rushing towards her._] Daisy. Daisy. [_He kneels down and takes her head in his hands. He is fearfully agitated._] Oh, my darling, what is it? Oh, my God! Daisy! Speak to me. [_Calling._] Amah, amah! [DAISY _slowly opens her eyes_.] Oh, my beloved! I thought you were dead. DAISY. Lift me up. GEORGE. You can't stand. [_He raises her to her feet so that when she is erect she is in his arms. She puts her arms round his neck._ DAISY. Don't leave me. GEORGE. My precious. My beloved. [_She turns her face to him, offering her lips, and he bends his head and kisses her. She closes her eyes in ecstasy._ DAISY. Take me in. I feel so ill. GEORGE. I'll carry you. [_He lifts her up and carries her into the house. From the opposite side the_ AMAH _appears. She goes to the gateway and slips the bolt forward into position. Then she comes to the tea-table, sits down and takes a scone_. AMAH. Hi, hi. [_She bites the scone and chews placidly. On her face is a smirk of irony._ END OF SCENE V SCENE VI _A small room in a Chinese house in Peking._ _The walls are whitewashed, but the whitewash is not a little stained. Three or four scrolls hang on them, written over in large characters with inscriptions. On the floor is matting. The only furniture consists of a table, with a couple of chairs, a wooden pallet covered with matting, with cushions at one end of it, and a Korean chest heavily ornamented with brass. At the back are two windows, elaborately latticed and covered with rice paper, and a lightly carved door._ DAISY _is seated in one of the chairs. She has taken her pocket mirror out of her bag and is looking at herself. She is gay and happy. The_ AMAH _comes in. She carries a long-necked vase in which are a couple of carnations_. AMAH. I bring you flowers make room look pletty. DAISY. Oh, you nice old thing! Put them on the table. AMAH. You look at yourself in looking-glass? DAISY. I'm looking young. It suits me to be happy. AMAH. You very pletty girl. I very pletty girl long time ago. You look alla same me some day. DAISY. [_Amused._] Heaven forbid. AMAH. You velly good temper to-day, Daisy. You glad because George come. DAISY. I didn't see him yesterday. AMAH. He keep you waiting. DAISY. The wretch. He always keeps me waiting. But what do I care as long as he comes? We shall have three hours. Perhaps he'll dine here. If he says he can, give him what he likes to eat. No one can make such delicious things as you can if you want to. AMAH. You try flatter me. DAISY. I don't. You know very well you're the best cook in China. AMAH. [_Tickled._] Oh, Daisy! I know you more better than you think. DAISY. You're a wicked old woman. [_She gives her a kiss on both cheeks._] What are they making such a row about next door? AMAH. Coolie, he got killed this morning. He have two small children. Their mother, she die long time ago. DAISY. How dreadful! Poor little things. AMAH. You like see them. They here. [_She goes to the door and beckons. A little, old, shabby Chinaman comes in with two tiny children, a boy and a girl, one holding on to each hand. They are very solemn and shy and silent._ DAISY. Oh, what lambs! AMAH. They no got money. This old man he say he take them and he bring them up. But he only coolie. He no got much money himself. DAISY. Is he related to them? AMAH. No, him just velly good man. He no can do velly much. He just do what he can. The neighbours, they help little. DAISY. But I'll help too. Have you got any money on you? AMAH. I got two, three dollars. DAISY. What's the good of that? Let him have this. [_She has a chain of gold beads round her neck. She takes it off and puts it in the old man's hands._ AMAH. That chain very ispensive, Daisy. DAISY. What do I care? Let him sell it for what it'll fetch. It'll bring me luck. [_To the old man._] You sabe? [_He nods, smiling._ AMAH. I think he understand all right. DAISY. [_Looking at the children._] Aren't they sweet? And so solemn. [_To the_ AMAH.] You go chop-chop to the toy shop opposite and buy them some toys. AMAH. Can do. [_She goes out._ DAISY _takes the children and sets them up on the table_. DAISY. [_Charmingly._] Now you come and talk to me. Sit very still now or you'll fall off. [_To the little boy._] I wonder how old you are. [_To the old man._] Wu? Liu? OLD MAN. Liu. DAISY. [_To the little boy._] Six years old. Good gracious, you're quite a man. If I had a little boy he'd be older than you now. If I had a little boy I'd dress him in such smart things. And I'd bath him myself. I wouldn't let any horrid old amah bath him. And I wouldn't stuff him up with sweets like the Chinese do; I'd give him one piece of chocolate when he was a good boy. Gracious me, I've got some chocolates here. Wait there. Sit quite still. [_She goes over to the shelf on which is a bag of chocolates._] There's one for you and one for you and (_to the old man_) one for you. And here's one for me. [_The children and the Chinaman eat the chocolates solemnly. The AMAH returns with a doll and a child's Peking cart_. AMAH. Have catchee toys. DAISY. Look what kind old amah has brought you. [_She lifts the children off the table and gives the doll to the little girl and the cart to the boy._] Here's a beautiful doll for you and here's a real cart for you. [_She sits down on the floor._] Look, the wheels go round and everything. AMAH. Have got more presents. [_She takes out of her sleeve little bladders with mouthpiece attached so that they can be blown up._ DAISY. What on earth is this? Oh, I love them! We must all have one. [_She distributes them and they all blow them up. There it the sound of scratching at the door_.] Who's that, I wonder? AMAH. If you say come in, perhaps you see. DAISY. Open the door, you old silly. [_She begins to blow up the balloon again. The_ AMAH _goes to the door and opens it_. LEE TAI _steps in_.] Lee Tai. Send these away. [_The_ AMAH _makes a sign to the old Chinaman, he gives each child a hand and with their presents they go out. The_ AMAH _slips out after them_.] I thought you were dead. LEE TAI. I'm very much alive, thank you. DAISY. Ah, well, we'll hope for the best. LEE TAI. I trust you're not displeased to see me. DAISY. [_Gaily._] If you'd come yesterday I should certainly have smacked your face, but to-day I'm in such a good humour that even the sight of you is tolerable. LEE TAI. You weren't here yesterday. [_The_ AMAH _comes in carrying on a little wooden tray, two Chinese bowls and a tea-pot_. DAISY. My dear Mamma seems to think you've come to pay me a visit. You mustn't let me keep you too long. LEE TAI. You are expecting someone? I know. [_The_ AMAH _goes out_. DAISY. [_Chaffing him._] I always said you had a brain. LEE TAI. No better a one than yours, Daisy. It was a clever trick when you got me to try to put your husband out of the way so that you should be free for George Conway. DAISY. It was nothing to do with me. I told you I'd have nothing to do with it. You made a hash of it. One can forgive the good for being stupid, but when rascals are fools there's no excuse. LEE TAI. The best laid schemes of mice and men, as my favourite poet Robert Burns so elegantly puts it, gang aft agley. DAISY. I don't care a damn about your favourite poet. What have you come here for to-day? LEE TAI. As it turns out I do not see that there is any cause for regret that George Conway got the knife thrust that was intended for your husband. I wish it had gone a little deeper. DAISY. [_Coolly._] As it turns out you only did me a service. But still you haven't told me to what I owe the honour of your visit. LEE TAI. Civility. I like to be on friendly terms with my tenants. DAISY. [_Surprised._] Your what? LEE TAI. [_Urbanely._] This happens to be my house. When I discovered that your honourable mother had taken the rooms in this courtyard so that you might have a place where George Conway and you could safely meet I thought I would buy the whole house. DAISY. I hope it was a good investment. LEE TAI. Otherwise perhaps I should have hesitated. It was clever of you to find so convenient a place. With a curio shop in front into which anyone can be seen going without remark and an ill-lit passage leading to this court, it is perfect. DAISY. What is the idea? LEE TAI. [_With a twinkle in his eyes._] Are you a little frightened? DAISY. Not a bit. What can you do? You can tell Harry. Tell him. LEE TAI. [_Affably._] George Conway would be ruined. DAISY. [_With a shrug._] He'd lose his job. Perhaps you would give him another. You're mixed up in so many concerns you could surely find use for a white man who speaks Chinese as well as George does. LEE TAI. I find even your shamelessness attractive. DAISY. I'm profoundly grateful for the compliment. LEE TAI. But do not fear. I shall do nothing. I bought this house because I like you to know that always, always you are in my hand. Where you go, I go. Where you are, I am. Sometimes you do not see me, but nevertheless I am close. I do nothing. I am content to wait. DAISY. Your time is your own. I have no objection to your wasting it. LEE TAI. One day, and I think that day is not very far distant, you will come to me. I was the first and I shall be the last. If you like I will marry you. DAISY. [_With a smile._] I thought you had two, if not three, wives already. I fancy that number four would have rather a thin time. LEE TAI. My wife can be divorced. I am willing to marry you before the British Consul. We will go to Penang. I have a house there. You shall have motor cars. DAISY. It's astonishing how easy it is to resist temptations that don't tempt you. LEE TAI. Sneer. What do I care? I wait.... What have you to do with white men? You are not a white woman. What power has this blood of your father's when it is mingled with the tumultuous stream which you have inherited through your mother from innumerable generations? Our race is very pure and very strong. Strange nations have overrun us, but in a little while we have absorbed them so that no trace of a foreign people is left in us. China is like the Yangtze, which is fed by five hundred streams and yet remains unchanged, the river of golden sand, majestic, turbulent, indifferent, and everlasting. What power have you to swim against that mighty current? You can wear European clothes and eat European food, but in your heart you are a Chinawoman. Are your passions the weak and vacillating passions of the white man? There is in your heart a simplicity which the white man can never fathom and a deviousness which he can never understand. Your soul is like a rice patch cleared in the middle of the jungle. All around the jungle hovers, watchful and jealous, and it is only by ceaseless labour that you can prevent its inroads. One day your labour will be vain and the jungle will take back its own. China is closing in on you. DAISY. My poor Lee Tai, you're talking perfect nonsense. LEE TAI. You're restless and unhappy and dissatisfied because you're struggling against instincts which were implanted in your breast when the white man was a hungry, naked savage. One day you will surrender. You will cast off the white woman like an outworn garment. You will come back to China as a tired child comes back to his mother. And in the immemorial usages of our great race you will find peace. [_There is a moment's silence._ DAISY _passes her hand over her forehead. Against her will she is strangely impressed by what_ LEE TAI _has said. She gives a little shudder and recovers herself_. DAISY. George Conway loves me, and I-- Oh! LEE TAI. The white man's love lasts no longer than a summer day. It is a red, red rose. Now it flaunts its scented beauty proudly in the sun and to-morrow its petals, wrinkled and stinking, lie scattered on the ground. [_There is a sound of a footstep in the courtyard outside._ DAISY. Here he is. Go quickly. [GEORGE _opens the door and stops as he catches sight of_ LEE TAI. GEORGE. Hulloa, who's this? [LEE TAI _steps forward, smiling and obsequious_. LEE TAI. I am the owner of this house. The amah complained that the roof leaked and I came to see for myself. GEORGE. [_Frowning._] It's of no consequence. Please don't bother about it. LEE TAI. I wish I needn't. The amah has a virulent and active tongue--I am afraid she will give me no peace till I have satisfied her outrageous demands. GEORGE. You speak extraordinarily good English. LEE TAI. I am a graduate of the University of Edinburgh. DAISY. Robert Burns is his favourite poet. LEE TAI. I spent a year at Oxford and another at Harvard. I can express myself in English not without fluency. GEORGE. Let me compliment you on your good sense in retaining your national costume. I think it a pity that the returned students should insist on wearing ugly tweed suits and billycock hats. LEE TAI. I spent eight years abroad. I brought back with me no more admiration for Western dress than for Western civilization. GEORGE. That is very interesting. LEE TAI. You are pleased to be sarcastic. GEORGE. And you, I think, are somewhat supercilious. Believe me, the time has passed when the mandarins of your country, in their impenetrable self-conceit, could put up a barrier against the advance of civilization. If you have any love for China you must see that her only chance to take her rightful place in the world is to accept honestly and sincerely the teaching of the West. LEE TAI. And if in our hearts we despise and detest what you have to teach us? For what reason are you so confident that you are so superior to us that it behooves us to sit humbly at your feet? Have you excelled us in arts or letters? Have our thinkers been less profound than yours? Has our civilization been less elaborate, less complicated, less refined than yours? Why, when you lived in caves and clothed yourselves with skins we were a cultured people. Do you know that we tried an experiment which is unique in the world? GEORGE. [_Good-naturedly._] What experiment is that? LEE TAI. We sought to rule this great people not by force, but by wisdom. And for centuries we succeeded. Then why does the white man despise the yellow? Shall I tell you? GEORGE. Do. LEE TAI. [_With a smiling contempt._] Because he has invented the machine-gun. That is your superiority. We are a defenceless horde and you can blow us into eternity. [_With a tinge of sadness._] You have shattered the dream of our philosophers that the world could be governed by the power of law and order.... And now you are teaching our young men your secret. You have thrust your hideous inventions upon us. Fools. Do you not know that we have a genius for mechanics? Do you not know that there are in this country four hundred millions of the most practical and industrious people in the world? Do you think it will take us long to learn? And what will become of your superiority when the yellow man can make as good guns as the white and fire them as straight? You have appealed to the machine-gun and by the machine-gun shall you be judged. [_There is a pause. Suddenly_ GEORGE _gives_ LEE TAI _a scrutinizing glance_. GEORGE. What is your name? LEE TAI. [_With a thin, amused smile._] Lee Tai Cheng. GEORGE. [_With a frigid politeness._] I'm sure you are very busy, Mr. Lee. I won't detain you any longer. LEE TAI. [_Still smiling._] I wish you a good day. [_He bows slightly and shakes his own hands in the Chinese manner. He goes out. He leaves behind him an impression that is at once ironic and sinister._ GEORGE. What the devil is he doing here? DAISY. [_Amused._] He came to make me an offer of marriage. I pointed out to him that I was married already. GEORGE. [_Not without irritation._] How did he know you were here? DAISY. He made it his business to find out. GEORGE. Does he know that...? DAISY. [_Coolly._] You know China better than most Englishmen. You know that the white man can do nothing without the Chinese knowing it. But they won't tell other white men unless--unless it's to their advantage to do so. GEORGE. You told me that this house belonged to the amah. DAISY. [_Smiling._] That was a slight exaggeration. GEORGE. You put it very mildly. DAISY. You said you wouldn't come to the temple. It meant finding some place where we could meet or never seeing you at all. GEORGE. [_Sombrely._] We began with deceit and with deceit we've continued. DAISY. [_Tenderly._] There's no deceit in my love, George. After all, our love is the only thing that matters. GEORGE. [_With a certain awkwardness._] I'm afraid I've kept you waiting. André Leroux came to see me just as I was leaving the Legation. DAISY. [_Remembering._] I know. Mrs. Stopfort's young man. GEORGE. He said he knew Mrs. Stopfort's friends were rather anxious about her future and he wanted them to know that he was going to marry her as soon as she was free. DAISY. Oh! GEORGE. Of course it's the only decent thing to do, but I wasn't sure if he'd see it. He's a very good fellow. [_With a smile._] He spent at least half an hour telling me how he adored Mrs. Stopfort. DAISY. [_Good-humouredly._] Oh, you know I'm not the sort of woman to grouse because you're a little late. I can always occupy myself by thinking how wonderful it will be to see you. And if I get bored with that I read your letters again. GEORGE. I shouldn't have thought they were worth that. DAISY. I think I have every word you have ever written to me--those old letters of ten years ago and the little notes you write to me now. Even though they're only two or three lines, saying you'll come here or can't come, they're precious to me. GEORGE. But do you keep them here? DAISY. Yes, they're safe here. They're locked up in that box. Only amah has the key of this room ... George. GEORGE. Yes. DAISY. Will you do something for me? GEORGE. If I can. DAISY. Will you dine here to-night? Amah will get us a lovely little dinner. GEORGE. Oh, my dear, I can't! I've got an official dinner that I can't possibly get out of. DAISY. Oh, how rotten! GEORGE. But I thought Harry was coming back this morning. He's been gone a week already. DAISY. I had a letter saying he had to go on to Kalgan. But don't say anything about it. He told me I was to keep it a secret. GEORGE. He must hate having to be away so much as he's been lately. The death of that man Gregson has upset things rather. DAISY. [_Smiling._] I wish I could thank Gregson for the good turn he did _us_ by dying at the psychological moment. GEORGE. [_Dryly._] I don't suppose that was his intention. DAISY. Except for that Harry would have insisted on going to Chung-king. Now there's no possibility of that for at least a year. GEORGE. I suppose not. DAISY. We've got a year before us, George, a whole year. And in a year anything can happen. GEORGE. [_Gravely._] Do you never have any feeling that we've behaved rottenly to Harry? DAISY. I? I've been happy for the first time in my life. At last I've known peace and rest. Oh, George, I'm so grateful for all you've given me! In these three months you've changed the whole world for me. I thought I couldn't love you more than I did. I think every day my love grows more consuming. GEORGE. [_With a sigh._] I've never known a single moment's happiness. DAISY. That's not true. When I've held you in my arms I've looked into your eyes and I've seen. GEORGE. Oh, I know. There've been moments of madness in which I forgot everything but that I loved you. I'm a low rotten cad. No one could despise me more than I despise myself. I've loved you so that there was room for nothing else in my soul. Waking and sleeping you've obsessed me. DAISY. That's how I want you to love me. GEORGE. And I've hated myself for loving you. I've hated you for making me love you. I've struggled with all my might and a hundred times I thought I'd conquered myself and then the touch of your hand, the softness of your lips--I was like a bird in a cage, I beat myself against the bars and all the time the door was open and I hadn't the will to fly out. DAISY. [_Tenderly._] Oh, darling, why do you make yourself unhappy when happiness lies in the hollow of your hand? GEORGE. Have you never regretted anything? DAISY. Never. GEORGE. You're stronger than I am. I'm as weak as dishwater. It's funny that it should have taken me all these years to find it out. I was weak from the beginning. But I was weakest of all that day. I was distracted, I thought you were dying, I forgot everything except that I loved you. DAISY. [_With passion._] Oh, my sweetheart! Don't you remember how, late in the night, we went outside the temple and looked at the moonlight on the walls of the Forbidden City? You had no regrets then. GEORGE. [_Going on with his own thoughts._] And afterwards your tears, your happiness, the dread of giving you pain and the hot love that burnt me--I was in the toils then. I too knew a happiness that I had never known before. On one side was honesty and duty and everything that makes a man respect himself--and on the other was love. I thought you'd be going away in two or three weeks and that would be the end of it. Oh, it was no excuse--there are no excuses for me, I can never look Harry in the face again, but though my heart was breaking at the thought, I--I knew that in a few days I should see you for the last time. DAISY. [_Scornfully._] Do you think I'd have gone then? GEORGE. And then came that sudden, unexpected, disastrous change in all Harry's plans. And this house and all the sordid horror of an intrigue. And then there was nothing to do but face the fact that I was a cur. I wouldn't wish my worst enemy the torture that I've undergone. DAISY. [_Full of love and pity._] Oh, my darling, you know I'd do anything in the world to give you happiness! GEORGE. [_Sombrely looking away from her._] Daisy, I think you can never give me happiness, but you can help me, not to make amends because that's impossible, but to ... [_Impulsively, looking at her now._] Oh, Daisy, do you really love me? DAISY. With all my heart. With all my soul. GEORGE. Then help me. Let us finish. DAISY. [_Quickly._] What do you mean? GEORGE. I don't want to seem a prig. I don't want to preach. Heaven knows, I've never pretended to be a saint. But what we've done is wrong. You must see that as plainly as I do. DAISY. Is it wrong to love? How can I help it? GEORGE. Daisy, I want to--cease doing wrong. DAISY. You make me impatient. How can you be so weak? GEORGE. I want you to believe that I love you. But I can't go on with this deceit. I'd sooner shoot myself. DAISY. You couldn't say that if you loved me as I love you. GEORGE. [_Brutally._] I _don't_ love you any more. DAISY. [_With a scornful shrug._] That's not true. GEORGE. [_Clenching his teeth._] I came here to-day to tell you that--well, that it's finished and done with. Oh, God, I don't want to make you unhappy! But you must see we can't go on. Everything that's decent in me revolts at the thought. I beseech you to forget me. DAISY. As if I could. GEORGE. I'm going away for a bit. DAISY. [_Startled._] You? Why? GEORGE. I didn't trust myself, you see; I've lost my nerve, so I applied for short leave. I'm sailing for Vancouver on the _Empress_. I leave here the day after to-morrow. DAISY. [_Suddenly distraught._] You don't mean that you're going to leave me? I didn't pay any attention to what you said. I thought it was just a mood. George, George, say that you don't mean that? GEORGE. It's the only thing to do, for your sake and Harry's and mine. [_Taking his courage in both hands._] This is good-bye, Daisy. DAISY. [_Seizing him by the shoulders._] Let me look at your eyes. George, you're crazy. You can't go. GEORGE. [_Drawing away._] For God's sake, don't touch me. I wanted to break it to you gently. I don't know what's happened. Everything has gone wrong. I'm going, Daisy, and nothing in the world can move me. I implore you to bear it bravely. [_She looks at him with suffering, anxious eyes. She is stunned._] I'm afraid you're going to be awfully unhappy for a little while. But I beseech you to have courage. Soon the pain won't be so great, and then you'll see I've done the only possible thing. DAISY. [_Sullenly._] How long are you going for? GEORGE. Three or four months. [_A pause._] I knew you'd be brave, Daisy. Do you know, I was afraid you'd cry most awfully. It tears my heart to see you cry. DAISY. Do you think I'm a child? Do you think I can cry now? GEORGE. It's good-bye, then, Daisy. [_She does not answer. She hardly hears what he says. He hesitates an instant wretchedly, and then goes quickly out of the room._ DAISY _stands as if she were turned to stone. Her face is haggard. In a minute_ LEE TAI _comes softly in. He stands at the door, looking at her, then gives a little cough. She turns round and sees him_. DAISY. [_Fiercely._] What do you want? LEE TAI. I was waiting till you were disengaged. DAISY. Have you been listening? LEE TAI. I have heard. DAISY. I wish I could have seen you with your ear to the keyhole. You must have looked dignified. [_She begins to laugh, angrily, hysterically, beside herself._ LEE TAI. Let me give you a cup of tea. It's quite warm still. DAISY. I should have thought you were rather old and fat to stoop so much. LEE TAI. Fortunately the windows are only covered with rice paper, so I was saved that inconvenience. [_He hands her a cup of tea. She takes it and flings it at him. The tea is splashed over his black robe._ DAISY. Get out of here or I'll kill you. [_He wipes his dress with a large silk pocket handkerchief._ LEE TAI. You forget sometimes the manners that were taught you at that elegant school for young ladies in England. DAISY. I suppose you've come to crow over me. Well, crow. LEE TAI. I told you that I thought I should not have to wait very long. DAISY. [_Scornfully._] You fool. Do you think it's finished? LEE TAI. Did I not tell you that the white man's love was weak and vacillating? DAISY. He's going away for four months. Do you think that frightens me? He's loved me for ten years. I've loved him for ten years. Do you think he can forget me in four months? He'll come back. LEE TAI. Not to you. DAISY. Yes, yes, yes. And when he comes it'll be for good. He'll hunger for me as he hungered before. He'll forget his scruples, his remorse, his stupid duties, because he'll only remember me. LEE TAI. [_Very quietly._] He's going to be married to Miss Sylvia Knox. [DAISY _springs at him and seizes him by the throat_. DAISY. That's a lie. That's a lie. Take it back. You pig. [_He takes her hands and drags them away from his throat. He holds her fast._ LEE TAI. Ask your mother. She knows. The Chinese all know. DAISY. [_Calling._] Amah, amah. It's a lie. How dare you? LEE TAI. He told you he was going to an official dinner, but he didn't tell you that as soon as he could get away he was going to play bridge at the Knoxes'. Pity you don't play. They might have asked you too. [_The_ AMAH _comes in_. AMAH. You call me, Daisy? DAISY. [_Snatching her hands away._] Let me go, you fool. [_To the_ AMAH.] He says George Conway is engaged to Harold Knox's sister. It's not true. AMAH. I no sabe. George's boy say so. Knox the night before last at the club, he say to his friend, George Conway and my sister, they going to make a match of it. [_A horrible change comes over_ DAISY'S _face as all its features become distorted with rage and jealousy_. DAISY. The liar. [_She stares in front of her, hatred, anger, and mortification seething in her heart. Then she gives a cruel malicious chuckle. She goes quickly to the Korean chest and flings it open. She takes out a parcel of letters and crossing back swiftly to_ LEE TAI _thrusts them in his hands_. LEE TAI. What is this? DAISY. They're the letters he wrote me. Let them come into Harry's hands. LEE TAI. Why? DAISY. So that Harry may know everything. LEE TAI. [_After a moment's thought._] And what will you do for me if I do this for you? DAISY. What you like.... Only they must get to him quickly. George goes away the day after to-morrow. LEE TAI. Where is your husband? DAISY. Kalgan. LEE TAI. The letters shall reach him to-morrow morning. I'll send them by car. DAISY. It'll be a pleasant surprise for his breakfast. LEE TAI. Daisy. DAISY. Go quickly--or I shall change my mind. There'll be plenty of time for everything else after to-morrow. LEE TAI. I'll go. [LEE TAI _goes out_. DAISY _gives him a look of contempt_. DAISY. Fool. AMAH. What you mean, Daisy? DAISY. Harry will divorce me. And then.... [DAISY _gives a little cry of triumph_. END OF SCENE VI SCENE VII _The sitting-room in the_ ANDERSONS' _apartments_. _The scene is the same as_ SCENE IV. DAISY _and the_ AMAH. DAISY _is walking restlessly backwards and forwards_. DAISY. At what time does the train from Kalgan get in? AMAH. Five o'clock, my think so. DAISY. What time is it now? [_The_ AMAH _takes a large gold watch out and looks at it_. AMAH. My watch no walkee. DAISY. Why don't you have it mended? What's the good of a watch that doesn't go? AMAH. Gold watch. Eighteen carats. Cost velly much money. Give me plenty face. DAISY. [_Impatiently._] Go and ask Wu what time it is. AMAH. I know time. I tell by the sun. More better than European watch. I think half-past four perhaps. DAISY. Why doesn't George come? AMAH. Perhaps he velly busy. DAISY. You gave him the note yourself? AMAH. Yes, I give him letter. DAISY. What did he say? AMAH. He no say nothing. He look: damn, damn. DAISY. Did you tell him it was very important? AMAH. I say, you come quick. Chop-chop. DAISY. Yes. AMAH. I tell you before. Why you want me tell you again? He say he come chop-chop when he get away from office. DAISY. As if the office mattered now. I ought to have gone to him myself. AMAH. You no make him come more quick because you walk up down. Why you no sit still? DAISY. The train is never punctual. It'll take Harry at least twenty minutes to get out here. AMAH. Lee Tai.... DAISY. [_Interrupting._] Don't talk to me of Lee Tai. Why on earth should I bother about Lee Tai? AMAH. [_Taking up an opium pipe that is on the table._] Shall Amah make her little Daisy a pipe? Daisy very restless. DAISY. Have you got opium? AMAH. Lee Tai give me some. [_She shows_ DAISY _a small tin box_.] Number one quality. You have one little pipe, Daisy. DAISY. No. [WU _comes in with a card. He gives it to_ DAISY. Miss Knox. Say I'm not at home. WU. Yes, missy. [_He is about to go out._ DAISY. Stop. Is she alone? WU. She ride up to gate with gentleman and lady. She say can she see you for two, three minutes. DAISY. [_After a moment's consideration._] Tell her to come in. [WU _goes out_. AMAH. What you want to see her for, Daisy? DAISY. Mind your own business. AMAH. George come very soon now. DAISY. I shall get rid of her as soon as he does. [_Almost to herself._] I want to see for myself. [SYLVIA _comes in. She wears a riding-habit_. DAISY _greets her cordially. Her manner, which was restless, becomes on a sudden gay, gracious, and friendly_. DAISY. Oh, my dear, how sweet of you to come all this way! [_The_ AMAH _slips out_. SYLVIA. I can only stop a second. I was riding with the Fergusons and we passed your temple. I thought I'd just run in and see how you were. I haven't seen you for an age. DAISY. Are the Fergusons waiting outside? SYLVIA. They rode on. They said they'd fetch me in five minutes. DAISY. [_Smiling._] How did your bridge party go off last night? SYLVIA. How on earth did you hear about that? Did Mr. Conway tell you? I wish you played bridge. We really had rather a lark. DAISY. George didn't come in till late, I suppose? SYLVIA. Oh, no, he got away in fairly decent time. Where there's a will there's a way, you know, even at official functions. DAISY. [_With a little laugh._] Oh, I know! I'm expecting him here in a minute. I hope you won't have to go before he comes. SYLVIA. Well, I saw him yesterday. I can live one day without seeing him. DAISY. I wonder if he can live one day without seeing you? SYLVIA. I'm tolerably sure he can do that. DAISY. [_As if she were merely teasing._] A little bird has whispered to me that there's a very pretty blonde in Peking.... SYLVIA. [_Interrupting._] Probably peroxide. DAISY. Not in this case. Who is not entirely indifferent to the Assistant Chinese Secretary at the British Legation. SYLVIA. Fancy! DAISY. I suppose you haven't an idea who I'm talking about? SYLVIA. Not a ghost. DAISY. Then why do you blush to the roots of your hair? SYLVIA. I was outraged at your suggestion that my hair was dyed. DAISY. It's too bad of me to tease you, isn't it? SYLVIA. I'm a perfect owl. You know what a tactless idiot my brother is. He will chaff me about George Conway, so it makes me self-conscious when anybody talks about him. DAISY. Darling, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Why shouldn't you be in love with him? SYLVIA. [_With a laugh._] But I'm not in love with him. DAISY. Why does your brother chaff you then? SYLVIA. Because he's under the delusion that it's funny. DAISY. But you do like him, don't you? SYLVIA. Of course I like him.... I think he's a very good sort. DAISY. Would you marry him if he asked you? SYLVIA. My dear, what are you talking about? The thought never entered my head. DAISY. Oh, what nonsense! When a man's as attentive to a girl as George has been to you she can't help asking herself if she'd like to marry him or not. SYLVIA. [_Coldly, but still smiling._] Can't she? I'm afraid I haven't a close acquaintance with that sort of girl. DAISY. Am I being very vulgar? You know, we half-castes are sometimes. SYLVIA. [_With a trace of impatience._] Of course you're not vulgar. But I don't know why you want to talk about something that's absolute Greek to me. DAISY. The natural curiosity of the Eurasian. Everybody tells me that you're engaged to George. SYLVIA. Look at my hand. [_She stretches out her left hand so that_ DAISY _should see there is no ring on the fourth finger_. DAISY _stares at it for a moment_. DAISY. You always used to wear an engagement ring. SYLVIA. [_Gravely._] It was put on my finger by a poor boy who was killed. I meant to wear it always. DAISY. Why have you taken it off? [_She looks at_ SYLVIA. _She can no longer preserve her artificial gaiety and her voice is cold and hard. Before_ SYLVIA _can answer_ GEORGE CONWAY _comes in_. DAISY. [_Regaining with an effort her earlier sprightliness._] There you are at last. GEORGE. I couldn't come sooner. I was with the Minister. DAISY. We were wondering why you were so late. SYLVIA. Daisy was wondering. GEORGE. [_Shaking hands with Sylvia._] I thought that was your pony outside. SYLVIA. Clever. GEORGE. The Fergusons were just riding up as I came. SYLVIA. Oh, they've come to fetch me! I must bolt. GEORGE. I'm afraid we kept you up till all sorts of hours last night. SYLVIA. Not a bit. Do I look jaded? GEORGE. Of course not. You young things can stay up till three in the morning and be as fresh as paint. Wait till you're my age. SYLVIA. You haven't passed your hundredth birthday yet, have you? GEORGE. Not quite. But I'm old enough to be your father. SYLVIA. I will not stay and listen to you talk rubbish. Good-bye, Daisy. Do come and see me one day this week. DAISY. Good-bye. GEORGE. I'll come and help you mount, shall I? SYLVIA. Oh, no, don't bother! Mr. Ferguson is there. GEORGE. Oh, all right! [_She goes out._ DAISY. [_Her smiles vanishing, hostile and cold._] You might shut the door. GEORGE. [_Doing so._] I will. DAISY. Aren't you going to kiss me? GEORGE. Daisy. DAISY. [_Hastily._] Oh, no, it doesn't matter! Don't bother. GEORGE. You said you wanted to see me very importantly. DAISY. It's kind of you to have come. GEORGE. [_With an effort at ease of manner._] My dear child, what are you talking about? You must know that if there's anything in the world I can do for you I'm only too anxious to do it. DAISY. Is that girl in love with you? GEORGE. Good heavens, no! What put that idea in your head? DAISY. The eyes in my head. GEORGE. What perfect nonsense! DAISY. Has it never occurred to you that she was in love with you? GEORGE. Never. DAISY. Why do you lie to me? I've been told that you were engaged to her. GEORGE. That's ludicrous. It's absolutely untrue. DAISY. Yes, I think it is. At the first moment I believed it. And then I thought it over and I knew it couldn't be true. I don't think you'd do anything underhand. GEORGE. At all events I shouldn't do that. DAISY. In fairness to me or in fairness to her? GEORGE. My dear Daisy, what are you talking about? DAISY. Did you break with me yesterday so that you might be free to propose to her? GEORGE. No, I swear I didn't. DAISY. Why are you so emphatic? GEORGE. Oh, Daisy, what's the good of tormenting yourself and tormenting me? You know I loved you just as much as you loved me. But I'm not like you. It was a torture. I knew it was wrong and hateful. I couldn't go on. DAISY. Do you think it would have seemed wrong and hateful if it hadn't been for Sylvia? GEORGE. Yes. DAISY. You don't say that very convincingly. GEORGE. I do think it is because she is so loyal, and good and straight that I saw so clearly what a cad I was. I think I found courage to do the only possible thing in her frankness and honesty. DAISY. I think you deceive yourself. Are you sure this admiration of yours for all her admirable qualities isn't--love? GEORGE. My dear, I'm unfit to love her. DAISY. She doesn't think so. If you asked her to marry you she'd accept. GEORGE. [_Impatiently._] What nonsense. What in heaven's name made you think that? DAISY. I made it my business to find out. GEORGE. Well, you can set your mind at rest. I'm not going to ask her to marry me. [_The_ AMAH _comes in_. AMAH. Five o'clock, Daisy. DAISY. Leave me alone. [_The_ AMAH _goes out_. GEORGE. When does Harry come back? DAISY. [_After a pause, in a strange, hoarse voice._] To-day. GEORGE. [_Surprised at her tone and manner._] Is anything the matter, Daisy? DAISY. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you. GEORGE. [_Startled._] Oh! DAISY. You know those letters. I kept them locked in the box. Lee Tai was furious because I wouldn't have anything to do with him. Last night he broke open the box. He's sent the letters to Harry. GEORGE. [_Overwhelmed._] My God! DAISY. I'm awfully sorry. It wasn't my fault. I couldn't dream that there was any risk. GEORGE. Was that why you sent for me? DAISY. Say you don't hate me. GEORGE. Oh, poor Harry! DAISY. Don't think of him now. Think of me. GEORGE. What do we matter now, you and I? We're a pair of rotters. Harry is a white man through and through. He loved you, and he trusted me. DAISY. What are we going to do? GEORGE. Give me a minute. I'm all at sixes and sevens. It's such a knock-out blow. DAISY. Harry will be here soon. His train's due at five. GEORGE. We'll wait for him. DAISY. What? GEORGE. Did you think I was going to run away? I'll stay and face him. DAISY. He'll kill you. GEORGE. [_With anguish._] I wish to God he would. DAISY. Oh, George, how can you be so cruel? Don't you love me any more? I love you. George, what is to become of me if you desert me? GEORGE. Harry loves you so much and he loves me too. Heaven knows what sacrifices he's not capable of. Oh, I'm so ashamed! DAISY. Why do you bother about him? He doesn't count. He'll get over it. After all, what can he do? He can only divorce me and perhaps we can get him to let me divorce him. GEORGE. Could you _allow_ him to do that? DAISY. It means so little to a man. I don't care, I was thinking of you. It would make it so much easier for you. [_He gives her a quick look. He perceives the allusion to marriage._] George, George, you wouldn't leave--leave me in the cart. GEORGE. Of course I'll marry you. DAISY. [_Smiling now, loving and tender._] Oh, George, we shall be so happy. And you know, some day I'm sure you'll think it's better as it's turned out. I hate all this deceit just as much as you do. Oh, it'll make such a difference when our love can be open and above board. When I'm your wife you'll forget all that has tormented you. Oh, George, I know we shall be happy! [_All this time_ GEORGE _has been thinking deeply_. GEORGE. How do you know that Lee Tai sent those wretched letters to Harry? DAISY. He sent me a message. He wasn't satisfied with doing a dirty trick. He wanted me to know that he'd done it. GEORGE. How did he know you kept my letters there? DAISY. I told you I was reading them while I waited for you. He came in and I put them away. I suppose he suspected. It was very easy for him to get into the room after amah and I went away. GEORGE. [_Sarcastically._] Had you left the key of the box on the table? DAISY. What do you mean, George? I'd locked it up. Of course I took the key with me. I suppose he broke it open. What does it matter? The harm's done. GEORGE. How do you know Harry received the letters this morning? DAISY. Lee Tai said he would. GEORGE. In Kalgan? DAISY. Yes. GEORGE. How did he know Harry was in Kalgan? DAISY. The Chinese know all one's movements. GEORGE. They can't do miracles. Harry was going up there unexpectedly on a private mission. The fellows in that company know very well how to keep their own counsel when it's needful.... I imagine you were the only person in Peking who knew Harry was going to Kalgan. DAISY. [_Casually._] Well, it appears I wasn't. GEORGE. How do you suppose Lee Tai found out something that Harry had particularly told you to keep quiet about? DAISY. How can I tell? He may have found out from the amah for all I know. GEORGE. Surely you hadn't told her? DAISY. Of course not. She may have read the letter. She always does read my letters. GEORGE. Can she read English? DAISY. Enough to find out about other people's business. GEORGE. Why should she have told Lee Tai? DAISY. I suppose he bribed her. She'd do anything for a hundred dollars. GEORGE. Not if it would do you harm. DAISY. She's not so devoted to me as all that. GEORGE. She's your mother, Daisy. DAISY. [_Quickly._] How d'you know? GEORGE. Harry told me. DAISY. I thought he was too ashamed of it to do that. GEORGE. [_Persistently._] How did Lee Tai know that Harry was in Kalgan? DAISY. I tell you I don't know. Why do you cross-examine me? Good God, I'm harassed enough without that! What do you mean? GEORGE. [_He seizes her wrists and draws her violently to him._] Daisy, did you send those letters to Harry yourself? DAISY. Never! Do you think I'm crazy? GEORGE. Did you give them to Lee Tai to send? DAISY. No. GEORGE. God damn you, speak the truth! I will have the truth for once in your life. [_They stare at one another. He is stern and angry. She pulls herself together. She is fierce and defiant. She shakes herself free of him._ DAISY. I gave them to Lee Tai. GEORGE. [_Hiding his face with his hands._] My God! DAISY. He told me you were engaged to Sylvia. For a moment I believed it and I gave him the letters. I hardly knew what I was doing. And now, even though I know it wasn't true, I'm glad. I wish I'd done it long before. GEORGE. You fiend! DAISY. [_Violently._] Do you think I'm going to let you go so easily? Do you think I've done all I have to let you marry that silly little English girl? GEORGE. [_With anguish._] Oh, Daisy, how could you? DAISY. Has it never struck you how you came to be wounded that night? It wasn't you they wanted. It was Harry. GEORGE. I know. [_Suddenly understanding._] Daisy! DAISY. Yes, I could do that. I only wish it had succeeded. GEORGE. I can't believe it. DAISY. You're mine, mine, mine, and I'll never let you go. GEORGE. [_With increasing violence._] Do you think I can ever look at you again without horror? In my heart I've known always that you were evil. Ten years ago when I first loved you there was a deep instinct within that warned me. Even though my heart was breaking for love of you I knew that you were ruthless and cruel. I've loved you, yes, but all the time I've hated you. I've loved you, but with the baser part of me. All that was in me that was honest and decent and upright revolted against you. Always, always. This love has been a loathsome cancer in my heart. I couldn't rid me of it without killing myself, but I abhorred it. I felt that I was degraded by the love that burned me. DAISY. What do I care so long as you love? You can think anything you like of me. The fact remains that you love me. GEORGE. If you had no pity for Harry, who raised you from the gutter and gave you everything he had to give, oh, if you'd loved me you'd have had mercy on me. What do you think our life can be together? Don't you know what I shall be? Ruined and abject and hopeless. Oh, not only in the eyes of everyone who knows me shall I be degraded, but in my own. Do you think there's much happiness for you there? DAISY. I shall have you. That's all the happiness I want. I'd rather be wretched with you--oh, a thousand times--than happy with anyone else. GEORGE. [_Wrathfully, trying to wound her._] You were tormenting me just now because you were jealous of Sylvia. Do you know what I felt for her? It wasn't love--at least not what you mean by love. I can never love anyone as I've loved you and God knows I'm thankful. But I had such a respect for her. I've been so wretched and she offered me peace. And I did think that some day when all this horror was over, if I could do something to make myself feel clean again, I should go to her and, all unworthy, ask her if she would take me. And now the bitterest pang of all is to think that she must know what an unspeakable cad I've always been. [_He has flung himself into a chair. He is in despair._ DAISY _goes up to him and going down on her knees beside him puts her arm round him. She is very tender_. DAISY. Oh, George, I can make you forget her so easily. You don't know what my love can do. I know I've been horrible, but it's only been because I loved you. Ten years ago I was all that she is. I'm like clay in your hands and you can make me what you will. Oh, George, say you forgive me! [_In the caressing gestures of her hands as she tries to move him one of them rests by chance on his coat pocket. She feels something hard. He moves slightly away._ GEORGE. Take care. DAISY. What's that in your pocket? GEORGE. It's my revolver. Since my accident I've always carried it about with me. It's rather silly, but the Minister asked me to. He said he'd feel safer. DAISY. Oh, George, if you only knew the agony I suffered when you were brought in! The remorse, the fear! I thought I should go mad. GEORGE. [_With a bitter chuckle._] It must have been rather a sell for you. DAISY. Oh, you can laugh! I knew you'd forgive me. My darling. GEORGE. I'm sorry for all the rough things I said to you, Daisy. I don't blame you for anything. You only acted according to your lights. The only person I can blame is myself. It's only reasonable that I should suffer the punishment. DAISY. My sweetheart! GEORGE. I suppose you know that I shall be quite ruined. DAISY. You'll have to leave the service. Does that really matter to you very much? GEORGE. It was my whole life. DAISY. You'll get a job in the post office. With your knowledge of the language they'll simply jump at you. It's a Chinese service. It has nothing to do with Europeans. GEORGE. Do you think the postmaster in a small Chinese city is a very lucrative position? DAISY. What does money matter? If I'd wanted money I could have got all I wanted from Lee Tai. We can do with very little. You don't know what a clever housekeeper I am. GEORGE. [_In a level, dead voice._] I'm sure you're wonderful. DAISY. We'll go to some city where there are no foreigners. And we shall be together always. We'll have a house high up on the bank and below us the river will flow, flow endlessly. GEORGE. You seem to have got it all mapped out. DAISY. If you only knew how often I've dreamed of it. Oh, George, I want rest and peace too! I'm so tired. I want endless days to rest in. [_With a puzzled look at him._] What is the matter? You look so strange. GEORGE. [_With a weary sigh._] I was thinking of all the things you've been saying to me. DAISY. If you think it'll be easier for you if you don't marry me, you need not. I don't care anything about that. I'll be your mistress and I'll lie hidden in your house so that no one shall know I'm there. I'll live like a Chinese woman. I'll be your slave and your plaything. I want to get away from all these Europeans. After all, China is the land of my birth and the land of my mother. China is crowding in upon me; I'm sick of these foreign clothes. I have a strange hankering for the ease of the Chinese dress. You've never seen me in it? GEORGE. Never. DAISY. [_With a smile._] You'd hardly know me. I'll be a little Chinese girl living in the foreigner's house. Have you ever smoked opium? GEORGE. No. [DAISY _takes the_ AMAH'S _long pipe in her hands._] Who does that belong to? DAISY. It's amah's. One day you shall try and I'll make your pipes for you. Lee Tai used to say that no one could make them better than I. GEORGE. However low down the ladder you go there's apparently always a rung lower. DAISY. After you've smoked a pipe or two your mind grows extraordinarily clear. You have a strange facility of speech and yet no desire to speak. All the puzzles of this puzzling world grow plain to you. You are tranquil and free. Your soul is gently released from the bondage of your body, and it plays, happy and careless, like a child with flowers. Death cannot frighten you, and want and misery are like blue mountains far away. You feel a heavenly power possess you and you can venture all things because suffering cannot touch you. Your spirit has wings and you fly like a bird through the starry wastes of the night. You hold space and time in the hollow of your hand. Then you come upon the dawn, all pearly and gray and silent, and there in the distance, like a dreamless sleep, is the sea. GEORGE. You are showing me a side of you I never knew. DAISY. Do you think you know me yet? I don't know myself. In my heart there are secrets that are strange even to me, and spells to bind you to me, and enchantments so that you will never weary. [_A pause._ GEORGE. [_Standing up._] I'll go and get myself a drink. After all these alarums and excursions I really think I deserve it. DAISY. Amah will bring it to you. GEORGE. Oh, it doesn't matter! I can easily fetch it myself. The whisky's in the dining-room, isn't it? DAISY. I expect so. [_He goes out._ DAISY _goes over to a chest which stands in the room and throws it open. She takes out the Manchu dress which Harry once gave her and handles it smilingly. She holds up in both her hands the sumptuous headdress. There is the sound of a door being locked_. DAISY _puts down the headdress and looks at the door enquiringly_. DAISY. [_With a little smile._] What are you locking the door for, George? [_The words are hardly out of her mouth before there is the report of a pistol shot._ DAISY _gives a shriek and rushes towards the door._] George! George! What have you done? [_She beats frantically on the door._] Let me in! Let me in! George! [_The_ AMAH _comes in running from the courtyard_. AMAH. What's the matter? I hear shot. DAISY. Send the boys, quick. We must break down this door. AMAH. I send the boys away. I no want them here when Harry come. DAISY. George! George! Speak to me. [_She beats violently on the door._] Oh, what shall I do? AMAH. Daisy, what's the matter? DAISY. He's killed himself sooner--sooner than.... AMAH. [_Aghast._] Oh! [DAISY _staggers back into the room_. DAISY. Oh, my God! [_She sinks down on the floor. She beats it with her fist. The_ AMAH _looks at her for an instant, then with quick determination seizes her shoulder_. AMAH. Daisy, Harry come soon. DAISY. [_With a violent gesture._] Leave me alone. What do I care if Harry comes? AMAH. You no can stay here. Come with me quick. DAISY. Go away. Damn you! AMAH. [_Stern and decided._] Don't you talk foolish now. You come. Lee Tai waiting for you. DAISY. [_With a sudden suspicion._] Did you know this was going to happen? George! George! AMAH. Harry will kill you if he find you here. Come with me. [_There is a knocking at the outer gate._] There he is. Daisy! Daisy! DAISY. Don't torture me. AMAH. I bolt that door. He no get in that way. He must come round through temple. You come quick and I hide you. We slip out when he safe. DAISY. [_With scornful rage._] Do you think I'm frightened of Harry? AMAH. He come velly soon now. [DAISY _raises herself to her feet. A strange look comes over her face._ DAISY. Lee Tai has made a mistake again. Bolt that door. [_The_ AMAH _runs to it and slips the bolt. While she does this_ DAISY _takes the tin of opium and quickly swallows some of the contents. The_ AMAH _turns round and sees her. She gives a gasp. She runs forward and snatches the tin from_ DAISY'S _hand_. AMAH. What you do, Daisy? Daisy, you die! DAISY. Yes, I die. The day has come. The jungle takes back its own. AMAH. [_Distraught._] Oh, Daisy! Daisy! My little flower. DAISY. How long will it take? [_The_ AMAH _sobs desperately_. DAISY _goes to the Manchu clothes and takes them up_.] Help me to put these on. AMAH. [_Dumbfounded._] What you mean, Daisy? DAISY. Curse you, do as I tell you! AMAH. I think you crazy. [DAISY _slips into the long skirt and the_ AMAH _with trembling hands helps her into the coat. In the middle of her dressing_ DAISY _staggers_.] Daisy. DAISY. [_Recovering herself._] Don't be a fool. I'm all right. AMAH. [_In a terrified whisper._] There's Harry. DAISY. Give me the headdress. HARRY. [_Outside._] Open the door. DAISY. Be quick. AMAH. I no understand. You die, Daisy. You die. [_The knocking is repeated more violently._ HARRY. [_Shouting._] Daisy! Amah! Open the door. If you don't open I'll break it down. [DAISY _is ready. She steps on to the pallet and sits in the Chinese fashion_. DAISY. Go to the door. Open when I tell you. [_There is by_ DAISY'S _side a box in which are the paints and pencils the Chinese lady uses to make up her face_. DAISY _opens it. She takes out a hand mirror_. HARRY. Who's there? Open, I tell you! Open! [DAISY _puts rouge on her cheeks. She takes a black pencil and touches her eyebrows. She gives them a slight slant so that she looks on a sudden absolutely Chinese_. DAISY. Open! [_The_ _Amah_ _draws the bolt and_ HARRY _bursts in_. HARRY. Daisy! [_He comes forward impetuously and then on a sudden stops. He is taken aback. Something, he knows not what, comes over him and he feels helpless and strangely weak._] Daisy, what does it mean? These letters. [_He takes them out of his pocket and thrusts them towards her. She takes no notice of him._] Daisy, speak to me. I don't understand. [_He staggers towards her with outstretched hands._] For God's sake, say it isn't true. [_Motionless she contemplates in the mirror the Chinese woman of the reflection._ THE END 
56602	----	[Illustration: KATY O'GRADY'S VICTORY.] FRANK HUNTER'S PERIL BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK SERIES," "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," "TATTERED TOM SERIES," ETC. PHILADELPHIA HENRY T. COATES & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. FRANK AND BEN, 5 II. MR. CRAVEN'S COURTSHIP, 15 III. UNWELCOME NEWS, 21 IV. MR. CRAVEN'S FOUR-LEGGED ENEMY, 30 V. MR. CRAVEN'S RETURN, 40 VI. THE DIFFICULTY OF KILLING A DOG, 50 VII. MISS O'GRADY'S VICTORY, 59 VIII. FRANK IS OBSTINATE, 69 IX. A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE, 79 X. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST FRANK, 84 XI. TRAPPED, 96 XII. TWO BOY FRIENDS, 105 XIII. JONATHAN TARBOX, OF SQUASHBORO', 114 XIV. THE LONDON CLERK, 123 XV. MR. TARBOX IS OBSTINATE, 133 XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN LONDON, 142 XVII. COLONEL SHARPLEY'S RUSE, 152 XVIII. MR. TARBOX AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION, 162 XIX. FRANK ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS, 172 XX. FRANK LEAVES PARIS, 182 XXI. THE HOTEL DU GLACIER, 192 XXII. OVER THE BRINK, 202 XXIII. GIVING THE ALARM, 208 XXIV. SHARPLEY DISSEMBLES, 212 XXV. A USELESS SEARCH, 217 XXVI. MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL, 222 XXVII. TARBOX TO THE RESCUE, 232 XXVIII. SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE, 237 XXIX. FRANK'S PEDESTRIAN TOUR, 242 XXX. NEW FRIENDS, 252 XXXI. HOW THE NEWS WENT HOME, 261 XXXII. BEN BRINGS GOOD NEWS, 269 XXXIII. ALPINE EXPLORATIONS OF MR. TARBOX, 279 XXXIV. THE PLOW IS A SUCCESS, 287 XXXV. MR. CRAVEN MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES, 296 XXXVI. SHARPLEY'S RETURN, 306 XXXVII. MRS. CRAVEN'S FIXED IDEA, 315 XXXVIII. RETRIBUTION, 325 FRANK HUNTER'S PERIL. CHAPTER I. FRANK AND BEN. "Is your mother at home, Frank?" asked a soft voice. Frank Hunter was stretched on the lawn in a careless posture, but looked up quickly as the question fell upon his ear. A man of middle height and middle age was looking at him from the other side of the gate. Frank rose from his grassy couch and answered coldly: "Yes, sir; I believe so. I will go in and see." "Oh, don't trouble yourself, my young friend," said Mr. Craven, opening the gate and advancing toward the door with a brisk step. "I will ring the bell; I want to see your mother on a little business." "Seems to me he has a good deal of business with mother," Frank said to himself. "There's something about the man I don't like, though he always treats me well enough. Perhaps it's his looks." "How are you, Frank?" Frank looked around, and saw his particular friend, Ben Cameron, just entering the gate. "Tip-top, Ben," he answered, cordially. "I'm glad you've come." "I'm glad to hear it; I thought you might be engaged." "Engaged? What do you mean, Ben?" asked Frank, with a puzzled expression. "Engaged in entertaining your future step-father," said Ben, laughing. "My future step-father!" returned Frank, quickly; "you are speaking in riddles, Ben." "Oh! well, if I must speak out, I saw Mr. Craven ahead of me." "Mr. Craven! Well, what if you did?" "Why, Frank, you must know the cause of his attentions to your mother." "Ben," said Frank, his face flushing with anger, "you are my friend, but I don't want even you to hint at such a thing as that." "Have I displeased you, Frank?" "No, no; I won't think of it any more." "I am afraid, Frank, you will have to think of it more," said his companion, gravely. "You surely don't mean, Ben, that you have the least idea that my mother would marry such a man as that?" exclaimed Frank, pronouncing the last words contemptuously. "It's what all the village is talking about," said Ben, significantly. "Then I wish all the village would mind its own business," said Frank, hotly. "I hope they are wrong, I am sure. Craven's a mean, sneaking sort of man, in my opinion. I should be sorry to have him your step-father." "It's a hateful idea that such a man should take the place of my dear, noble father," exclaimed Frank, with excitement. "My mother wouldn't think of it." But even as he spoke, there was a fear in his heart that there might be something in the rumor after all. He could not be blind to the frequent visits which Mr. Craven had made at the house of late. He knew that his mother had come to depend on him greatly in matters of business. He had heard her even consult him about her plans for himself, and this had annoyed him. Once he had intimated his dislike of Mr. Craven, but his mother had reproved him, saying that she considered him a true friend, and did not know how to do without him. But he stifled this apprehension, and assured Ben, in the most positive terms, that there was nothing whatever in the report. Whether there was or not, we shall be able to judge better by entering the house and being present at the interview. Mrs. Hunter was sitting in a rocking-chair, with a piece of needle-work in her hand. She was a small, delicate-looking woman, still pretty, though nearer forty than thirty, and with the look of one who would never depend on herself, if she could find some one to lean upon for counsel and guidance. Frank, who was strong and resolute, had inherited these characteristics not from her but from his father, who had died two years previous, his strong and vigorous constitution succumbing to a sudden fever, which in his sturdy frame found plenty to prey upon. And who was Mr. Craven? He was, or professed to be, a lawyer, who six months before had come to the town of Shelby. He had learned that Mrs. Hunter was possessed of a handsome competence, and had managed an early introduction. He succeeded in getting her to employ him in some business matters, and under cover of this had called very often at her house. From the first he meant to marry her if he could, as his professional income was next to nothing, and with the money of the late Mr. Hunter he knew that he would be comfortably provided for for life. This very afternoon he had selected to make his proposal, and he knew so well the character and the weakness of the lady that he felt a tolerable assurance of success. He knew very well that Frank did not like him, and he in turn liked our young hero no better, but he always treated him with the utmost graciousness and suavity from motives of policy. The room in which they were seated was very neatly and tastefully furnished. He looked, to employ a common phrase, "as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth," and his voice was soft and full of suavity. They had evidently been talking on business, for he is saying, "Now that our business interview is over, there is another subject, my dear Mrs. Hunter, on which I wish to speak to you." She looked up, not suspecting what was coming, and said, "What is it, Mr. Craven?" "It's a very delicate matter. I hardly know how to introduce it." Something in his look led her to suspect now, and she said, a little nervously, "Go on, Mr. Craven." "My dear Mrs. Hunter, the frequent visits I have made here have given me such a view of your many amiable qualities, that almost without knowing it, I have come to love you." Mrs. Hunter dropped her work nervously, and seemed agitated. "I esteem you, Mr. Craven," she said, in a low voice, "but I have never thought of marrying again." "Then think of it now, I entreat you. My happiness depends upon it--think of that. When I first discovered that I loved you, I tried hard to bury the secret in my own breast, but--but it became too strong for me, and now I place my fate in your hands." By this time he had edged round to her side, and lifted her hand gently in his, and pressed it to his lips. "Do not drive me to despair," he murmured softly. "I--I never thought you loved me so much, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Hunter, in agitation. "Because I tried to hide it." "Can you not still be my friend and give up such thoughts?" "Never, never!" he answered, shaking his head. "If you deny my suit, I shall at once leave this village, and bury my sorrow and desolation of heart in some wild prairie scene, far from the haunts of men, where I shall linger out the remnant of my wretched life." "Don't--pray don't, Mr. Craven," she said, in a tone of distress. But, feeling that surrender was at hand, he determined to carry the fortress at once. He sank down on his knees, and, lifting his eyes, said: "Say yes, I entreat you, dear Mrs. Hunter, or I shall be miserable for life." "Pray get up, Mr. Craven." "Never, till I hear the sweet word, 'yes.'" "Yes, then," she answered, hastily, scarcely knowing what she said. At this moment, while Mr. Craven was yet on his knees, the door opened suddenly, and Katy, the Irish maid-of-all-work, entered: "Holy St. Pathrick!" she exclaimed, as she witnessed the tableau. Mrs. Hunter blushed crimson, but Mr. Craven was master of the situation. Cleverly taking advantage of it to fix the hasty consent he had obtained, he turned to Katy with his habitual smirk. "Katy, my good girl," he said, "you must not be too much startled. Shall I explain to her, dear Mrs. Hunter?" The widow, with scarlet face, was about to utter a feeble remonstrance, but he did not wait for it. "Your mistress and I are engaged, Katy," he said, briskly. "You shall be the first to congratulate us." "Indade, sir!" exclaimed Katy. "Is it goin' to be married, ye are?" "Yes, Katy." "I congratulate you, sir," she said, significantly. "Plague take her!" thought Mr. Craven; "so she has the impudence to object, has she? I'll soon set her packing when I come into possession." But he only said, with his usual suavity: "You are quite right, Katy. I feel that I am indeed fortunate." "Indade, mum, I didn't think you wud marry ag'in," said Katy, bluntly. "I--I didn't intend to, Katy, but--" "I couldn't be happy without her," said Mr. Craven, playfully. "But, Katy, you had something to say to Mrs. Hunter." "What will I get for supper, mum?" "Anything you like, Katy," said Mrs. Hunter, who felt too much flustered to give orders. "Will you stay to supper, Mr. Craven?" "Not to-night, dear Mrs. Hunter. I am sure you will want to think over the new plans of happiness we have formed. I will stay a few minutes yet, and then bid you farewell till to-morrow." "That's the worst news Katy O'Grady's heard yet," said Katy, as she left the room and returned to her own department. "How can my mistress, that's a rale lady, if ever there was one, take up wid such a mane apology for a man. Shure I wouldn't take him meself, not if he'd go down on forty knees to me--no, I wouldn't," and Katy tossed her head. CHAPTER II. MR. CRAVEN'S COURTSHIP. When Katy left the room, Mr. Craven still kept his place at the side of the widow. "I hope," he said softly, "you were not very much annoyed at Katy's sudden entrance?" "It was awkward," said Mrs. Hunter. "True, but, after all, is there anything to be ashamed of in our love?" "I am afraid, Mr. Craven, I do not love you." "Not yet, but you will. I am sure you will when you see how completely I am devoted to you." "It seems so sudden," faltered Mrs. Hunter. "But, setting aside my affection, think how much it will relieve you of care. Dear Mrs. Hunter, the care of your property and the responsibility of educating and training your son is too much for a woman." "Frank never gives me any trouble," said Mrs. Hunter. "He is a good boy." "He is a disagreeable young scamp, in my opinion," thought Mr. Craven, but he said, unwittingly speaking the truth: "He is indeed a noble boy, with excellent qualities, but you will soon be called upon to form plans for his future, and here you will need the assistance of a man." "I don't know but what you are right, Mr. Craven. I should have consulted you." "Only one who fills a father's place, dear Mrs. Hunter, can do him justice." "I am afraid Frank won't like the idea of my marrying again," said Mrs. Hunter, anxiously. "He may not like it at first, but he will be amenable to reason. Tell him that it is for your happiness." "But I don't know. I can't feel sure that it is." "I am having more trouble than I expected," thought Mr. Craven. "I must hurry up the marriage or I may lose her, and, what is of more importance, the money she represents. By the way, I had better speak on that subject." "There are some who will tell you that I have only sought you because you are rich in this world's goods--that I am a base and mercenary man, who desires to improve his circumstances by marriage, but you, I hope, dear Mrs. Hunter--may I say, dear Mary--will never do me that injustice." "I do not suspect you of it," said Mrs. Hunter, who was never ready to suspect the motives of others, though in this case Mr. Craven had truly represented his object in seeking her. "I knew you would not, but others may try to misrepresent me, and therefore I feel it necessary to explain to you that my wealth, though not equal to your own, is still considerable." "I have never thought whether you were rich or poor," said Mrs. Hunter. "It would not influence my decision." While she spoke, however, it did excite in her a momentary surprise to learn that since Mr. Craven was rich, he should settle down in so small and unimportant a place as Shelby, where he could expect little business of a professional nature. "I know your generous, disinterested character," he said; "but still I wish to explain to you frankly my position, to prove to you that I am no fortune-hunter. I have twenty thousand dollars invested in Lake Superior mining stocks, and I own a small house in New York City, worth about fifteen thousand dollars. It is not much," he added, modestly, "but is enough to support me comfortably, and will make it clear that I need not marry from mercenary motives. I shall ask the privilege of assisting to carry out your plans for Frank, in whom I feel a warm interest." "You are very generous and kind, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Hunter, "but his father amply provided for him. Two-thirds of his property was left to Frank, and will go to him on his twenty-first birth-day." "Drat the boy," thought Mr. Craven, "he stands between me and a fortune." But this thought was not suffered to appear in his face. "I am almost sorry," he said, with consummate hypocrisy, "that he is so well provided for, since now he does not stand in need of my help, that is, in a pecuniary way. But my experience of the world can at least be of service to him, and I will do my best to make up to him for the loss of his dear father." These last words were feelingly spoken. She realized how much she was wanting in the ability to guide and direct a boy of Frank's age. Mr. Craven was a lawyer, and a man of the world. He would be able, as he said, to relieve her from all care about his future, and it was for Frank that she now lived. Her feelings were not enlisted in this marriage with Mr. Craven. Indeed, on some accounts it would be a sacrifice. The result was, that twenty minutes later, when he started homeward, Mrs. Hunter had ratified her promise, and consented to an early marriage. Mr. Craven felt that he had, indeed, achieved a victory, and left the house with a heart exulting in his coming prosperity. Frank Hunter and Ben Cameron were on the lawn, conversing, when the lawyer passed them. "Good afternoon, Frank," he said with suavity. "Good afternoon, sir," answered Frank, gravely. "The old fellow is very familiar," said Ben, when Mr. Craven had passed out of the gate. "He is more familiar than I like," answered Frank. "I don't know why it is, Ben, but I can't help disliking him." He had reason to dislike Mr. Craven, and he was destined to have still further cause, though he did not know it at the time. CHAPTER III. UNWELCOME NEWS. Shortly after Mr. Craven's departure, Ben announced that he must be going. Left alone, Frank went into the house. He felt rather sober, for though he did not believe that his mother was in any danger of marrying again--least of all, Mr. Craven--the mere possibility disturbed him. "Is mother up stairs, Katy?" he asked. "Yes," said Katy, looking very knowing. "She went up as soon as Mr. Craven went away." "He staid a long time. He seems to come here pretty often." "May be he'll come oftener and stay longer, soon," said Katy, nodding her head vigorously. "What do you mean, Katy? What makes you say such things?" "What do I mane? Why do I say such things? You'll know pretty soon, I'm thinking." "I wish you'd tell me at once what you mean?" said Frank, impatiently. "Mr. Craven doesn't come here for nothing, bad 'cess to him," said Katy, oracularly. "You don't mean, Katy--" exclaimed Frank, in excitement. "I mean that you're goin' to have a step-father, Master Frank, and a mighty mane one, too; but if your mother's satisfied, it ain't for Katy O'Grady to say a word, though he isn't fit for her to wipe her shoes on him." "Who told you such a ridiculous story?" demanded Frank, angrily. "He told me himself shure," said Katy. "Didn't I pop in when he was on his knees at your mother's feet, and didn't he ask me to congratulate him, and your mother said never a word? What do you say to that Master Frank, now?" "I think there must be some mistake, Katy," said Frank, turning pale. "I will go and ask my mother." "No wonder the child can't abide havin' such a mane step-father as that," soliloquized Katy. "He looks like a sneakin' hyppercrite, that he does, and I'd like to tell him so." Mrs. Hunter was an amiable woman, but rather weak of will, and easily controlled by a stronger spirit. She had yielded to Mr. Craven's persuasions because she had not the power to resist for any length of time. That she did not feel a spark of affection for him, it is hardly necessary to say, but she had already begun to feel a little reconciled to an arrangement which would relieve her from so large a share of care and responsibility. She was placidly thinking it all over when Frank entered the room hastily. "Have you wiped your feet, Frank?" she asked, for she had a passion for neatness. "I am afraid you will track dirt into the room." "Yes--no--I don't know," answered Frank, whose thoughts were on another subject. "Has Mr. Craven been here?" "Yes," replied his mother, blushing a little. "He seemed to stay pretty long." "He was here about an hour." "He comes pretty often, too." "I consult him about my business affairs, Frank." "Look here, mother, what do you think Ben Cameron told me to-day?" "I don't know, I am sure, Frank." "He said it was all over the village that you were going to marry him." "I--I didn't think it had got round so soon," said the widow, nervously. "So soon! Why, you don't mean to say there's anything in it, mother?" said Frank, impetuously. "I hope it won't displease you very much, Frank," said Mrs. Hunter, in embarrassment. "Is it true? Are you really going to marry that man?" "He didn't ask me till this afternoon, and, of course, it took me by surprise, and I said so, but he urged me so much that I finally consented." "You don't love him, mother? I am sure you can't love such a man as that." "I never shall love any one again in that way, Frank--never any one like your poor father." "Then why do you marry him?" "He doesn't ask me to love him. But he can relieve me of a great many cares and look after you." "I don't want anybody to look after me, mother--that is, anybody but you. I hate Mr. Craven!" "Now that is wrong, Frank. He speaks very kindly of you--very kindly indeed. He says he takes a great interest in you." "I am sorry I cannot return the interest he professes. I dislike him, and I always have. I hope you won't be angry, mother, if I tell you just what I think of him. I think he's after your property, and that is what made him offer himself. He is poor as poverty, though I don't care half so much for that as I do for other things." "No, Frank; you are mistaken there," said credulous Mrs. Hunter, eagerly. "He is not poor." "How do you know?" "He told me that he had twenty thousand dollars' worth of mining stock out West somewhere, besides owning a house in New York." Frank looked astonished. "If he has as much property as that," he said, "I don't see what makes him come here. I don't believe his business brings him in three hundred dollars a year." "That's the very reason, Frank. He has money enough, and doesn't mind if business is dull. He generously offered to pay--or was it help pay?--the expenses of your education; but I told him that you didn't need it." "If I did, I wouldn't take it from him. But what you tell me surprises me, mother. He doesn't look as if he was worth five hundred dollars in the world. What made him tell you all this?" "He said that some people would accuse him of being a fortune-hunter, and he wanted to convince me that he was not one." "It may be a true story, and it may not," said Frank. "You are really very unjust, Frank," said his mother. "I don't pretend to love Mr. Craven, and he doesn't expect it, but I am sure he has been very kind, and he takes a great deal of interest in you, and you will learn to know him better." "When you are married to him?" "Yes." "Mother," exclaimed Frank, impetuously, "don't marry this man! Let us live alone, as we have done. We don't want any third person to come in, no matter who he is. I'll take care of you." "You are only a boy, Frank." "But I am already fifteen. I shall soon be a man at any rate, and I am sure we can get along as well as we have done." Mrs. Hunter was not a strong or a resolute woman, but even women of her type can be obstinate at times. She had convinced herself, chiefly through Mr. Craven's suggestion, that the step she was about to take was for Frank's interest, and the thought pleased her that she was sacrificing herself for him. The fact that she didn't fancy Mr. Craven, of course heightened the sacrifice, and so Frank found her far more difficult of persuasion than he anticipated. She considered that he was but a boy and did not understand his own interests, but would realize in future the wisdom of her conduct. "I have given my promise, Frank," she said. "But you can recall it." "It would not be right. My dear Frank, why can you not see this matter as I do? I marry for your sake." "Then, mother, I have the right to ask you not to do it. It will make me unhappy." "Frank, you do not know what is best. You are too young." "Then you are quite determined, mother?" asked Frank, sadly. "I cannot draw back now, Frank. I--I hope you won't make me unhappy by opposing it." "I won't say another word, mother, since you have made up your mind," said Frank, slowly. "When is it going to be?" "I do not know yet. Mr. Craven wants it to be soon." "You will let me know when it is decided, mother?" "Certainly, Frank." He left the room sad at heart. He felt that for him home would soon lose its charms, and that he would never get over the repugnance which he felt against his future step-father. CHAPTER IV. MR. CRAVEN'S FOUR-LEGGED ENEMY. Mr. Craven sought his office in a self-complacent mood. "By Jove!" he said to himself, "I'm in luck. It's lucky I thought to tell her that I was rich. I wish somebody would come along and buy that Lake Superior mining stock at five cents on a dollar," he soliloquized, laughing softly; "and if he'd be good enough to let me know whereabouts that house in New York is, I should feel very much obliged. However, she believes it, and that's enough. No, on the whole, it isn't quite enough, for I must have some ready money to buy a wedding suit, as well as to pay for my wedding tour. I can't very well call upon Mrs. Craven that is to be for that. Once married, I'm all right." The result of these cogitations was that having first secured Mrs. Hunter's consent to a marriage at the end of two months, he went to New York to see how he could solve the financial problem. He went straightway to a dingy room in Nassau Street, occupied by an old man as shabby as the apartment he occupied. Yet this old man was a capitalist, who had for thirty years lent money at usurious interest, taking advantage of a tight money market and the needs of embarrassed men, and there are always plenty of the latter class in a great city like New York. In this way he had accumulated a large fortune, without altering his style of living. He slept in a small room connected with his office, and took his meals at some one of the cheap restaurants in the neighborhood. He was an old man, of nearly seventy, with bent form, long white beard, face seamed with wrinkles, and thick, bushy eyebrows, beneath which peered a pair of sharp, keen eyes. Such was Job Green, the money-lender. "Good morning," said Mr. Craven, entering his office. "Good morning, Mr. Craven," answered the old man. He had not met his visitor for a long time, but he seldom forgot a face. "I haven't seen you for years." "No, I'm living in the country now." "In the country?" "Yes, in the town of Shelby, fifty miles from the city." "Aha! you have retired on a fortune?" inquired the old man, waggishly. "Not yet, but I shall soon, I hope." "Indeed!" returned Job, lifting his eyebrows as he emphasized the word. "Then you find business better in the country than in the city?" "Business doesn't amount to much." "Then how will you retire on the fortune, Mr. Craven? I really should like to know. Perhaps I might move out there myself." "I don't think, Mr. Green," said Craven, with his soft smile, "you would take the same course to step into a fortune." "And why not?" inquired the old man, innocently. "Because I am to marry a rich widow," said Mr. Craven. "Aha! that is very good," said Job, laughing. "Marrying isn't exactly in my line, to be sure. Who is the lucky woman?" "I will tell you, Mr. Green, for I want you to help me in the matter." "How can I help you? You don't want money if you are going to marry a fortune," said Job, beginning to be suspicious that this was a story trumped up to deceive him. "Yes, I do, and I will tell you why. She thinks I am rich." "And marries you for your money? Aha! that is very good," and the man laughed. "I told her I owned twenty thousand dollars' worth of stock in a Lake Superior mine." "Very good." "And a fifteen-thousand-dollar house in this city." "Oh, you droll dog! You'll kill me with laughing, Mr. Craven; I shall certainly choke," and old Job, struck with the drollness of regarding the man before him as a capitalist, laughed till he was seized with a coughing spell. "Well, well, Craven, you're a genius," said Job, recovering himself. "You wouldn't--ha! ha!--like to have me advance you a few thousand on the mines, would you now, or take a mortgage on the house?" "Yes, I would." "I'll give you a check on the bank of Patagonia, shall I?" "I see you will have your joke, Mr. Green. But I do want some money, and I'll tell you why. You see I am to be married in two months, and I must have a new suit of clothes, and go on a wedding tour. That'll cost me two or three hundred dollars." "Ask Mrs. Craven for the money." "I would, if she were Mrs. Craven, but it won't do to undeceive her too soon." "You don't expect me to furnish the money, Craven, do you?" "Yes, I do." "What security have you to offer?" "The security of my marriage." "Are you sure there is to be a marriage?" demanded Job, keenly. "Tell me, now, is the rich widow a humbug to swindle me out of my money? Aha! Craven, I have you." "No, you haven't, Mr. Green," said Craven, earnestly. "It's a real thing; it's a Mrs. Hunter of Shelby; her husband died two years ago." "How much money has she got?" "Sixty thousand dollars." "What, in her own right?" "Why, there's a son--a boy of fifteen," said Mr. Craven, reluctantly. "Aha! Well how much has he got of this money?" "I'll tell you the plain truth, Mr. Green. He is to have two-thirds when he comes of age. His mother has the balance, and enjoys the income of the whole, of course providing for him till that time." "That's good," said Job, thoughtfully. "Of course, what she has I shall have," added Craven. "To tell the truth," he continued, smiling softly, "I shan't spoil the young gentleman by indulgence when he is my step-son. I shan't waste much of his income on him." "Perhaps the mother will raise a fuss," suggested Job. "No, she won't. She's a weak, yielding woman. I can turn her round my finger." "Well, what do you want then?" "I want three hundred and fifty dollars for ninety days." "And suppose I let you have it?" "I will pay you five hundred. That will allow fifty dollars a month for the loan." "But you see, Craven, she might give you the slip. There's a risk about it." "Come to Shelby yourself, and make all the inquiries you see fit. Then you will see that I have spoken the truth, and there is no risk at all." "Well, well, perhaps I will. If all is right, I may let you have the money." Two days afterward the old man came to Shelby, stipulating that his traveling expenses should be paid by Craven. He inquired around cautiously, and was convinced that the story was correct. Finally he agreed to lend the money, but drove a harder bargain than first proposed--exacting six hundred dollars in return for his loan of three hundred and fifty. It was outrageous, of course, but he knew how important it was to Mr. Craven, and that he must consent. Frank, according to his determination, said not a word further to his mother about the marriage. He avoided mentioning Mr. Craven's name even. But an incident about this time, though Frank was quite innocent in the matter, served to increase Mr. Craven's dislike for him. He had spent the evening with Mrs. Hunter, and was about to leave the house when a watch-dog, which Frank had just purchased, sprang upon him, and, seizing him by the coat-tails, shook him fiercely. Mr. Craven disliked dogs, and was thoroughly frightened. He gave a loud shriek, and tried to escape, but the dog held on grimly. "Help, help!" he shrieked, at the top of his voice. Frank heard the cry from the house, and ran out. At this juncture he managed to break away from the dog, and made a rush for the garden wall. "Down, Pompey! Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" said Frank, sternly, seizing the dog by the collar. "I am very sorry, Mr. Craven," he added. Mr. Craven turned wild with rage, and his soft voice trembled as he said: "Really, Frank, it is hardly fair to your visitors to keep such a fierce animal about." "He didn't know you, sir. To-morrow I will make you acquainted, and then there will be no danger of this occurring again." "I really hope not," said Craven, laughing rather discordantly. "I hope he hasn't bitten you, sir." "No, but he has torn my coat badly. However, it's of no consequence. Accidents will happen." "He takes it very well," thought Frank, as Mr. Craven said good-night. But it was by a strong effort that his future step-father had done so. "Curse the dog!" he said to himself, with suppressed passion. "After I am married and fairly settled down, I will shoot him. Thus I will spite the boy and revenge myself on the brute at the same time." CHAPTER V. MR. CRAVEN'S RETURN. Mr. Craven called the next day, as usual. Frank apologized again for Pompey's rude treatment of the evening previous, and, as far as he could, established friendly relations between the parties. Pompey, who had nothing vicious about him, and was only anxious to do his duty, looked meek and contrite, and Mr. Craven, to all appearance, had quite forgiven him. "Good dog!" he exclaimed, patting Pompey's head. "Say no more about it, Frank," he said, in his usual soft voice; "it was only an accident. I foresee that Pompey and I will be excellent friends in future." "I hope your coat isn't much torn, sir." "It can easily be repaired. It isn't worth mentioning. Is your mother at home." "Yes, sir. Walk in." "He behaves very well about it," thought Frank. "He may be a better man than I thought. I wish I could like him, as he is to be my step-father; but I think there are some persons it is impossible to like." So the time passed, and the wedding-day drew near. Frank did not consider it honorable to make any further objection to the marriage, though he often sighed as he thought of the stranger who was about to be introduced into their small circle. "Mother will seem different to me when she is that man's wife," he said to himself. "I shall love her as much, but she won't seem to belong to me as much as she did." In due time the wedding was celebrated. Mrs. Hunter wished it to be quiet, and Mr. Craven interposed no objection. Quiet or not, he felt that the substantial advantages of the union would be his all the same. Mrs. Hunter looked a little nervous during the ceremony, but Mr. Craven was smiling and suave as ever. When he kissed his wife, saluting her as Mrs. Craven, she shuddered a little, and with difficulty restrained her tears, for it reminded her of her first marriage, so different from this, in which she wedded a man to whom she was devoted in heart and soul. The ceremony took place at eleven o'clock, and the newly-wedded pair started on a tour as previously arranged. So for two weeks Frank and Katy O'Grady were left alone in the house. Katy was a privileged character, having been in the family ever since Frank was a baby, and she had no hesitation in declaring her opinion of Mr. Craven. "What possessed the mistress to marry such a mane specimen of a man, I can't tell," she said. "I don't like him myself," said Frank; "but we must remember that he's my mother's husband now, and make the best of him." "And a mighty poor best it will be," said Katy. "There you go again, Katy!" "I can't help it, shure. It vexes me intirely that my dear mistress should throw herself away on such a man." "What can't be cured must be endured, you know. You mustn't talk that way after Mr. Craven comes back." "And what for will I not. Do you think I'm afraid of him?" asked Katy, defiantly. "If he is a man, I could bate him in a square fight." "I don't know but you could, Katy," said Frank, glancing at the muscular arms and powerful frame of the handmaiden; "but I really hope you won't get into a fight," he added, smiling. "It wouldn't look well, you know." "Then he'd better not interfare wid me," said Katy, shaking her head. "You must remember that he will be master of the house, Katy." "But he sha'n't be master of Katy O'Grady," said that lady, in a very decided tone. "I don't suppose you'll have much to do with him," said Frank. He sympathized with Katy more than he was willing to acknowledge, and wondered how far Mr. Craven would see fit to exercise the authority of a step-father. He meant to treat him with the respect due to his mother's husband, but to regard him as a father was very repugnant to him. But he must be guided by circumstances, and he earnestly hoped that he would be able to live peacefully and harmoniously with Mr. Craven. Days passed, and at length Frank received a dispatch, announcing the return home. "They will be home to-night, Katy," he said. "I'll be glad to see your mother, shure," said Katy, "but I wish that man wasn't comin' wid her." "But we know he is, and we must treat him with respect." "I don't feel no respect for him." "You must not show your feelings, then, for my mother's sake." At five o'clock the stage deposited Mr. and Mrs. Craven at the gate. Frank ran to his mother, and was folded in her embrace. Then he turned to Mr. Craven, who was standing by, with his usual smile, showing his white teeth. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey, sir," he said. "Thank you, Frank, it has been very pleasant, but we are glad to get home, are we not, my dear?" "I am very glad," said Mrs. Craven, thankfully, and she spoke the truth; for though Mr. Craven had been all attention (he had not yet thought it prudent to show himself in his true colors), there being no tie of affection between them, she had grown inexpressibly weary of the soft voice and artificial smile of her new husband, and had yearned for the companionship of Frank, and even her faithful handmaiden, Katy O'Grady, who was standing on the lawn to welcome her, and only waiting till Frank had finished his welcome. "How do you do, Katy," said her mistress. "I'm well, mum, thankin' you for askin', and I'm mighty glad to see you back." "I hope you are glad to see me also, Katy," said Mr. Craven, but his soft voice and insinuating smile didn't melt the hostility of Miss O'Grady. "I'm glad you've brought the mistress home safe," she said, with a low bow; "we've missed her from morning till night, sure; haven't we, Master Frank?" "I see she isn't my friend," thought Mr. Craven. "She'd better change her tune, or she won't stay long in my house." He had already begun to think of himself as the sole proprietor of the establishment, and his wife as an unimportant appendage. "I hope you have some supper for us, Katy," said he, not choosing at present to betray his feelings, "for I am quite sure Mrs. Craven and myself have a good appetite." "Mrs. Craven!" repeated Katy, in pretended ignorance. "Oh, you mean the mistress, sure." "Of course I do," said Mr. Craven, with a frown, for once betraying himself. "Supper is all ready, ma'am," said Katy, turning to Mrs. Craven. "It'll be ready as soon as you've took off your things." When they sat down to the table, Frank made a little mistake. He had always been accustomed to sit at the head of the table, opposite his mother, and on the frequent occasions of Mr. Craven's taking a meal there during the engagement, the latter had taken the visitor's place at the side. So to-night, without thinking of the latter's new relations to him, Frank took his old place. Mr. Craven noticed it, and soft and compliant as he was, he determined to assert his position at once. "I believe that is my place," he said, with an unpleasant smile. "Oh, I beg pardon," said Frank, his face flushing. "You forgot, I suppose," said Mr. Craven, still smiling. "Yes, sir." "You'll soon get used to the change," said his step-father, as he seated himself in the chair Frank had relinquished. Mrs. Craven looked a little uncomfortable. She began to realize that she had introduced a stranger into the family, and that this would interfere to a considerable extent with their old pleasant way of living. No one seemed inclined to talk except Mr. Craven. He seemed disposed to be sociable, and passed from one subject to another, regardless of the brief answers he received. "Well, Frank, and how have you got along since we were away?" he asked. "Very well, sir." "And you haven't missed us then?" "I have missed my mother, and should have missed you," he added politely, "if you had been accustomed to live here." "And how is Pompey?" asked Mr. Craven, again showing his teeth. "The same as usual. I wonder he was not out on the lawn to receive you and my mother." "I hope he wouldn't receive me in the same way as he did once," said Mr. Craven, again displaying his teeth. "No danger, sir. He didn't know you then." "That's true, but I will take care that he knows me now," said Mr. Craven, softly. "I think he will remember you, sir; he is a good dog, and very peaceable unless he thinks there are improper persons about." "I hope he didn't think me an improper person," said Mr. Craven. "No fear, sir." Frank wondered why Mr. Craven should devote so much time to Pompey, but he was destined to be enlightened very soon. CHAPTER VI. THE DIFFICULTY OF KILLING A DOG. If Frank supposed that Mr. Craven had forgotten or forgiven Pompey's attack upon him, he was mistaken. Within a week after Mr. Craven had been established as a permanent member of the household, Katy, looking out of the kitchen window, saw him advancing stealthily to a corner of the back yard with a piece of raw meat in his hand. He dropped it on the ground, and then, with a stealthy look around, he withdrew hastily. "What is he doin', sure?" said the astonished Katy to herself; then, with a flash of intelligence, she exclaimed, "I know what he manes, the dirty villain! The meat is p'isoned, and it's put there to kill the dog. But he shan't do it, not if Katy O'Grady can prevint him." The resolute handmaid rushed to the pantry, cut off a piece of the meat meant for the morrow's breakfast, and carrying it out into the yard, was able, unobserved by Mr. Craven, to substitute it for the piece he had dropped. This she brought into the kitchen, and lifting it to her nose, smelled it. It might have been Katy's imagination, but she thought she detected an uncanny smell. "It's p'isoned, sure!" she said. "I smell it plain; but it shan't harm poor Pomp! I'll put it where it'll never do any harm." She wrapped it in a paper, and carrying it out into the garden, dug a hole in which she deposited it. "Won't the ould villain be surprised when he sees the dog alive and well to morrow morning?" she said to herself, with exultation. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Craven, from an upper window, had the satisfaction of seeing the dog greedily eating what he supposed would be his last meal on earth. "That'll fix him!" he muttered, smiling viciously. "He won't attack me again very soon. Young impudence will never know what hurt the brute. That's the way I mean to dispose of my enemies." Probably Mr. Craven did not mean exactly what might be inferred from his remarks, but he certainly intended to revenge himself on all who were unwise enough to oppose him. Mr. Craven watched Pompey till he had consumed the last morsel of the meat, and then retired from the window, little guessing that his scheme had been detected and baffled. The next morning he got up earlier than usual, on purpose to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his four-footed enemy stretched out stiff and stark. What was his astonishment to see the dog jumping over a stick at the command of his young master. Had he suddenly seen Pompey's ghost (supposing dogs to have ghosts), he could scarcely have been more astonished or dismayed. "Goodness gracious! that dog must have a cast-iron constitution!" he said to himself. "There was enough strychnine on that meat to kill ten men. I don't understand it at all." "He looks as if his grandmother had died and left him nothin' at all in her will," said Katy to herself, slyly watching him out of the window. "The ould villain's disappinted sure, and it's Katy O'Grady he's got to thank for it, if he only knew it." "Good morning, sir," said Frank, for the first time noticing the presence of Mr. Craven. "Good morning, Frank," replied his step-father, opening his mouth with his customary smile. "Pompey seems lively this morning." "Yes, sir. I am teaching him to jump over this stick." "Good dog!" said Mr. Craven, patting him softly. "Oh, the ould hypocrite!" ejaculated Katy, who had slyly opened the window a trifle and heard what he said. "He tries to p'ison the poor creeter, and thin calls him good dog." Mr. Craven meanwhile was surveying Pompey curiously. "I certainly saw him eat the meat," he said to himself, "and I am sure it was tainted with a deadly poison. Yet here the dog is alive and well, after devouring every morsel of it. It is certainly the most curious case I ever heard of." Mr. Craven went into the house, and turned to the article on strychnine in an encyclopædia, but the statements he there found corroborated his previously formed opinion as to the deadly character and great strength of the poison. Pompey must certainly be an extraordinary dog. Mr. Craven was puzzled. Meanwhile Katy said to herself: "Shall I tell Master Frank what Mr. Craven tried to do? Not yit. I'll wait a bit, and while I'm waitin' I'll watch. He don't suspect that Katy O'Grady's eyes are on him, the villain!" It may not be considered suitable generally for a maid-of-all-work to speak of her employer as a villain; but then Katy had some grounds for her use of this term, and being a lady very decided in her language, it is not singular that such should have been her practice. Notwithstanding the apparent superiority of Pompey's constitution to the deadliest poison, Mr. Craven's murderous intent was by no means laid aside. He concluded to try another method of getting him out of the way. He had a pistol in his trunk, and he resolved to see if Pompey was bullet-proof as well as poison-proof. Three days later, therefore, when Frank was at school, and Mrs. Craven was in attendance at the house of a neighbor, at a meeting of the village sewing-circle, Mr. Craven slipped the pistol into his pocket and repaired to the back yard, where Pompey, as he anticipated, was stretched out in the sun, having a comfortable nap. "Pompey," said Mr. Craven, in a low tone, "come here. Good dog." Pompey walked up, and, grateful for attention, began to fawn upon the man who sought to lure him to death. "Good dog! Fine fellow!" repeated Mr. Craven, stroking him. Pompey seemed to be gratefully appreciative of the kindness. Low and soft as were his tones--for he did not wish to attract any attention--Mr. Craven was overheard. Katy O'Grady's ears were sharp, and at the first sound she drew near to the window, where, herself unobserved, she was an eye and ear witness of Mr. Craven's blandishments. "What is the ould villain doin' now?" she said to herself. "Is he going to thry p'isonin' him again?" But no piece of meat was produced. Mr. Craven had other intentions. "Come here, Pompey," said he, soothingly; "follow me, sir." So saying, he rose and beckoned the dog to follow him. Pompey rose, stretching his limbs, and obediently trotted after his deadly foe. "Where's he takin' him to?" thought Katy. "He manes mischief, I'll be bound. The misthress is gone, and Master Frank's gone, and he thinks there ain't nobody to interfere. Katy O'Grady, you must go after him and see what he's up to." Katy was in the midst of her work, but she didn't stop for that. She had in her hand a glass tumbler, which she had been in the act of wiping, but she didn't think to put it down. Throwing her apron over her head, she followed Mr. Craven at a little distance. He made his way into a field in the rear of the house. She went in the same direction, but on the other side of a stone wall which divided it from a neighboring field. From time to time she could catch glimpses, through the loosely laid rocks, of her employer, and she could distinctly hear what he was saying. "My friend Pompey," he said, with a smile full of deadly meaning, "you are going to your death, though you don't know it. That was a bad job for you when you attacked me, my four-footed friend. You won't be likely to trouble me much longer." "What's he going to do to him?" thought Katy; "it's not p'ison, for he hasn't got any meat. May be it's shootin' him he manes." Mr. Craven went on. "Poison doesn't seem to do you any harm, but I fancy you can't stand powder and ball quite so well." "Yes, he's goin' to shoot him. What will I do?" thought Katy. "I'm afraid I can't save the poor creetur's life." By this time Mr. Craven had got so far that he considered it very unlikely that the report of the pistol would be heard at the house. He stopped short, and, with a look of triumphant malice, drew the pistol from his pocket. Pompey stood still, and looked up in his face. "How can he shoot the poor creetur, and him lookin' up at him so innocent?" thought Katy. "What will I do? Oh, I know--I'll astonish him a little." Mr. Craven was just pointing the pistol at Pompey, when Katy flung the tumbler with force against his hat, which rolled off. In his fright at the unexpected attack, the pistol went off, but its contents were lodged in a tree near by, and Pompey was unhurt. Mr. Craven looked around him with startled eyes, but he could not see Katy crouching behind the wall, nor did he understand from what direction the missile had come. CHAPTER VII. MISS O'GRADY'S VICTORY. Crouching behind the stone wall, Katy enjoyed the effect of what she had done. She particularly enjoyed the bewildered look, of Mr. Craven, who, bare-headed, looked on this side and on that, unable to conjecture who had thrown the missile. Pompey, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, walked up to the tumbler and smelt of it. This attracted the attention of Mr. Craven, who stooped and picked it up. His bewilderment increased. If it had been a stone, he would have understood better, but how a tumbler should have found its way here as a missile was incomprehensible. It slowly dawned upon him that the person who threw it must be somewhere near. Then again, on examining it further, he began to suspect that it was one of his wife's tumblers, and he jumped to the conclusion that it was Frank who threw it. "If it is he, I'll wring his neck!" he murmured, revengefully. "I mean to find out." "Pompey," he said, calling the dog, "do you see this tumbler?" Pompey wagged his tail. "Who threw it?" Pompey looked up, as if for instructions. "Go find him!" said Mr. Craven, in a tone of command. The dog seemed to understand, for he put his nose to the ground and began to run along, as if in search. "Oh, murther! What if he finds me?" thought Katy, crouching a little lower. "Won't he be mad, jist?" Katy might have crawled away unobserved, very possibly, if she had started as soon as the missile was thrown. Now, that dog and man were both on the lookout, escape was cut off. "Will he find me?" Katy asked herself, with some anxiety. The question was soon answered. Pompey jumped over the wall, and a joyous bark announced his discovery. He knew Katy, and seemed to fancy that she had concealed herself in joke. He jumped upon her, and wagged his tail intelligently, as if to say: "You see, I've found you out, after all." Mr. Craven hurried to the wall, eagerly expecting to detect Frank in the person concealed. He started back in astonishment as Katy O'Grady rose and faced him. Then he became wrathful, as he realized that his own hired servant had had the audacity to fling a tumbler at his hat. "What brings you out here, Katy?" he demanded, with a frown. "Shure, sir," said Katy, nonchalantly, "I was tired wid stayin' in the hot kitchen, and I thought I'd come out and take the air jist." "And so you neglected the work." "The worruk will be done; niver you mind about that." "Did you fling this tumbler at my head?" demanded Mr. Craven, sternly. "Let me look at it, sir." Katy looked at it scrutinizingly, and made answer: "Very likely, sir." "Don't you know?" "I wouldn't swear it was the same one, sir, but it looks like it." "Then you admit throwing a tumbler at my head, do you?" "No, sir." "Didn't you say you did just now?" "I threw it at your hat." "It is the same thing. How came you to have the cursed impudence to do such a thing?" asked her master, wrathfully. "Because you was goin' to shoot the dog," said Katy, coolly. "Suppose I was, is it any business of yours?" "The dog doesn't belong to you, Mr. Craven. It belongs to Master Frank." "I don't think it expedient for him to keep such an ill-natured brute around." "He calls you a brute, Pomp," said Katy, caressing Pompey--"you that's such a good dog. It's a shame!" "Catherine," said Mr. Craven, with outraged dignity, "your conduct is very improper. You have insulted me." "By the powers, how did I do it?" asked Katy, with an affectation of innocent wonder. "It was an insult to throw that tumbler at my head. I might order the constable to arrest you." "I'd like to see him thry it!" said Katy, putting her arms akimbo in such a resolute fashion that Mr. Craven involuntarily stepped back slightly. "Are you aware that I am your master?" continued Mr. Craven, severely. "No, I'm not," answered Katy, promptly. "You are a servant in my house." "No, I'm not. The house don't belong to you at all, sir. It belongs to my mistress and Master Frank." "That's the same thing. According to the law, I am in control of their property," said Mr. Craven, resolved upon a master-stroke which, he felt confident, would overwhelm his adversary. "After the great impropriety of which you have been guilty this afternoon, I discharge you from my employment." "You discharge me!" exclaimed Katy, with incredulous scorn. "I discharge you, and I desire you to leave the house to-morrow." "You discharge me!" repeated Katy, with a ringing laugh. "That's a good one." Mr. Craven's cadaverous face colored with anger. "If you don't go quietly, I'll help you out," he added, incautiously. "Come on, then," said Katy, assuming a warlike attitude. "Come on, then, and we'll see whether you can put out Katy O'Grady." "Your impudence will not avail you. I am determined to get rid of you." "And do ye think I'm goin' to lave the house, and my ould misthress, and Master Frank, at the orders of such an interloper as you, Mr. Craven?" she cried, angrily. "I don't propose to multiply words about it," said Mr. Craven, with an assumption of dignity. "If you had behaved well, you might have stayed. Now you must go." "Must I?" sniffed Katy, indignantly. "Must I, indade?" "Yes, you must, and the less fuss you make about it the better." Mr. Craven supposed that he had the decided advantage, and that Katy, angry as she was, would eventually succumb to his authority. But he did not know the independent spirit of Catherine O'Grady, whose will was quite as resolute as his own. "And ye think I'm goin' at your word--I that's been in the family since Master Frank was a baby?" "I am sorry for you, Katy," said Mr. Craven, in triumphant magnanimity. "But I cannot permit a servant to remain in my house who is guilty of the gross impropriety of insulting me." "I know why you want to get rid of me," said Katy, nodding her head vigorously. "Why?" asked Craven, with some curiosity. "You want to p'ison the dog." Mr. Craven started. How had his secret leaked out? "What do you mean?" "Mane! I mane that I saw you lavin' the p'isoned mate for the dog three days agone, and if it hadn't been for me he'd have eaten it, and the poor creetur would be stiff in death." "He did eat it. I saw him," said Mr. Craven, hastily. "No, he didn't. It wasn't the same mate!" said Katy, triumphantly. "What was it, then?" "It was a piece I cut off and carried out to him," said Katy. "The other I wrapped up in a piece of paper, and buried it in the field." Mr. Craven's eyes were opened. Pompey's cast-iron constitution was explained. After all, he was not that natural phenomenon which Mr. Craven had supposed him to be. But he was angry at Katy's interference no less. "Say no more," he said. "You must go. You have no right to interfere with my plans." "Say no more? Won't I be tellin' the misthress and Master Frank how you tried to kill the poor dog, first with p'ison, and nixt wid a pistol?" There was something in this speech that made Mr. Craven hesitate and reflect. He knew that Katy's revelation would provoke Frank, and make him an enemy, and he feared the boy's influence on his mother, particularly as he was concocting plans for inducing his wife to place some of her money in his hand under pretext of a new investment. He must be careful not to court hostile influences, and after all, he resolved to bear with Katy, much as he disliked her. "On the whole, Katy," he said, after a pause, "I will accept your apology, and you may stay." "My apology!" said Katy, in astonishment. "Yes, your explanation. I see your motives were good, and I will think no more about it. You had better not mention this matter to Mrs. Craven or Frank, as it might disturb them." "And won't you try to kill Pomp agin?" asked Katy. "No; I dislike dogs, especially as they are apt to run mad, but as Frank is attached to Pompey, I won't interfere. You had better take this tumbler and wash it, as it is uninjured." "All right, sir," said Katy, who felt that she had gained a victory, although Mr. Craven assumed that it was his. "I am very glad you are so devoted to your mistress," said Mr. Craven, who had assumed his old suavity. "I shall propose to her to increase your wages." "He's a mighty quare man!" thought the bewildered Katy, as she hurried back to her work, followed by Pompey. CHAPTER VIII. FRANK IS OBSTINATE. Mr. Craven had as yet gained nothing from his marriage. He was itching to get possession of his wife's property. Then his next step would be Frank's more considerable property. He was beginning to be low in pocket, and in the course of a month or so Mr. Green's note for six hundred dollars would fall due. He knew enough of that estimable gentleman to decide that it must be met, and, of course, out of his wife's money. "My dear," he said one day, after breakfast, Frank being on his way to school, "I believe I told you before our marriage that I had twenty thousand dollars invested in Lake Superior mines." "Yes, Mr. Craven, I remember it." "It is a very profitable investment," continued her husband. "What per cent. do you think it pays me?" "Ten per cent.," guessed Mrs. Craven. "More than that. During the last year it has paid me twenty per cent." "That is a great deal," said his wife, in surprise. "To be sure it is, but not at all uncommon. You, I suppose, have not got more than seven or eight per cent. for your money?" "Only six per cent." Mr. Craven laughed softly, as if to say, "What a simpleton you must be!" "I didn't know about these investments," said his wife. "I don't know much about business." "No, no. I suppose not. Few women do. Well, my dear, the best thing you can do is to empower me to invest your money for you in future." "If you think it best," said Mrs. Craven. "Certainly; it is my business to invest money. And, by the way, the income of Frank's property is paid to you, I believe." "Yes." "He does not come into possession till twenty-one." "That was his father's direction." "And a very proper one. He intended that you should have the benefit of the income, which is, of course, a good deal more than Frank needs till he comes of age." "I thought perhaps I ought to save up the surplus for Frank," said Mrs. Craven, hesitating. "That is not necessary. Frank is amply provided for. He might be spoiled by too much money." "I don't think so. Frank is an excellent boy," said his mother, warmly. "So he is," said Mr. Craven. "He has a noble, generous disposition, and for that very reason is more liable to be led astray." "I hope he won't be led astray. I should feel wretched if I thought anything would befall him," said his mother, shuddering. "We will look after him; we will see that he goes straight," said Mr. Craven, cheerfully. "But I wanted to suggest, my dear, that it would be proper that I should be appointed joint guardian with you." "I am not sure whether Frank will like it," said his mother, who was aware that Frank, though scrupulously polite to his step-father, had no cordial liking or respect for him. "As to that, my dear, I count upon you exerting your influence in the matter. If you recommend it he will yield." "Don't you think it just as well as it is?" said Mrs. Craven, hesitatingly. "Of course, we shall go to you for counsel and advice in anything important." "You don't seem to have confidence in me," said Mr. Craven, with an injured air. "I hope you won't think that, Mr. Craven," said his wife, hastily. "How can I help it? You know my interest in Frank, yet you are unwilling to have me associated in the guardianship." "I didn't say I objected. I said Frank might." "You are not willing to urge him to favor the measure." "You misunderstand me. Yes, I will," said yielding Mrs. Craven. "Thank you, my dear," said Mr. Craven, with one of his most unctuous smiles. "I was quite sure you would do me justice in the end. By the way, what disposition is made of Frank's property if he does not live to come of age?" "You--you don't think he is likely to be taken away?" said Mrs. Craven, in distress. "You are a goose," said her husband, laughing softly. "Of course not. But then we are all mortal. Frank is strong, and will, I hope, live to smooth our dying pillows. But, of course, however improbable, the contingency is to be thought of." "I believe the property comes to me in that case, but I am sure I should not live to enjoy it." "My dear, don't make yourself miserable about nothing. Our boy is strong, and has every prospect of reaching old age. But it is best to understand clearly how matters stand. By the way, you need not say anything about the guardianship to him till I tell you." Mrs. Craven not only complied with this request, but she surrendered to Mr. Craven the entire control of her money within an hour. She raised one or two timid objections, but these were overruled by her husband, and in the end she yielded. Mr. Craven was now in funds to pay the note held by Job Green, and this afforded him no little relief. A few evenings later, Frank was about to take his cap and go out, when Mr. Craven stopped him. "Frank," he said, "if you have no important engagement, your mother and I desire to speak to you on a matter of some consequence." "I was only going to call on one of my friends," said Frank. "I will defer that and hear what you have to say." "Thank you," said Mr. Craven, smiling sweetly. "I wished to speak to you on the subject of your property." "Very well, sir." "Your mother is your guardian, she tells me." "Yes, sir." "The responsibilities of a guardian are very great," proceeded Mr. Craven, leaning back upon his chair. "Naturally there are some of them to which a woman cannot attend as well as a man." Frank began to understand what was coming, and, as it was not to his taste, he determined to declare himself at once. "I couldn't have a better guardian than my mother," he said. "Of course not. (I am afraid I shall find trouble with him, thought Mr. Craven.) Of course not. You couldn't possibly find any one as much interested in your welfare as your mother." "Certainly not, sir." "As your step-father, I naturally feel a strong interest in you, but I do not pretend to have the same interest as your mother." "I never expected you would, sir," said Frank, "and I don't want you to," he added, to himself. "But your mother is not used to business, and, as I said, the responsibilities of a guardian are great." "What do you propose, sir?" asked Frank, gazing at his step-father steadily. "Do you recommend me to change guardians--to give up my mother?" "No, by no means. It is best that your mother should retain the guardianship." "Then, sir, I don't quite understand what you mean." "I mean to suggest that it would be well for another to be associated in the guardianship, who might relieve your mother of a part of her cares and responsibilities." "I suppose you mean yourself, sir," said Frank. "Yes--ahem!" answered Mr. Craven, coughing softly, "as your step-father, it would naturally occur to your mind that I am the most suitable person. Your mother thinks as I do." "Do you want Mr. Craven to be guardian with you, mother?" asked Frank, turning to his mother. "Mr. Craven thinks it best," said his mother, in a little embarrassment. "He knows more about business matters than I do, and I have no doubt he is right." Frank understood that it was entirely Mr. Craven's idea, and something made it very repugnant to him. He did not want to be under the control of that man. Though he knew nothing to his disadvantage, he distrusted him. He had never ceased to regret that his mother married him, and he meant to have as little to do with him as politeness would permit. He answered, therefore: "I hope, Mr. Craven, that you won't be offended if I say that I don't wish any change in the guardianship. If another were to be added, I suppose it would be proper that you should be the one, but I am content with my mother as guardian, and wish no other." "I am afraid," said Mr. Craven, with a softness of tone which by no means accorded with his inward rage, "that you are unmindful of the care the sole guardianship will impose on your mother." "Has it been much care for you, mother?" asked Frank. "Not yet," said Mrs. Craven, hesitating, "but perhaps it may." "I suppose Mr. Craven will always be ready to give you advice if you need it," said Frank, though the suggestion was not altogether to his taste, "but I would rather have you only as my guardian." "Well, let us drop the subject," said Mr. Craven, gayly. "As you say, I shall always be ready to advise, if called upon. Now, my dear Frank, go to your engagement, I won't detain you any longer." But when Mr. Craven was alone, his countenance underwent a change. "That boy is a thorn in my side," he muttered, with compressed lips. "Sooner or later, he must be in my power, and his fortune under my control. Patience, Richard Craven! A dull-witted boy cannot defeat your plans!" CHAPTER IX. A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE. "How do you like your step-father, Frank," asked Ben Cameron as the two boys were walking home from school together. "You mean Mr. Craven?" "Of course. He is your step-father, isn't he?" "I suppose he is, but I don't like to think of him in that way." "Is he disagreeable, then?" "He treats me well enough," said Frank, slowly; "but, for all that, I dislike him. His appearance, his manners, his soft voice and stealthy ways are all disagreeable to me. As he is my mother's husband, I wish I could like him, but I can't." "I don't wonder at it, Frank. I don't fancy him myself." "Somehow, everything seems changed since he came. He seems to separate my mother from me." "Well, Frank, I suppose you must make the best of it. If he doesn't interfere with you, that is one good thing. Some step-fathers would, you know." "He hasn't, so far; but sometimes I fear that he will in the future." "Have you any reason for thinking so?" "A day or two since he called me, just as I was leaving the house to come and see you, and asked if I were willing to have him join with my mother as my guardian." "What did you say?" "That I didn't want any change. He said the responsibility was too great for a woman." "What answer did you make?" "That my mother could get as much help and advice as she needed, even if she were sole guardian." "Did he seem angry?" "Not at all. He turned it off very pleasantly, and said he would not detain me any longer." "Then why should you feel uneasy?" "I think there's something underhand about him. He seems to me like a cat that purrs and rubs herself against you, but has claws concealed, and is open to scratch when she gets ready." Ben laughed. "The comparison does you credit, Frank," said he. "There's something in it, too. Mr. Craven is like a cat--that is, in his ways; but I hope he won't show his claws." "When he does I shall be ready for him," said Frank, stoutly. "I am not afraid of him, but I don't like the idea of having such a person in the family." They had arrived at this point in the conversation when they were met by a tall man, of dark complexion, who was evidently a stranger in the village. In a small town of two thousand inhabitants, where every person is known to every other, a strange face attracts attention, and the boys regarded this man with curiosity. He paused as they neared him, and, looking from one to the other, inquired: "Can you direct me to Mr. Craven's office?" The two boys exchanged glances. Frank answered: "It is that small building on the left-hand side of the street, but I am not sure whether he is there yet." Curious to know how the boy came to know so much of Mr. Craven's movements, the stranger said: "Do you know him?" "Yes, sir; he is my step-father." It was the first time he had ever made the statement, and, true as he knew it to be, he made it with rising color and a strange reluctance. "Oh, indeed!" returned the stranger, looking very much surprised. "He is your step-father?" "Yes; he married my mother," said Frank, hurriedly. "Then you think he may not have come to the office yet?" "There he is, just opening the door," said Ben, pointing to Mr. Craven, who, unaware of the interest his appearance excited, was just opening the door of the office, in which he was really beginning to do a little business. His marriage to a woman of property, and the reports which had leaked out that he had a competence of his own, had inspired a degree of confidence in him which before had not existed. "Thank you," said the stranger. "As he is in, I will call upon him." CHAPTER X. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST FRANK. "So he's married again, the sly villain!" muttered the stranger, as, after leaving the boys, he proceeded on his way to Mr. Craven's office. "That will be good news for my sister, won't it? And so that's his step-son? A nice-looking, well-dressed boy. Likely Craven has feathered his nest, and married a fortune. If so, all the better. I may get a few feathers for my own nest, if I work my cards right." Meanwhile Mr. Craven had seated himself at an office table, and was looking over a paper of instructions, having been commissioned to write a will for one of the town's people. He had drawn out a printed form, and had just dipped his pen in the ink, when a knock was heard at the outer door that opened upon the street. "I suppose it's Mr. Negley, come for the will. He'll have to wait," thought Craven, and as the thought passed through his mind, he said, "Come in!" The door opened. He mechanically raised his eyes, and his glance rested upon the man whom we have introduced in the last chapter. A remarkable change came over Mr. Craven's face. First surprise, then palpable dismay, drove the color from his cheeks, and he stood up in silent consternation. The other appeared to enjoy the sensation caused by his arrival, and laughed. "Why, man, you look as if I were a ghost. No such thing. I'm alive and well, and delighted to see you again," he added, significantly. "By Jove, I've had hard work finding you, but here I am, you see." "How--did--you--find--me?" asked Craven, huskily. "How did I find you? Well, I got upon your tracks in New York. Never mind how, as long as I have found you. Well, have you no welcome for me?" "What do you want of me?" asked Mr. Craven, sullenly. "What do I want of you?" echoed the other, with a laugh. "Why, considering the relationship between us--" Mr. Craven's pallor increased, and he shifted his position uneasily. "Considering the relationship between us, it is only natural that I should want to see you." He paused, but Mr. Craven did not offer any reply. "By the way, your wife is very uneasy at your long absence," continued the newcomer, fixing his eyes steadily upon the shrinking Craven. "For Heaven's sake stop, or speak lower!" exclaimed Craven, exhibiting the greatest alarm. "Come, now, Craven, is any allusion to your wife so disagreeable? Considering that she is my sister, it strikes me that I shall have something to say on that subject." "Don't allude to her, Sharpley," said the other, doggedly. "I shall never see her again. We--we didn't live happily, and are better apart." "You may think so, but do you think I am going to have my sister treated in this way--deserted and scorned?" "I can't help it," was the dogged reply. "You can't? Why not?" And the man addressed as Sharpley fixed his eyes upon his brother-in-law. "Why do you come here to torment me?" said Craven, fiercely, brought to bay. "Why can't you leave me alone? Your sister is better off without me. I never was a model husband." "That is where you are right, Craven; but, hark you!" he added, bending forward, "do you think we are going to stand by and do nothing while you are in the enjoyment of wealth and the good things of life?" "Wealth? What do you mean?" stammered Craven. The other laughed slightly. "Do you take me for a mole? Did you suppose I wouldn't discover that you are married again, and that your marriage has brought you money?" "So you have found it out?" said Mr. Craven, whose worst apprehensions were now confirmed. "I met your step-son a few minutes ago, and he directed me here." "Did you tell him?" asked Craven, in dismay. "Tell him? No, not yet. I wanted to see you first." "I'm glad you didn't. He doesn't like me. It would be all up with me if you had." "Don't be frightened, Craven. It may not be so bad as you think. We may be able to make some friendly arrangement. Tell me about it, and then we'll consult together. Only don't leave anything untold. Situated as we are, I demand your entire confidence." Here the door opened, and Mr. Negley appeared. "Have you finished that 'ere dokkyment, Mr. Craven?" asked the old-fashioned farmer, to whom the name belonged. "No, Mr. Negley," said Mr. Craven, with his customary suavity, "not yet, I am sorry to say. I've had a great deal to do, and I am even now consulting with a client on an important matter. Could you wait till to-morrow?" "Sartain, Mr. Craven. I ain't in no hurry. Only, as I was passing, I thought I'd just inquire. Good mornin', squire." "Good morning, Mr. Negley." "So you are in the lawyer's line again, Craven?" said Sharpley. "You are turning to good account that eight months you spent in a law office in the old country?" "Yes, I do a little in that line." "Now, tell me all about this affair of yours. I don't want to ruin you. May be we can make an arrangement that will be mutually satisfactory." Thus adjured, and incited from time to time by questions from his visitor, Mr. Craven unfolded the particulars of his situation. "Well, the upshot of it is, Craven, that you've feathered your nest, and made yourself comfortable. That's all very well; but it seems to me, that your English wife has some rights in the matter." "You need not tell her," said Craven, hastily. "What good will it do?" "It won't do you any good, but it may benefit her and me." "How can it benefit 'her and me?' How can it benefit either of you, if I am found out, and obliged to flee from this place into penury?" "Why, not exactly in that way. In fact, I may feel disposed to let you alone, if you'll come down handsomely. The fact is, Craven, my circumstances are not over prosperous, and of course I don't forget that I have a rich brother-in-law." "You call me rich. You are mistaken. I get a living, but the money is my wife's." "If it is hers, you can easily get possession of it." "Only one-third of it belongs to her. Two-thirds belong to that boy you met--my step-son." "Suppose he dies?" "It goes to my wife." "Then you have some chance of it." "Not much; he is a stout, healthy boy." "Look here, Craven, you must make up your mind to do something for me. Give me a thousand dollars down." "I couldn't without my wife finding out. Besides you would be coming back for more." "Well, perhaps I might," said the other, coolly. "You would ruin me," exclaimed Craven, sullenly. "Do you think I am made of money?" "I know this--that it will be better for you to share your prosperity with me, and so insure not being disturbed. Half a loaf is better than no bread." Mr. Craven fixed his eyes upon the table, seriously disturbed. "How much is the boy worth?" asked Sharpley, after a pause. "Forty thousand dollars." "Forty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Sharpley, his eyes sparkling with greed. "That's splendid." "For him, yes. It doesn't do me any good." "Didn't you say, that in the event of his death the money would go to your wife?" "Yes." "He may die." "So may we. That's more likely. He's a stout boy, as you must have observed, since you have met him." "Life is uncertain. Suppose he should have a fever, or meet with an accident." "Suppose he shouldn't." "My dear Craven," said Sharpley, drawing his chair nearer that of his brother-in-law, "it strikes me that you are slightly obtuse, and you a lawyer, too. Fie upon you! My meaning is plain enough, it strikes me." "What do you mean?" inquired Craven, coloring, and shifting uneasily in his chair. "You wouldn't have me murder him, would you?" "Don't name such a thing. I only mean, that if we got a good opportunity to expose him to some sickness, and he happened to die of it, it would be money in our pockets." Craven looked startled, and his sallow face betrayed by its pallor his inward disturbance. "That is absurd," he said. "There is no chance of that here. If the boy should die I shouldn't mourn much, but he may live to eighty. There's not much chance of any pestilence reaching this town." "Perhaps so," said the other, shrugging his shoulders, "but then this little village isn't the whole world." "You seem to have some plan to propose," said Mr. Craven, eagerly. "What is it?" "I propose," said Sharpley, "that you send the boy to Europe with me." "To Europe?" "Yes; on a traveling tour, for his education, improvement, anything. Only send him under my paternal care, and--possibly he might never come back." Mr. Craven was not a scrupulous man, and this proposal didn't shock him as it should have done, but he was a timid man, and he could not suppress a tremor of alarm. "But isn't there danger in it?" he faltered. "Not if it is rightly managed," said Sharpley. "And how do you mean to manage it?" "Can't tell yet," answered the other, carelessly. "The thought has just occurred to me, and I have had no time to think it over. But that needn't trouble you. You can safely leave all that to me." Mr. Craven leaned his head on his hand and reflected. Here was a way out of two embarrassments. This plan offered him present safety and a continuance of his good fortune, with the chance of soon obtaining control of Frank's fortune. "Well, what do you say?" asked Sharpley. "I should like it well enough, but I don't know what my wife and the boy will say." "Has Mrs. Craven the--second--a will of her own?" "No, she is very yielding." "Doesn't trouble you, eh? By the way, what did she see in you, Craven, or my sister either, for that matter, to attract her? There's no accounting for tastes, surely." "That is not to the point," said Craven, impatiently. "You are right. That is not to the point. Suppose we come to the point, then. If your wife is not strong-minded she can be brought over, and the boy, if he is like most boys, will be eager to embrace the chance of visiting Europe, say for three months. It will be best, I suppose, that the offer should come from me. I'll tell you what you must do. Invite me to supper to-night and offer me a bed, and I'll lay the train. Shall it be so?" "Agreed," said Craven, and thus the iniquitous compact was made. CHAPTER XI. TRAPPED. "Mrs. Craven, I have pleasure in introducing to you one of my oldest friends, Colonel Sharpley." As this was the first friend of her husband who had come in her way, his wife regarded the stranger with some curiosity, which, however, was veiled by her quiet manner. "I am glad to meet a friend of yours, Mr. Craven," she said, offering her hand. "I have invited the colonel to supper, and pass the night with us, Mary." "I am glad you did so. I will see that a chamber is got ready." After she had left the room, Sharpley looked about him approvingly. "On my life, Craven, you are well provided for. This house is decidedly comfortable." "It is the best in the village," said Craven, complacently. "Evidently, your predecessor had taste as well as money. It is a pity that there is a little legal impediment in the way of your permanent enjoyment of all this luxury." "Hush, hush, Sharpley!" said Mr. Craven, nervously. "You might be heard." "So I might, and as that would interfere with my plans as well as yours, I will be careful. By the way, that's a good idea making me a colonel. It sounds well--Colonel Sharpley, eh? Let me see. I'll call myself an officer in the English service--served for a while in the East Indies, and for a short period in Canada." "Whatever you like. But here's my step-son coming in." "The young man I'm to take charge of. I must ingratiate myself with him." Here Frank entered the room. He paused when he saw the stranger. "Frank," said Mr. Craven, "this is my friend, Colonel Sharpley. I believe you have already made his acquaintance." "Yes, sir, I saw him this morning." "I didn't suspect when I first spoke to you that you were related to my old friend, Craven," said Sharpley, smiling. Mr. Sharpley was a man not overburdened--in fact, not burdened at all--with principle, but he could make himself personally more agreeable than Mr. Craven, nor did Frank feel for him the instinctive aversion which he entertained for his step-father. The stranger had drifted about the world, and, being naturally intelligent and observing, he had accumulated a fund of information which enabled him to make himself agreeable to those who were unacquainted with his real character. He laid himself out now to entertain Frank. "Ah, my young friend," he said, "how I envy you your youth and hope. I am an old, battered man of the world, who has been everywhere, seen a great deal, and yet, in all the wide world, I am without a home." "Have you traveled much, sir," asked Frank. "I have been in Europe, Asia, Africa, America and Australia," answered Sharpley. "Yes, Botany Bay," thought Craven, but it was not his cue to insinuate suspicions of his friend. "How much you must have seen!" said Frank, interested. "You're right; I've seen a great deal." "Have you ever been in Switzerland?" "Yes, I've clambered about among the Alps. I tried to ascend Mont Blanc, but had not endurance enough." Frank was interested. He had read books of travels, and he had dreamed of visiting foreign lands. He had thought more than once how much he should enjoy roaming about in countries beyond the sea, but he had never, in his quiet country home, even met one who had made this journey, and he eagerly listened to what Colonel Sharpley had to tell him about these distant lands. Here supper was announced, and the four sat down. "Do you take your tea strong, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Mrs. Craven. "As strong as you can make it. Tea is a favorite drink of mine. I have drunk it in its native land--in fact, everywhere." "Have you been in China, Colonel Sharpley?" "Yes, madam. I spent three months there--learned to talk broken China a little," he added, with a laugh. "Yes, Mrs. Craven, I have been a rover." "He has been telling me about Switzerland, mother," said Frank, eagerly. "How splendid it must be to travel there." "I am going back to Europe in three or four weeks," said Sharpley, ready now to spring his trap. "Were you ever there, Mrs. Craven?" "No, sir; I am timid about traveling." "I was going to ask why you and my friend Craven didn't pull up stakes and go abroad for a time?" "I am afraid I am getting too old to travel, Colonel Sharpley." "Old! my dear madam? Why you're in the prime of life. If you are getting old, what shall I say about myself?" "I suppose I am not quite venerable," said Mrs. Craven, smiling, "but I should shrink from the voyage." "I may persuade her to go some time," said Mr. Craven, with a glance at his wife, "Just now it would be a little inconvenient for me to leave my business." "I fancy this young man would like to go," said Sharpley, turning to Frank. "Indeed I should," said Frank, eagerly. "There is nothing in the world I should like better." "Come, I have an idea to propose," said Sharpley, as if it had struck him; "if you'll let him go with me, I will look after him, and at the end of three months, or any other period you may name, I will put him on board a steamer bound for New York. It will do him an immense deal of good." Mrs. Craven was startled by the suddenness of the proposal. "How could he come home alone?" she said. "He couldn't leave the steamer till it reached New York, and I am sure he could find his way home from there, or you could meet him at the steamer." "Oh, mother, let me go!" said Frank, all on fire with the idea. "It would seem lonely without you, Frank." "I would write twice--three times a week, and I should have ever so much to tell you after I got home." "What do you think, Mr. Craven?" asked his wife, hesitatingly. "I think it a very good plan, Mary, but, as you know, I don't wish to interfere with your management of Frank. If you say yes, I have no sort of objection." Just at that moment Frank felt more kindly toward Mr. Craven than he had ever done before. He could not, of course, penetrate the treachery which he meditated. "I hardly know what to say. Do you think there would be any danger?" "I have great confidence in my friend, Colonel Sharpley. He is an experienced traveler--has been everywhere, as he has told you. I really wish I could go myself in the party." This Frank did not wish, though he would prefer to go with Mr. Craven rather than stay at home. "Would it not interrupt his studies?" asked his mother, as a final objection. "Summer is near at hand, and he would have a vacation at any rate. He will probably study all the better after he returns." "That I will," said Frank. "Then, if you really think it best, I will consent," said Mrs. Craven. Frank was so overjoyed that he jumped from his chair and threw his arms around his mother's neck. A flush of pleasure came to her cheek, and she felt repaid for the sacrifice she must make of Frank's society. She knew beforehand that her husband's company would not go far toward compensating that. "I congratulate you, my young friend," said Colonel Sharpley (for we may as well address him by his stolen title), "upon the pleasure before you." "I am very much obliged to you, sir, for being willing to take so much trouble on my account." "No need of thanks on that score. The fact is, I shall enjoy the trip all the more in watching your enjoyment. I am rather _blase_ myself, but it will be a treat to me to see what impressions foreign scenes make on you." "How soon do you go, sir?" asked Frank, eagerly. "Let me see; this is the fifth. I will engage passage for the nineteenth--that is, if you can get ready at such short notice." "No fear of that," said Frank, confidently. "He'll be on hand promptly, you may be sure," said Mr. Craven, smiling. "Really, Frank, we shall miss you very much." "Thank you, sir," said Frank, feeling almost cordial to his step-father; "but it won't be long, and I shall write home regularly." During the evening Frank kept Sharpley busy telling him about foreign parts. Mr. Craven listened, with a crafty smile, watching him as a spider does an entangled fly. "He's trapped!" he said to himself Poor Frank! How little could he read of the future! CHAPTER XII. TWO BOY FRIENDS. "Going to Europe, Frank!" repeated his friend, Ben Cameron, in unbounded astonishment. "I can hardly believe it." "I can hardly believe it myself; but it's true." "How did it come about?" "Colonel Sharpley, Mr. Craven's friend, is going, and offered to take me." "Didn't Mr. Craven object?" "No; why should he? He thought it was a good plan." "And your mother?" "She was a little afraid at first that something might happen to me; but, as Colonel Sharpley and Mr. Craven were in favor of it, she yielded." "Well, Frank, all I can say is, that I wish I were in your shoes." "I wish you were going with me, Ben. Wouldn't it be jolly?" "Unfortunately, Frank, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you. You are the son of rich parents, while my father is a poor carpenter, working by the day." "I like you as much as if you were worth half a million, Ben." "I know you do, Frank; but that doesn't give me the half-million. I must postpone going to Europe till I have earned money enough with my own hands." "Don't be too sure of that, Ben." "What do you mean, Frank?" "I mean this, that when I am twenty-one I come into possession of about forty thousand dollars. Now, the interest on that is two thousand four hundred. I'll invite you to go abroad with me, and spend a year there. If the interest isn't enough to pay our expenses, I will take a few hundred dollars of the principal." "That's a generous offer, Frank," said Ben; "but you don't consider that at that time I shall be a journeyman carpenter, very likely, while you will be a young gentleman, just graduated from college. You may not want such company then." "My dear Ben," said Frank, laying his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder, "if you think I'm a snob or likely to become one, say so at once; but I hope you think better of me than to believe that I will ever be ashamed of my dearest friend, even if he is a journeyman carpenter. I should despise myself if I thought such a thing possible." "Then I won't think so, Frank." "That's right, Ben. We'll be friends for life, or, if we are not, it shall be your fault, not mine. But there's one favor I am going to ask of you." "What is it?" "That while I am gone you will call round often and see mother. She will miss me a great deal, for I have always been with her, and it will be a pleasure to her to see you, whom she knows to be my dearest friend, and talk with you about me. Will you go?" "Certainly I will, Frank, if you think she would like to have me." "I know she would. You see, Ben, though Mr. Craven and my mother get along well enough, I am sure she doesn't love him. He may be a fair sort of man, and I am bound to say that I have no fault to find with him, but I don't think she finds a great deal of pleasure in his society. Of course, Ben, you won't repeat this?" "Certainly not." "And you will call often?" "Yes, Frank." "I will tell mother so. Then I shall leave home with a light heart. Just think of it, Ben--it's now the sixth of the month, and on the nineteenth I sail. I wish it were to-morrow." "It will soon be here, Frank." "Yes, I know it. I am afraid I can't fix my mind on my studies much for the next week or so. I shall be thinking of Europe all the time." Meanwhile, Mr. Craven and Colonel Sharpley, in the office of the former, were discussing the same subject. "So we have succeeded, Craven," said Sharpley, taking out a cigar and beginning to smoke. "Yes, you managed it quite cleverly." "Neither Mrs. Craven nor the boy will suspect that you are particularly interested in getting him out of the country." "No," said Craven, complacently; "I believe I scored a point in my favor with the boy by favoring the project. Had I opposed it, his mother would not have consented, and he knows it." "Yes, that is well. It will avert suspicion hereafter. Now there is an important point to be considered. What funds are you going to place in my hands to start with?" "How much shall you need?" "Well, you must supply me with money at once to pay for tickets--say two hundred and fifty dollars, and a bill of exchange for a thousand dollars, to begin with. More can be sent afterward." "I hope you won't be too extravagant, Sharpley," said Mr. Craven, a little uneasily. "Extravagant! Why, zounds, man, two persons can't travel for nothing. Besides, the money doesn't come out of your purse; it comes out of the boy's fortune." "If I draw too much, his mother, who is his guardian, will be startled." "Then draw part from her funds. You have the control of those." "I don't know as I have a right to." "Pooh, man, get over your ridiculous scruples. I know your real reason. You look upon her money as yours, and don't like to part with any of it. But just consider, if things turn out as we expect, you will shortly get possession of the boy's forty thousand dollars, and can then pay yourself. Don't you see it?" "Perhaps the boy may return in safety," suggested Craven. "In that case our plans are all dished." "Don't be afraid of that," said Sharpley, with wicked significance. "I will take care of that." "It shall be as you say, then," said Craven. "You shall have two hundred dollars for the purchase of tickets and a bill of exchange for a thousand." "You may as well say three hundred, Craven, as there will be some extra preliminary expenses, and you had better give me the money now, as I am going up to the city this morning to procure tickets." "Very well, three hundred let it be." "And there's another point to be settled, a very important one, and we may as well settle it now." "What is it?" "How much am I to receive in case our plans work well?" "How much?" repeated Craven, hesitatingly. "Yes, how much?" "Well, say two thousand dollars." "Two thousand devils!" exclaimed Sharpley, indignantly. "Why, Craven, you must take me for a fool." Mr. Craven hastily disclaimed this imputation. "You expect me to do your dirty work for any such paltry sum as that! No! I don't sell myself so cheap." "Two thousand dollars is a good deal of money." "Not for such services as that, especially as it leaves you nineteen times as much. Craven, it won't do!" "Say five thousand dollars, then!" said Craven, reluctantly. "That's a little more like the figure, but it isn't enough." "What will satisfy you, then?" "Ten thousand." "Ten thousand!" repeated Craven, in dismay. "Yes, ten thousand," said Sharpley, firmly. "Not a cent less." Mr. Craven expostulated, but his expostulations were all in vain. His companion felt that he had him in his power, and was not disposed to abate his demands. Finally the agreement was made. "Shall it be in writing, Craven?" asked Sharpley, jocosely. "No, no." "I didn't know but you might want to bind me. When does the train leave for New York?" "In an hour." "Then I'll trouble you to look up three hundred dollars for me, and I'll take it." By the ten o'clock train Colonel Sharpley was a passenger. Mr. Craven saw him off, and then returned thoughtfully to his office. "It's a bold plan," thus he soliloquized; "but I think it will succeed. If it does, I shall no longer be dependent upon the will or caprice of my wife. I shall be my own master, and possessed of an abundant fortune. "If only Sharpley and the boy could die together, it would be a great relief. While that man lives I shall not feel wholly safe. However, one at a time. Let the boy be got out of the way, and I will see what can be done for the other. The cards are in my favor, and if I play a crafty game, I shall win in the end." CHAPTER XIII. JONATHAN TARBOX, OF SQUASHBORO'. A great steamer was plowing its way through the Atlantic waves. Fifteen hundred miles were traversed, and nearly the same remained to be crossed. The sea had been rough in consequence of a storm, and even now there was considerable motion. A few passengers were on deck, among them our young hero, who felt better in the open air than in the closer atmosphere below; besides, he admired the grandeur of the sea, spreading out on all sides of him, farther than his eyes could reach. He had got over his first sadness at parting with his mother, and he was now looking forward with the most eager anticipation to setting foot upon European soil. He shared a state-room with Sharpley, but the latter spent little time in the boy's company. He had discovered some congenial company among the other passengers, and spent most of the time smoking with them or playing cards below. Frank did not miss him much, as he found plenty to engage his attention on board. As he stood looking out on the wild waste of waters, trying to see if anywhere he could discover another vessel, he was aroused by the salutation: "I say, you boy!" Looking around, he saw a tall, thin man, dressed in a blue swallow-tail coat with brass buttons, a high standing dickey, and pants three or four inches too short in the legs. He was an admirable specimen of the Yankee--as he is represented on the stage--an exceptional specimen, though some of our foreign friends may regard him as the rule. It was not the first time Frank had seen him. Two or three times he had appeared at the table; but he had been stricken with seasickness, and for the greater part of the voyage thus far had remained in his state-room. "Good morning, sir," said Frank, politely. "You have been seasick, haven't you?" "Seasick! I guess I have," returned the other, energetically. "I thought I was goin' to kick the bucket more'n once." "It is not a very agreeable feeling," said Frank. "I guess not. If I'd known what kind of a time I was a-goin' to have, I wouldn't have left Squashboro', you bet!" "Are you from Squashboro'?" asked Frank, amused. "Yes, I'm from Squashboro', State of Maine, and I wish I was there just now, I tell you." "You won't feel so when you get on the other side," said Frank, consolingly. "Well, may be not; but I tell you, boy, it feels kinder risky bein' out here on the mill-pond with nothin' but a plank between you and drownin'. I guess I wouldn't make a very good sailor." "Are you going to travel much?" asked Frank. "Wal, you see, I go mostly on business. My name's Jonathan Tarbox. My father's name is Elnathan Tarbox. He's got a nice farm in Squashboro', next to old Deacon Perkins'. Was you ever in Squashboro'?" "No; I think not." "It's a thrivin' place, is Squashboro'. Wal, now, I guess you are wonderin' what sets me out to go to Europe, ain't you?" "I suppose you want to see the country, Mr. Tarbox." "Ef that was all, you wouldn't catch me goin' over and spendin' a heap of money, all for nothin'. That ain't business." "Then I suppose you go on business?" "I guess I do. You see I've invented a new plow, that, I guess, is goin' to take the shine off of any other that's in use, and it kinder struck me that ef I should take it to the Paris Exhibition, I might, may be, make somethin' out of it. I've heerd that they're a good deal behind in farm tools in the old European countries, and I guess I'll open their eyes a little with my plow." "I hope you'll succeed, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, politely. "I guess I shall. You see, I've risked considerable money onto it--that is, in travelin' expenses and such like. You see, my Uncle Abner--he wasn't my real uncle, that is, by blood, but he was the husband of my Aunt Matilda, my mother's oldest sister--didn't have no children of his own, so he left me two thousand dollars in his will." Mr. Tarbox paused in order to see what effect the mention of this great inheritance would have upon his auditor. "Indeed you were lucky, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank. "I guess I felt tickled when I heard of it. I jist kicked like a two-year-old colt. Wal, now, dad wanted me to buy a thirty-acre farm that was for sale about half a mile from his'n, but I wouldn't. I'd about fetched my plow out right, and I wa'n't goin' to settle down on no two-thousand-dollar farm. Catch me! No; I heerd of this Paris Exhibition, and I vowed I'd come out here and see what could be did. So here I am. I ain't sorry I cum, though I was about sick enough to die. Thought I should a-turned inside out one night when the vessel was goin' every which way." "I was sick myself that night," said Frank. Mr. Tarbox having now communicated all his own business, naturally felt a degree of curiosity about that of his young companion. "Are you goin' to the Paris Exhibition?" he asked. "I suppose so. It depends upon Colonel Sharpley." "The man you're travelin' with? Yes; I saw him at the table--tall man, black hair, and slim, ain't he?" "Yes, sir." "So he's a colonel, is he?" "Yes." "Did he fight in any of our wars?" "No, he's an Englishman." "Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, with a slight contempt in his voice. "He wouldn't be no match for an American officer." "I don't know," said Frank. "Wal, I do--the Yankees always could whip any other nation, not but the colonel seems a respectable man, though he's a foreigner." "It is we who will be foreigners when we get to England," said Frank. This aroused the controversial spirit of Mr. Tarbox. "Do you mean to say that you and me will turn to furriners?" he asked, indignantly. "We shall be foreigners in England." "No, we won't," said Jonathan, energetically. "At any rate, I won't. I shall always be a free-born American citizen, and a free-born American citizen can't be a furriner." "Not in America, Mr. Tarbox, but in England, I am saying." "A free-born American citizen ain't a furriner anywhere," said Mr. Tarbox, emphatically. Frank was amused, but felt it wise to discontinue the discussion. "Are you goin' to Europe on business?" inquired the other. "No, only for pleasure." "Sho! I guess you must have a considerable pile of money!" suggested Mr. Tarbox, inquiringly. "I have a little money," said Frank, modestly. "Left you?" "Yes, by my father." "Wal, so you're in luck, too. Is the colonel related to you?" "No. He is a friend of my step-father." "Sho! So your mother married again. How long are you going to stay on the other side?" "Only three or four months, I think." "Do you know how much they ask for board in Paris?" asked Jonathan, with considerable interest. "No, Mr. Tarbox, I have no idea. I suppose it's according to what kind of rooms and board you take." "Wal, you see, Mr.--what did you say your name was?" "Hunter." "I once knowed a Hunter--I think he was took up for stealing." "I don't think he was any relation of mine, Mr. Tarbox." "Likely not. What was I a-goin' to say? Oh, Mr. Hunter, I ain't very particular about my fodder. I don't mind havin' baked beans half the time--pork and beans--and you know them are cheap." "So I've heard." "And as to a room, I don't mind it's bein' fixed up with fiddle-de-dee work and sich. Ef it's only comfortable--that'll suit me." "Then I think you'll be able to get along cheap, Mr. Tarbox." "That's what I calc'late. Likely I'll see you over there. What's that bell for?" "Lunch." "Let's go down. Fact is, I've been so tarnal sea-sick I'm empty as a well-bucket dried in the sun. I guess I can eat to-day." They went down to the saloon, and Mr. Tarbox's prophecy was verified. He shoveled in the food with great energy, and did considerable toward making up for past deficiencies. Frank looked on amused. He was rather inclined to like his countryman, though he acknowledged him to be very deficient in polish and refinements. CHAPTER XIV. THE LONDON CLERK. Jonathan Tarbox seemed to have taken a fancy to our hero, for immediately after lunch he followed him on deck. "I want to show you a drawin' of my plow, Mr. Hunter," he said. "I should like to see it, Mr. Tarbox, but I am no judge of such things." Mr. Tarbox drew a paper from his coat-pocket containing a sketch of his invention. He entered into a voluble explanation of it, to which Frank listened good-naturedly, though without much comprehension. "Do you think it'll work?" asked the inventor. "I should think it might. Mr. Tarbox, but then I don't know much about such things." "I don't believe they've got anything in Europe that'll come up to it," said Mr. Tarbox, complacently. "Ef I can get it introduced into England and France, it'll pay me handsome." "Have you shown it to any Englishman yet?" "No, I haven't. I don't know any." "There are some on board this steamer." "Are there? Where?" "There's one." Frank pointed out a young man with weak eyes and auburn hair, a London clerk, who visited the United States on a business errand, and was now returning. He was at this moment standing on deck, with his arms folded, looking out to sea. "I guess I'll go and speak to him," said Mr. Tarbox. "May be he can help me introduce my plow in London." Frank watched with some amusement the interview between Mr. Tarbox and the London clerk, which he shrewdly suspected was not likely to lead to any satisfactory results. Mr. Tarbox approached the Englishman from behind, and unceremoniously slapped him on the back. The clerk whirled round suddenly and surveyed Mr. Tarbox with mingled surprise and indignation. "What did you say?" he inquired. "How are you, old hoss?" "Do you mean to call me a 'oss?" "No, I call you a hoss. How do you feel?" "I don't feel any better for your hitting me on the back, sir," said the clerk, angrily. "Sho! your back must be weak. Been sea-sick?" "I have suffered some from sea-sickness," returned the person addressed, with an air of restraint. "So have I. I tell you I thought something was goin' to cave in." "Of what earthly interest does he suppose that is to me?" thought the clerk, superciliously. "Fact is," continued Mr. Tarbox, "I'd a good deal rather be to home in Squashboro', livin' on baked beans, than be here livin' on all their chicken fixin's. I suppose you've heard of Squashboro' hain't you?" "I can't say I have," said the clerk, coldly, adjusting his eye-glasses, and turning away from his uncongenial companion. "Squashboro', State o' Maine. It's a pooty smart place--got three stores, a blacksmith's shop, a grist mill, and two meetin'-houses." "Really, my friend," said the Englishman, "Squashboro' may be as smart a place as you say, but it doesn't interest me." "Don't it? That's because you haven't been there. We've got some smart men in Squashboro'." "You don't say so?" said the other, in a sarcastic tone. "There's Squire Perkins, selectman, town clerk and auctioneer. You'd ought to hear his tongue go when he auctioneers. Then there's Parson Pratt--knows a sight of Latin, Greek and Hebrew." "Are you one of the smart men of Squashboro'?" asked the clerk, in the same tone. "Wal, that ain't for me to say," answered Mr. Tarbox, modestly. "You never can tell what may happen, as the hen said when she hatched a lot of geese. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Englishman--" "My name is Robinson," interrupted the other, stiffly. "Why, howdy do, Mr. Robinson!" exclaimed Jonathan, seizing the unwilling hand of the other and shaking it vigorously. "My name is Tarbox--Jonathan Tarbox, named after my grandfather. His name was Jonathan, too." "Really, your family history is very interesting." "Glad you think so. But as I was sayin', when you spoke about me bein' smart, I've got up a new plow that's goin' to take the shine off all that's goin'," and he plunged his hand into his pocket. "You don't carry a plow round in your pocket, do you?" asked Mr. Robinson, arching his eyebrows. "Come, now, Mr. Robinson, that's a good joke for you. I've got a plan of it here on this piece of paper. If you'll squat down somewhere, I'll explain it to you." "I prefer standing, Mr.--Mr. Tarbarrel." "Tarbox is my name." "Ah--Tarbox, then. No great difference." "You see, Mr. Robberson--" "Robinson, sir." "Ah--is it?" said Jonathan, innocently. "No great difference." Mr. Robinson looked suspicious, but the expression of his companion's face was unchanged, and betrayed no malice prepense. "I don't know anything about plows," said the clerk, coldly. "You'd better show it to somebody else--I never saw a plow in my life." "Never saw a plow!" ejaculated Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. "Why, where have you been livin' all your life?" "In London." "And don't they have plows in the stores?" "I suppose they may, but they're not in my line." "Why, I knowed a plow as soon as I could walk," said Mr. Tarbox. "I leave such things to laborers," said Mr. Robinson, superciliously. "I feel no interest in them." "Ain't you a laborer yourself?" asked Jonathan. "I--a laborer!" exclaimed Mr. Robinson, with natural indignation. "Do you mean to insult me?" "I never insult nobody. But don't you work for a livin'? That's what I mean." "I am engaged in trade," answered the clerk, haughtily. "Then you do work for a livin', and so, of course, you're a laborer." "Sir, men in my business are not laborers--they are merchants." "What's the difference?" "I perceive, sir, that you are not accustomed to society. I excuse you on account of your ignorance." "Ignorance! What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Tarbox, in his turn indignant. Jonathan looked threatening, and as he was physically the Englishman's superior, the latter answered hastily: "I only meant to say that you were not versed in the requirements and conventionalities of society." "Is that English?" asked Jonathan, with a puzzled look. "I believe so." "Well, I never heard sich jawbreakers before, but, if it's an apology, it's all right. Won't you look at the plow, then?" "It would be of no use, Mr. Tarbox--I don't know about such things, I assure you. You had better show it to somebody else. My life has been passed in London, and I really am profoundly ignorant of agricultural implements." As he spoke, he turned away and walked down stairs. Mr. Tarbox followed him with his eyes, ejaculating: "That's a queer critter. He's over thirty years old, I guess, and he's never sot eyes on a plow! He'd ought to be ashamed of his ignorance." "Well, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, when his new friend rejoined him, "did you explain your new invention to the Englishman?" "I was goin' to, but he said he never seed one in the whole course of his life, and didn't take no interest in them. What do you think of that?" "He can't have been in the country much, I should think." "He keeps store in London, he says; but he's a poor, ignorant creetur, and he don't want to learn. I wanted to explain all about my invention, but he wouldn't look at it." "There are other Englishmen who will take more interest in it, Mr. Tarbox--men who live in the country and cultivate the land." "I hope so. I hope they ain't all as ignorant as that creetur. Do you think that colonel that you're travelin' with would like to look at it?" "I don't believe he would, Mr. Tarbox. I don't know much about him, but he seems to me like a man that has always lived in the city." "Just as you say. I'd just as lief explain it to him." "Are you going to put it in the exhibition?" "Yes; I've got it packed in my trunk in pieces. I'm going to put it together on the other side, and take it along with me." This was not the last conversation Frank had with Mr. Tarbox. He always listened with sympathy to the recital of the other's plans and purposes, and Jonathan showed a marked predilection for the society of our young hero. Without knowing it, Frank was making a friend who would be of value in the future. CHAPTER XV. MR. TARBOX IS OBSTINATE. Early on Wednesday morning, eleven days from the date of sailing, the good steamer which bore our hero as passenger, steamed into the harbor of Liverpool. As may readily be supposed, Frank was on deck, gazing with eager expectation at the great city before him, with its solid docks, and the indications of its wide-spreading commerce. "Well, Frank, we are almost there," said Colonel Sharpley. "Yes, sir. Isn't it glorious!" exclaimed our hero, with enthusiasm. "I don't see anything glorious," said a voice at his side. The speaker was Mr. Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine. "Don't you like it, Mr. Tarbox?" asked Frank. "Liverpool ain't a circumstance to New York," said the Yankee, with patriotic pride. "New York's bigger and finer than this town ever will see." "I don't care whether it's bigger or not," said Frank. "It's jolly being here. What a splendid time I mean to have." "Enjoy yourself while you may," said Sharpley to himself. "Your time is short." "What tavern are you goin' to put up at?" asked Mr. Tarbox. "I don't know," said Frank. "Perhaps Colonel Sharpley can tell you." Sharpley turned around, and looked at the Yankee superciliously. "I really have not decided," he said. "I thought I'd like to put up at the same," said Mr. Tarbox, "seein' as I know you. May be we might ride in the same carriage to the tavern." "I prefer not to add to my party, sir," said Colonel Sharpley, frigidly. "Oh, you needn't flare up," said Jonathan Tarbox, coolly. "I'm willin' to pay my share of the bill." "I must decline making any arrangement with you, sir," said Sharpley as he moved away. "Kinder offish, ain't he?" said Mr. Tarbox, addressing Frank. "He seems a little so," said Frank; "but I hope, Mr. Tarbox, you won't think I am unwilling to be in your company." "No, I don't," said the Yankee, cordially. "You ain't a bit stuck up. I'd like to let that chap know that I'm as good as he is, if he does call himself colonel." "No doubt of it." "And if I can only make my plow go, I'll be rich some day." "I hope you will, Mr. Tarbox." "So do I. Do you know what I'll do then?" "What?" "You see, there's a gal in our town; her name is Sally Sprague, and she's about the nicest gal I ever sot eyes on. Ef things goes well with me, that gal will have a chance to be Mrs. Tarbox," said Jonathan, energetically. "I hope she will," said Frank, in amused sympathy. "I like you--I do!" said Mr. Tarbox. "Ef ever I git a chance to do you a good turn, I'll do it." "Thank you, Mr. Tarbox. I am sorry Colonel Sharpley was rude to you." "I can stand it," said Jonathan; "and I mean to go to the same tavern, too." The custom-house officials came on board and examined the luggage. This over, the passengers were permitted to land. On shore they encountered a crowd of hackmen. "To the St. George Hotel," said Colonel Sharpley, selecting one of the number. "Here, Frank, get in." Just behind was Mr. Tarbox, standing guard over a dilapidated trunk and a green chest, the latter of which contained his precious plow. "Have a cab, sir?" asked a short, stout hackman. "What are you goin' to charge?" asked Jonathan. "Where do you want me to drive, sir?" "St. George Tavern. Oh, stop a minute. Do they pile up the prices steep there?" "It's reasonable, sir." "That's all I want. I ain't goin' to pay no fancy prices. How much are you goin' to charge for carryin' me there?" "Half a crown, sir." "What in thunder's half a crown?" "Ain't he precious green?" thought cabby. But he answered, respectfully: "It's two-and-six, sir." "Two dollars and six cents?" "No, sir; two shillin's and sixpence." "It's too much." "Reg'lar price." "I don't believe it. Here, you other chap," beckoning to another cabman, "what'll you charge to take me to the St. George Tavern?" This brought the first cabby to terms. "Jump in, sir. I'll take you round for two shillin's," he said. "All right," said Jonathan. "I'll help you with that chist. Now put her over the road. I'm hungry, and want some vittles." Five minutes after Frank arrived at the St. George with his guardian, Mr. Tarbox drove up, bag and baggage. "You see I'm here most as soon as you," said Tarbox, nodding. "We ain't separated yet. It's a pooty nice tavern, Mr. Sharpley," accosting Frank's guardian with easy forgetfulness of the latter's repellant manner. "What is your object in following us, sir?" asked Sharpley, frigidly. "You haven't engaged this tavern all to yourself, have you?" demanded Jonathan. "Ain't it free to other travelers?" Sharpley saw the other had him at advantage. "Didn't you come here because we were here?" he asked. "May be I did, and then again may be I didn't," the other replied. "There ain't any law ag'in it, is there?" "I should hardly suppose you would wish to thrust yourself into the society of those who don't want you." "I won't run up no bills on your account," said Mr. Tarbox; "but I'm goin' just where I please, even if you are there already. Frank here ain't no way troubled about it." "Frank, as you call him, is under my guardianship," said Mr. Sharpley, with a sneer. "I don't wish him to associate with improper persons." "Do you call me an improper person?" demanded Mr. Tarbox, offended. "You can draw your own inferences, Mr.--I really don't know who." "Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine." "Then, Mr. Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine, I have already wasted as much time as I choose to do on you, and must close the conversation." "All right, sir. You'd better shut up Frank in a glass case, if you don't want him to associate with any improper persons." But Colonel Sharpley had turned on his heel and moved away. "I can't have that fellow following us everywhere," he said to himself. "The task I have before me is one which demands secrecy, in order to avert all suspicion in case anything happens. This inquisitive, prying Yankee may spoil all. He won't take a hint, and I suspect it would be dangerous to try a kick. The trouble with these Yankees is that they are afraid of nothing, and are bent on carrying out their own purposes, however disagreeable to others. I must ask Frank about this fellow and his plans." "Frank," he commenced, when they were alone, "I must congratulate you on this Yankee friend of yours. He has fastened on us like a leech." "He is a good-natured fellow," said Frank. "He is an impudent scoundrel!" said Sharpley, impatiently. "Not so bad as that. He is not used to the ways of the world, and he seems to have taken a fancy to me." "He ought to see that his company's not wanted." "He is not disagreeable to me. I am rather amused by his odd ways and talk." "I am not. He is confoundedly disagreeable to me. We must shake him off. We can't have him following us all over Europe." "He won't do that. He is going to the Paris Exposition." "What's he going to do there--exhibit himself?" "Not exactly," said Frank, good humoredly. "He's invented a plow that will take the shine off all others, so he says. So he will be detained there for some time." "I am glad to hear that; but I mean to get rid of him beforehand. When we leave here we mustn't tell where we are going." "I can't," answered Frank; "for I don't know, unless it is to London." "Then I won't tell you, or you might let it out accidentally." Meanwhile, Jonathan, who had ordered a couple of chops, was sitting in the coffee-room, making a vigorous onslaught upon them. "I wonder what makes that Sharpley so skittish about me and Frank bein' together?" he thought. "He needn't think I want to stick near him. I wouldn't give half a cent for his company. But that boy's a good sort of a chap and a gentleman. I'll keep him in sight if I can." CHAPTER XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN LONDON. The next day Sharpley took advantage of Mr. Tarbox's temporary absence from the hotel to hurry Frank off to the London train. "I hope we have seen the last of that intrusive Yankee," said Sharpley to our hero, when they were fairly installed in the railway carriage. "I should like to have bidden him good-by," said Frank. "You can associate with him as much as you like after we have parted company," said Sharpley. "But, for my part, I don't want to see anything of him." "I wonder what makes him so prejudiced," thought Frank. "It can't be because he is a Yankee, for I am a Yankee, myself, and yet he takes the trouble of looking after me." Sharpley was not very social. He bought a paper, and spent most of the time in reading. But Frank did not find the time hang heavily upon his hands. He was in England, that was his glad thought. On either side, as the train sped along, was spread out a beautiful English landscape, and his eyes were never tired of watching it. To Sharpley there was no novelty in the scene. He had enough to think of in his past life--enough to occupy his mind in planning how to carry out his present wicked designs upon the life of the innocent boy at his side. At last they reached London, and drove in a hansom to a quiet hotel, located in one of the streets leading from the Strand, a business thoroughfare well known to all who have ever visited the great metropolis. "How long are we going to stay in London, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Two or three days. I can't tell exactly how long." "That will be rather a short time to see so large a city," returned Frank, considerably disappointed. "I am in a hurry to go to the continent," was the reply. "We can stop here longer on our return." With this Frank was forced to be content, though he would have preferred to remain in London long enough now to see the principal objects of interest. There was, he could not help remarking, a considerable difference in Colonel Sharpley's manner from that which he exhibited when he first called upon his step-father. Then he was very social and agreeable; now he was taciturn, and at times sullen and irritable. Whatever the reason might be, the change was very marked. "Perhaps he has some business that annoys him," thought Frank, charitably. "I will give him as little trouble as possible. But for his kind offer, I should not have my present chance of seeing foreign countries." The next morning Sharpley said: "Frank, you must wander around by yourself, as I have business to attend to." "All right, sir," said Frank. In fact, he was rather pleased with the idea of finding his own way in the great city of which he had heard so much, and which he had just entered as a stranger. He felt a little like the celebrated explorer, Dr. Livingstone, as he set out to explore a region as new and blind to him as the mysterious tracts of Central Africa to the older traveler. But he had this advantage over the eminent doctor, that, whereas the latter had no maps or charts to guide him, he was able for the small sum of an English shilling, or about twenty-five cents, to obtain a map of London. When his eye glanced for the first time over the labyrinth, he felt bewildered and lost, but after a short time he made up his mind what course to take, and found his way to Charing Cross, and from thence to Piccadilly, Rupert Street, and the parks. Time flew by, and in the delight of the ever-recurring novelty, he found that it was two o'clock. He stepped into a pastry-cook's to get some lunch. Then he hailed a passing stage, and rode a long distance, but whether he was near or far from his hotel he could not tell. He decided to leave the stage, and inquire in some shop near by where he was, and then, by examining his map, ascertain the most direct course to his hotel. As he reached the sidewalk, a little girl of ten years, apparently, with a thin, sad face, fixed her eyes upon him. She said nothing, but there was a mute appeal in her look which Frank, who was by nature compassionate, could not resist. "What is the matter, little girl?" he asked. "Mother is sick, and we have nothing to eat," answered the little girl, sorrowfully. "Have you no father?" "He has gone away." "Where?" "I don't know." "Has your mother been sick long?" "She made herself sick working so hard to buy us bread." "Then you are not the only child," inquired Frank. "I have a little sister, four years old." "How old are you?" "I am ten." "What is your name?" "Alice Craven." The announcement of her name made Frank start. "What!" he exclaimed, for, except his step-father, he had never till now met anyone by that name. "Alice Craven," answered the little girl, supposing he had not understood aright. "Where does your mother live?" asked Frank. "In Hurst court." "Is it far from here?" "Only about five minutes' walk." "I will go with you," said Frank, with sudden resolution, "and if I find your mother is as badly off as you say, I will give you something." "Come, then, sir; I will show you the way." Frank followed the little girl till he found himself in a miserable court, shut in by wretched tenements. Alice entered one of the dirtiest of these, and Frank followed her up a rickety staircase to the fourth floor. Here, his guide opened a door and led the way into a dark room, almost bare of furniture, where, upon a bed in the corner, lay a wan, attenuated woman. Beside her sat the little girl of four to whom Alice had referred. "Mother," said Alice, "here is a kind young gentleman, who has come to help us." "Heaven bless him!" said the woman, feebly. "We are in dire want of help." "How long have you been sick?" asked Frank, compassionately. "It is long since I have been well," answered the invalid, "but I have been able to work till two weeks since. For two weeks I have earned nothing, and, but for the neighbors, I and my two poor children would have starved." "Is your husband dead?" "I do not know. He left me three years ago, and I have never seen him since." "Did he desert you?" asked Frank, indignantly. "Did he leave you to shift for yourself?" "He promised to come back, but he has never come," said the woman, sighing. "Your little girl tells me your name is Craven." "Yes, sir. That is my husband's name." "I know a gentleman by that name." "Where?" asked the invalid, eagerly. "In America. But it cannot be your husband," he added, quickly, not caring to excite hope in the poor woman's breast, only to be succeeded by disappointment, "for he has a wife there. I didn't know but it might be your husband's brother." "My husband had no brother," said the woman, sinking back, her momentary hope extinguished. "Oh, if he only knew how hard it has been for me to struggle for food for these poor children, he would surely come back." Frank's heart was filled with pity. He drew from his pocket two gold sovereigns, and placed them in the hands of Alice. "It won't last you long," he said, "but it will give you some relief." "Bless you, bless you!" said the invalid, gratefully. "It will keep us till I am well again and can work for my children. What is your name, generous, noble boy?" "Frank Hunter," said our hero, modestly; "but don't think too much of what I have done. I shall fare no worse for parting with this money." "I will remember you in my prayers," said Mrs. Craven. "So young and so generous!" "Give me your address, Mrs. Craven, and when I am in London again I will come and see you." "No. 10 Hurst Court," said the invalid. "I will put it down." Frank now left the court, and, as it was late, hailed a cab, and was soon set down in front of his hotel. "Where have you been so long," asked Sharpley. "It is past three o'clock." "I went about seeing the sights," said Frank. "I saw the parks, and Buckingham Palace, and Regent Street; but I have just left a poor woman who was very destitute, whom I visited in her miserable room. Oddly enough, her name was Craven." "Craven," repeated Sharpley, his attention at once roused. "Yes; she had two children, the oldest, Alice, a girl of ten." "Great Heaven!" ejaculated Sharpley. Frank looked at him in surprise. "I daresay they were humbugs," said Sharpley. "Did you give them any money?" "Two sovereigns; but I am sure they were not humbugs." "'A fool and his money are soon parted,'" sneered Sharpley. "Where did you find them?" "No. 10 Hurst Court." "I advise you not to be so ready to part with your money the next time. I'll wager they are imposters." "What cursed chance brought him in contact with these people?" said Sharpley to himself after Frank had left him to arrange his toilet. "He little dreams that the woman he has relieved is the true wife of the man who has married his mother." CHAPTER XVII. COLONEL SHARPLEY'S RUSE. Later in the day Mr. Sharpley found his way to Hurst Court, and paused before Number 10. Though a selfish man, he was not without feeling, and the miserable quarters in which he found his sister excited his pity. He made inquiry of some of the lower tenants, and soon stood at his sister's door. Without waiting to knock, he opened the door and stepped in. The sick woman looked up mechanically, supposing it to be a neighbor who had been kind to her. But when she recognized her brother, she uttered a feeble cry of joy. "Oh, Robert, have you come back?" she cried. "How long it is since I have seen you!" He was shocked at her wan and wasted appearance. "Helen," he said, taking a seat beside the bed, "you look very sick." "No, Robert, not very sick. It is only the effect of overwork and scanty food." "That is enough. How long have you been sick?" "A fortnight. Things looked very dark for me. I feared my poor children would starve, but this morning a noble boy, whom Providence must have sent to me in my extremity, gave me two sovereigns, and they will last me till I am well. But where have you been, Robert?" "I have been to America." "And did you--did you see anything of my husband?" she asked, fixing her eyes anxiously upon him. "Do you think of him still? He does not deserve it. He has treated you like a scoundrel." "I know he has not treated me right, Robert, but he is the father of my children. Then you did not find him?" "I obtained a clew," said Sharpley, evasively. "It may or may not lead to anything. I am about to leave London now on a journey connected with that clew. If it results in anything, I will let you know." "Where are you going?" "On the Continent. I cannot say precisely where, but you will hear from me. But what a hole you are living in," and he looked around him in disgust at the bare walls and naked condition of the miserable room. "I don't mind it, Robert. I feel glad to have the shelter of any roof." "Have you been so poor?" "So poor that I could not well be poorer." "Come, this must be remedied. I am not rich, but I can do something for you. To-morrow morning I will move you to a better room. Do you think you can bear to be moved?" "Yes, brother. You are very kind," murmured the sick woman, not aware that her brother's motives were complex, and that his chief reason for the removal was not dictated by sympathy or pity. "Then I shall be here to-morrow at ten, with a cab. You must all of you be ready. By the way, do you know any of the people in the house?" "Yes; they are poor, but some of them have been kind to me." "Don't let them know where you are moving to?" said Sharpley. "Not let them know!" repeated Mrs. Craven, in surprise. "Why not?" "I have a reason, but I don't want to tell you." "I don't understand it, Robert. What harm can it do?" Sharpley bit his lip. He was annoyed by her persistency, but he was not prepared to give the real reason. Fortunately, a plausible explanation occurred to him. "Listen, sister," he said. "You have an enemy." "An enemy!" "Yes, who is trying to find you out. He has a clew, and if you remain here he may succeed." "But how can I have an enemy, and what could he do to me?" "Suppose he should kidnap one of your children?" The suggestion was made on the spur of the moment, but the effect was immediate. The poor woman turned pale--paler even than before--and trembled. "Say no more, Robert," she answered. "I will promise." "You promise to let no one of your neighbors know where you are going?" "Yes. But, Robert, is it my husband--is it Mr. Craven who is in search of me?" "Ask no more," said Sharpley. "You may know some time, but I have told you all I wish you at present to know. But I must be going. To-morrow, at ten, remember." "I will be ready." "Cleverly managed!" said Sharpley to himself. "I must take care that that boy does not meet my sister again. The name has already struck him. If he sees her again he may come to suspect the truth, and suspicion once aroused, he may suspect me." He didn't at once return to the hotel, but going to a part of London two miles distant, engaged a somewhat better lodging for his sister. The next morning he went to Hurst Court, and, finding her ready, moved her at once to her new home. "How kind you are, Robert!" she said. "I would do more if I had the means. I may be richer soon. I have a good prospect before me, but it requires me to go away for a time." "How long will you be gone?" "I cannot tell. It may be a month; it may be two or three. I have paid the rent of this lodging for three months in advance. There is the receipt." She looked at it mechanically, then handed it back. "This is not the receipt," she said. "The name is wrong." "How is it wrong?" "It is made out to Mrs. Chipman." "It is the right paper." "But my name is not Mrs. Chipman." "Yes, it is." "What do you mean, Robert?" asked his sister, lifting her eyes in surprise. "Just what I say. I want you to be Mrs. Chipman." "But why should I give up my name?" "Do you remember what I told you yesterday--about the man who was on your track?" "You didn't say it was a man." "Well, I say so now." "Well, Robert?" "He will find it harder to trace you if you change your name." "If you think it right, Robert, I will be guided by your advice." "I do think it best for reasons which I cannot fully explain. You must tell your children, also." "I will do so." "Have you any of the money that boy gave you?" "I have nearly all." "Here are three sovereigns more. With your rent paid for three months, if you use it economically, you will not again be reduced to destitution." "I shall feel rich with so much money," said Mrs. Craven, smiling faintly. "Take care that you are not robbed." "I will be careful. But it seems strange to me that I should have occasion for any fears." "Before the three months are over, I shall probably be back in London. I will come to you at once, and let you know if I have heard anything." "Thank you, Robert. Good-by, then, for the present." "Good-by. I hope you will soon be well." "I shall. It was anxiety for my children that was wearing upon me. Now, thanks to your kindness, I am easy in mind. But, brother, there is one question I forgot to ask. How came you to know that I lived at Hurst Court?" Sharpley was posed for a moment, and knew not what to say. He could not, of course, tell the truth; but he was a man fertile in suggestions, and he was silent for a moment only. "I employed a detective," he answered. "These London detectives are wonderfully sharp. He soon found you out." "And you took all this trouble about me," said Mrs. Craven, gratefully, not for a moment doubting the accuracy of the story. "Is it strange that I should take the trouble to find my only sister? But I cannot delay longer. Good-by, Helen." He stooped and lightly touched her cheek with his lips, and hurried from the room. "There," he said to himself, after reaching the street; "I have cut off all possibility of a second meeting between Frank and my sister during the brief remainder of our stay in London. When I come back it will be alone!" Four days afterward they left London for Paris. The day before, Frank made his way again to Hurst Court, meaning to leave a little more money with Mrs. Craven, questioning her at the same time about her husband, whom he could not help connecting in some way with his step-father. But his visit was made in vain. Mrs. Craven had disappeared, and not one of the tenants could say where she had gone: but all agreed that she had been taken away in a cab by a tall gentleman. It seemed mysterious, but no suspicion as to the identity of the gentleman entered Frank's mind. "I hope she has found a friend able to help her," he said to himself, and then dismissed the subject from his mind. CHAPTER XVIII. MR. TARBOX AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. "So this is Paris," said Frank to himself, as he rode into the court-yard of the Hotel de Rivoli, situated on the fine street of the same name. He had already, from the carriage window, obtained a good view of the palace of the Tuileries, occupied at that time by Louis Napoleon, in the plentitude of his power, and of the large garden which it faces. The sun was shining brightly, and as he glanced at the signs on either side of the streets through which he passed, he realized, even more clearly than on English soil, that he was in a foreign country. "What a beautiful city!" he exclaimed, turning to his companion. "Humph! so, so," said Sharpley, in a tone quite devoid of enthusiasm. "I suppose you have been here before, Colonel Sharpley?" "Often." "But it is new to me; so I suppose it strikes me more." "It is always enjoyed best the first time. Can you speak French?" "A little. I can read the language pretty well. Shall we stay here long?" "I can't tell yet." The exhibition was open, and the city was full to overflowing. They were compelled to take rooms high up, the most desirable being already occupied. But for this Frank cared little. He was in Paris; he was going to see its wonders, and this thought filled him with happiness. The next day they went to the exhibition together, but Colonel Sharpley soon tired of it. After an hour, he turned to Frank, saying: "Do you want to stay longer?" "Yes; I have scarcely seen anything yet." "I suppose you can find your way back to the hotel?" "Oh, yes." "Then I will go out. I don't care much for this sort of thing." So Frank wandered on alone--alone, but surrounded by a crowd of all nationalities, visitors like himself to the great exhibition. On all sides he was surrounded by triumphs of art and skill gathered from all parts of the world. "I wish I had some friend with me," he thought. "It's a splendid sight, but I should enjoy it better if I had somebody I liked to talk to. Wouldn't it be jolly if Ben Cameron were here! How he would enjoy it! Poor fellow! he's got his own way to make in the world--though I don't know as that is much of a misfortune, after all. I don't think I would mind it, though, of course, it's pleasant to have money." As these thoughts passed through our hero's mind, he suddenly heard his name called in a loud voice, whose nasal twang could not be mistaken. Turning in the direction from which it came, his face lighted up with pleasure as he recognized his fellow-passenger, Jonathan Tarbox. The Yankee, looking as countrified as ever in the midst of the brilliant scene, was standing guard over his plow, which had been put together, and was occupying a place assigned it by the Committee of Arrangements. "Why, Mr. Tarbox, I'm glad to see you!" said Frank, heartily, hurrying through the crowd and offering his hand, which was seized in a tight grip. "How long have you been here?" "Three days," said Jonathan, "and I'm eenamost tired to death, standin' here, with nobody to talk to." "I should think you would be lonely. I have only just come. Where are you staying?" "I put up over to the Latin Quarter," said Mr. Tarbox; "though why they call it Latin, when they don't talk Latin there, I don't know. It's cheap livin' there, and I don't want to spend too much. There was a feller on the cars took me in when I jest come. As I heard him talk English, I asked him if he could recommend a good, cheap tavern for me to stop at. He told me the best he knew for a cheap one was the Hotel de Villy. So I hired a boy to lead me there. It was a big walk, and when I got there I found the scamp had sent me to the town hall of Paris. I'd like to give him a lickin'! But I met another chap that was more polite, and he directed me to where I am. He lives there himself. He is a poor artist, and I've took the room jest opposite to his. Where are you stoppin'?" "At the Hotel Rivoli." "That's a hotel where the big-bugs stop, ain't it--near Lewis Napoleon's house." "Yes, I believe so," said Frank, smiling; "but I don't claim to be a big-bug." "That colonel you're traveling with sets up for one. Is he here?" "He is in the city. He came to the exhibition with me, but he didn't stop long. How do you like Paris, Mr. Tarbox?" "I really don't know, Frank. The streets and buildin's are pooty handsome, but they do talk the most outlandish stuff I ever heerd. They rattle off jest like parrots, and I can't understand a word." [Illustration: JONATHAN TARBOX GREETS AN OLD FRIEND.] "I suppose you have not studied the French language," said Frank, smiling. "No, and I don't want to. I'd be ashamed o' myself to talk like them. Why in thunder don't they talk English?" asked Jonathan, with an expression of disgust. "I suppose they wonder that Americans don't speak French." "Why, they do say that young ones call their mothers a mare," continued Mr. Tarbox. "That's what I call sassy. Ef I'd called my mother a mare when I was a youngster, she'd have keeled me over quicker'n a wink. Then a gal is called a filly. That's most as bad. And what do you think I saw on the programme at the restorant where I go to get dinner?" "What was it?" asked Frank, amused. "It was poison, only it wasn't spelled right. The ignorant critters spelled it with a double s. I say they'd ought to be indicted for keepin' p'ison among their vittles." "You have made a little mistake, Mr. Tarbox. The word you refer to--_poisson_--is the French word for fish." "By gracious!" ejaculated Jonathan; "you don't say so! Then it's a mighty queer language, that's all I've got to say. But speakin' of eatin', I ain't had a decent meal of vittles since I came here." "I am surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Tarbox. The French have a high reputation for their cookery." "I can't help that. I haven't lived so mean since I was born." "Perhaps it is because you don't know the names of the dishes you want." "Wall, there may be somethin' in that. Why, the first day I p'inted to the first thing in the programme. It was among the pottages. They brought me some thin, watery stuff that would turn a pig sick. Somebody told me it was meant for soup. When my mother made soup, she put potatoes and meat in it, and carrots and turnips. Her soup was satisfying and would stay a feller's stummick. It wa'n't like this thin stuff. It would take a hogshead of it to keep a baby alive till night." "What else did you get, Mr. Tarbox," asked Frank. "I looked all through the programme for baked beans, and, would you believe it, they didn't have it at all." "I believe it is not a French dish." "Then the French don't know what's good, I can tell 'em that. Folks say they eat frogs, and it stands to reason if they like frogs, and don't like baked beans, they must be an ignorant set. I didn't understand any of the darned names, but I come across pommy de terry, and I thought that might be somethin' solid, so I told the gossoon to bring it. What do you think he brought?" "Potatoes." "Yes; I was so wild I come near flinging 'em in his face, but I concluded to keep 'em, and happened to see some mutton put down on the bill, though they didn't spell it right, so I pointed it out to the gossoon, and he brought it. It was pretty fair, but I tell you my mother can beat all the French cooks that's goin'. I jest wish she was here." "We must go together some time, Mr. Tarbox. I know some French, and I can tell you the names of some things you like, though I am afraid you will have to do without baked beans." "I wish you would go with me, Frank. May be I can get along better with you." "How about your invention, Mr. Tarbox? Is it attracting attention?" "Nobody looks at it," said Jonathan, a little depressed. "The ladies turn up their noses, as if it wa'n't worth lookin' at. One old Frenchman come up and began to ask me about it, but I couldn't make head or tail of what he said. Then he offered me a pinch of snuff. I saw he meant to be polite, so I took a good dose, and 'most sneezed my head off. But about the plow; I've been thinkin' whether Lewis Napoleon would let me plow a few furrers in his garden, jest to let the French see how it works. Do you think he would?" "I hardly think he would." "You see, folks can't get much idea about it, jest lookin' at it here." "You don't have to stay by it all the time, do you?" "No." "Then suppose you take a little walk with me round the buildings." Being socially disposed, Mr. Tarbox accepted the proposal, and the two sauntered about together, Frank being continually amused by the unconsciously droll remarks of his countryman. CHAPTER XIX. FRANK ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS. "Who was that you were walking with yesterday, Frank?" asked Sharpley. "Mr. Tarbox." "What, that confounded Yankee?" ejaculated Sharpley, roughly. "What harm is there in him?" asked Frank, quietly. "He is an ignorant barbarian. Mr. Craven wouldn't like to have you associate with such a man." "I care very little what Mr. Craven would like," said Frank. "He is your step-father." "If he is, I can't help it. I am only responsible to my mother for my conduct, and she would not object to my keeping company with a countryman." "I shouldn't want to own it," sneered Sharpley. "Why not?" "This Tarbox, if that is his name, is as green as his native hills, and an ignorant boor." "I don't agree with you, Colonel Sharpley," said Frank, undaunted. "He is not well educated, but he has brains enough to have invented a plow of an improved pattern, which he is exhibiting here. He is young yet, and if he succeeds he will get rid of his awkwardness, and may in time occupy a prominent position in the community." "I don't approve of elevating the rabble," said Sharpley; "and as you are my ward, I desire you not to associate with this Tarbox." "If you had any good reason to offer, Colonel Sharpley, or if Mr. Tarbox were an improper person, I would obey; but, under the present circumstances, I must decline." "What! You dare to defy me!" exclaimed Sharpley, who was in a worse temper than usual, having lost money at cards the evening before. "I don't wish to defy you, sir, but I must beg you to be reasonable." "Do you dare insinuate that I am unreasonable?" said Sharpley, advancing as if to strike him. Frank looked calmly in his face and didn't shrink. There was something in his eye which prevented the blow from falling. Sharpley bethought himself of another way of "coming up with" his rebellious charge. "If you are going to act in this way," he said, "I shall send you home." "I don't propose to go home, Colonel Sharpley," said Frank, firmly. "Now that I am here, I shall stay through the summer." "Do you think you can compel me to keep charge of you?" "No, sir; but since it is a trouble to you, I will place myself under the charge of Mr. Tarbox, though I feel quite competent to travel alone. If you will place in his hands what funds you have of mine, this will relieve you of all trouble." "The deuce it will!" thought Sharpley, who knew that such a course would leave him absolutely helpless and penniless. He began to see that he had overshot the mark. He would risk the utter failure of all his plans if a separation should take place between them. So, though it went against his grain, he resolved to make up with Frank. Forcing a smile, therefore, he said: "Are you really anxious to leave me, Frank?" Our hero was bewildered by the unexpected change of manner. "I thought you were tired of me, sir," he said. "I am afraid I give you trouble and interfere with your plans." "Not at all. I am sorry if I have given you such an impression. The fact is, I am vexed and irritated at some news I have heard, and that made me disposed to vent my irritation on you." "I am sorry, sir, if you have had bad news. Is it anything serious?" "Not very serious," said Sharpley; "but," he added, with ready invention, "it is vexatious to hear that I have lost a thousand pounds." "Yes; that is a serious loss," said Frank, with sympathy. "It was invested, as I thought, safely; but the concern proves to be rotten, and my loss is total." "I hope it won't seriously inconvenience you, Colonel Sharpley?" "Oh, no; it is fortunately but a small part of my fortune," said Sharpley, with barefaced falsehood. "Still, it is annoying. But let it pass. To-morrow I shall feel all right. Meanwhile, if you really care to associate with this Tarbox, do so by all means. I confess he is not to my taste." "He is not a countryman of yours, sir; he reminds me of home." "Just so. By the way, I have letters for you from home." "Oh, give them to me!" said Frank, eagerly. "I am longing to hear." He eagerly opened the letters. One, a long one, crossed and recrossed, was from his mother. I will only quote one paragraph: "I need hardly tell you, my dear son, how much I miss you. The house seems very dull and lonely without you. But I am glad you are enjoying yourself amid new scenes, and look forward with great interest to hear your accounts of what you have seen. I send a great deal of love, and hope to hear from you often. "Your affectionate mother, "MARY CRAVEN. "P.S.--Mr. Craven has written a note to you, which will go by the same mail as this." The other letter, written in a masculine hand, Frank opened with some curiosity. He had not expected to hear from Mr. Craven, and wondered what he would have to say. His letter being short, will be given entire: "MY DEAR FRANK: As your mother is writing you, I cannot resist the temptation of sending a line also. We both miss you very much, but are consoled for your absence by the knowledge that you are enjoying and improving yourself in the Old World. Had circumstances been favorable, how pleasant it would have been if your mother and myself could have accompanied you. Let us hope that sometime such a plan may be carried out. Meanwhile, I feel truly happy to think that you are under the care of my friend, Colonel Sharpley, whom I know to be a gentleman every way qualified for such a responsible trust. We are hoping to receive letters from you describing your travels. I will not write more now, but subscribe myself "Your affectionate step-father, "SAMUEL CRAVEN." There was nothing to complain of in this letter. It was kind and cordial, and exhibited a strong and affectionate interest in our hero. Yet Frank read it without any special feeling of gratitude; nor was he drawn by it any nearer to the writer. He blamed himself for his coldness. "Why can't I like him?" he said to himself. "He seems very kind, and wants me to enjoy myself. I suppose he was partly the means of my coming out on this tour. Yet that doesn't make me like him." Frank could not tell why he felt so, but it was an instinctive perception of Mr. Craven's insincerity, and the falseness of his character and professions that influenced him. He folded the letters, first reading his mother's a second time, and went out, Colonel Sharpley having already departed. He bent his steps to the exhibition building, and made his way to Mr. Tarbox. "Good morning, Mr. Tarbox," he said. "How do you feel to-day?" "Pooty smart. You look as if you've heerd good news." "I have had two letters from home." "So have I." "Any news?" "Yes," said Jonathan; "the brindle cow's got a calf." Frank smiled. "That's my cow," said Mr. Tarbox, seriously; "she's a stunner for givin' milk; she gives a pailful in the mornin', and two pailfuls at night. I'm goin' to make money out of that cow." "And out of that plow, too, I hope." "I don't know," said Mr. Tarbox, shaking his head. "These ignorant furriners don't seem to care nothin' about plows. They care more about silks and laces, and sich like." "Was that all the news you got--about the cow, I mean?" "No," said Jonathan, chuckling a little, and lowering his voice; "I got a letter from her." "From her?" "Yes, from my gal." "Oh, I understand," said Frank, laughing. "How glad you must be." "Yes, sir-ee. I feel like a fly in a molasses keg--all over sweetness." "Then she hasn't forgotten you?" "I guess not. How do you think she ended her letter?" "I can't tell." "Wait a minute, and I'll read you the endin' off. Here it is: 'If you love me as I love you, No knife can cut our love in two.' "Arn't that scrumptious?" "I should think it was. I hope you'll introduce me some day, when she's Mrs. Tarbox." "Yes, I will. You must come up to the farm, and stay a week in the summer." "By that time you'll have made your fortune out of the plow." "I hope so. Where are you goin'?" "I am going to visit the French department of the exhibition." "Wal, I'll go along with you. I want to see if they've got any plow here to compare with mine. I don't believe they know enough to make anything useful." Mr. Tarbox certainly did the French injustice, but he was under the sway of prejudice, and was quite disposed to exalt the useful at the expense of the beautiful. CHAPTER XX. FRANK LEAVES PARIS. There was a letter from Mr. Craven to Sharpley, which came by the same mail as those mentioned in the preceding chapter. It contained the following paragraph: "I suppose you will travel to Switzerland with Frank. I suppose so, because in the summer it is very attractive to the tourist. As accidents are very apt to happen to careless travelers, let me request you to keep a good lookout for him, and not let him approach too near the edge of precipices, or clefts in the mountains. He might easily fall over, and I shudder, not only to think of his fate in that case, but of the grief which would overwhelm his mother and myself. I beg you will keep us apprised of his health, and should any accident happen, write at once." Sharpley read over this passage with attention. Then he folded the letter, and muttered to himself: "What a consummate hypocrite that villain Craven is! Any one, to read this letter, would suppose that he was actuated by the warmest attachment for his step-son; and all the while he is planning his death, and coolly suggesting to me an easy way of bringing it about. I am bad enough, or I would not lend myself to carry out his plans, but I'm not such a miserable hypocrite as he is. However, I've seen too much of the world to be shocked at anybody's depravity, having a fair share of wickedness myself. As to the suggestion, I must confess that it's a good one, and relieves me from a good deal of anxious thought. I've been considering how best I could get rid of the young incumbrance. It occurred to me that I could lock him up, and set some charcoal to burning in his room; but, heating the room--it's too hot already. Then, again, I thought of poison. But there's a chance of a post-mortem examination. That won't do. But Craven's plan is best. As far as I can see it will be effectual, and free from danger also. As soon as I can decently get away from Paris, I'll take the boy to Switzerland. I must stay here a week at least, especially as the exhibition is open, or it might draw suspicion upon me. When I'm rid of the boy I shall breathe freer. Then for America, and a final reckoning with Craven. With ten thousand dollars--and more, if I can extort it from him--I will set up for respectability, and develop into a substantial citizen. Good-by, then, to the gambling table. It has been my bane, but, with a fair competence, I will try to resist its fascinations." Sharpley and our hero met at the _table d'hôte_ dinner and at breakfast. For the remainder of the day Frank was left to his own devices; but for this he cared little. Either alone, or in company with Mr. Tarbox, he went about the city, often as an outside passenger on the street stages which ply from one end of Paris to the other, and in this way he came to have a very good idea of the plan of the brilliant capital. On the sixth day, while they were at dinner, Sharpley said: "Well, Frank, have you seen considerable of Paris?" "Oh, yes, sir; I am getting to know my way around pretty well." "I am sorry I have not been able to go about with you more." "That is of no consequence, sir. I have got on very well alone." "Have you written home?" "Yes, sir." "I am afraid you will be disappointed at what I am going to say." "What is it, sir?" "I have arranged for our leaving Paris to-morrow evening." "Not to go back to England?" asked Frank, hastily. "No. I propose to go to Switzerland." "I should like that," said our hero, brightening up. "I have always wanted to see Switzerland." "I didn't know but you would be sorry to leave Paris." "So I should be if I thought we were not coming back this way. We shall, sha'n't we?" "Yes." "And we shall have time to stay here a little while then?" "No doubt." "Then I can defer the rest of my sight-seeing till then. What route shall we take?" "As to that, there is a variety of routes. It doesn't matter much to me. I will leave the choice to you." "Will you?" said Frank, eagerly. "Then I will get out my map after dinner and pick it out." "Very well. You can tell me to-morrow morning." The next morning Sharpley put the question to Frank: "Well, have you decided by what route you would like to travel?" "Can't we go east to the Rhine, and go up that river to Mayence, and thence to Geneva by rail?" "Certainly, if you like. It will be quite a pleasant route." "I always thought I should like to go up the Rhine. I have been up the Hudson, which I have often heard compared to the Rhine." "There is no comparison between them," said Sharpley, who, not being an American, was not influenced by a patriotic prejudice in favor of the Hudson. "The Rhine has ruined castles and vine-clad hills, and is far more interesting." "Very likely," said Frank. "At any rate, I want to see it." "We will start to-morrow night, then. Morning will bring us across the frontier. You will be ready, of course?" "Yes, sir." The next morning Frank went to the exposition to acquaint Mr. Tarbox with his approaching departure. "Are you goin'? I'm real sorry, Frank," said the Yankee. "I shall kinder hanker arter you, boy. You seem like home. As to them chatterin', frog-eatin' furriners, I can't understand a word they say, and ef I could I wouldn't want to." "I am afraid you are prejudiced, Mr. Tarbox. I have met some very agreeable French people." "I haven't," said Mr. Tarbox. "They don't suit me. There ain't nothin' solid or substantial about 'em." "You may get acquainted with some English people. You can understand them." "I don't like 'em," said Jonathan. "They think they can whip all creation. We gave 'em a lesson, I guess, at Bunker Hill." "Let by-gones be by-gones, Mr. Tarbox; or, as Longfellow says: "'Let the dead Past bury its dead.'" "Did Longfellow write that?" "Yes." "Then he ain't so smart as I thought he was. How can anybody that's dead bury himself, I'd like to know? It's ridiculous." "I suppose it's figurative." "It ain't sense. But that aint to the point. Where-abouts in Switzerland are you goin', Frank?" "I don't know, except that we go to Geneva." "Can you write me a letter from there?" "Certainly. I will do so with pleasure, and shall be glad to hear from you." "All right. I ain't much on scribblin'. I can hold a plow better'n a pen. But I guess I can write a few pot-hooks, jest to let yer know I'm alive an' kickin'." "It's a bargain, then." "Jest give me your name on a piece of paper, so I shall know where to write." "All right. I happen to know where we are going to stop there. Mr. Sharpley mentioned that we should stop at the Hotel des Bergues. I haven't got a card with me, but I'll put the address on an old envelope." Frank took from his pocket what he supposed to be Mr. Craven's letter to him, and on the reverse side wrote: FRANK HUNTER, _Hotel des Bergues_, Geneva, Switzerland. Mr. Tarbox took it and surveyed it critically; then read it as follows: "'Frank Hunter, Hotel dese Bugs.' Wal, that's a queer name for a tavern," he said. "I s'pose that's French for bugs?" "It means that the big bugs stop there," said Frank, jocosely. "Some of the big bugs are humbugs," said Jonathan, laughing grimly at his own wit. When, after leaving Mr. Tarbox, Frank happened to examine his pockets, he drew out the two letters he had received. This puzzled him. What letter was that which he had given his Yankee friend, then? He could not tell. We are wiser. Sharpley had incautiously left on the table Craven's letter to him, and Frank had put it into his pocket, supposing it to be his. This it was which had passed into the possession of Mr. Tarbox. Three days later Mr. Tarbox discovered the letter, and curiosity made him unscrupulous. He read it through, including the paragraph already quoted. "By hokey!" he muttered. "That's queer. 'Should any accident happen, write at once.' He seems to expect an accident will happen. I'll bet that man is a snake in the grass. He's Frank's guardian, and he's got up some plot ag'in him. I always disliked that Sharpley. He's a skunk. I'll start for Switzerland to-morrow, and let the old plow go to thunder. I'm bound to look out for Frank." Mr. Tarbox was energetic. He went to his lodgings, packed his carpet-bag, and early next morning started in pursuit of Frank and Sharpley. CHAPTER XXI. THE HOTEL DU GLACIER. High up among the Bernese Alps stands the Hotel du Glacier. It is a small hotel, of limited accommodations, but during the season it is generally full of visitors. The advantage is, that a comparatively short walk carries one to a point where he has a fine view of that mountain scenery which is the glory of Switzerland, and draws thither thousands of pilgrims annually. In rustic chairs outside sat at eight o'clock in the morning our young hero, Frank Hunter, and his temporary guardian, Colonel Sharpley. In front a beautiful prospect spread out before the two travelers. Snowy peaks, their rough surface softened by distance, abounding in beetling cliffs and fearful gorges, but overlooking smiling valleys, were plainly visible. "Isn't it magnificent?" exclaimed Frank, with the enthusiasm of youth. "Yes, I dare say," said Sharpley, yawning, "but I'm not romantic; I've outlived all that." "I don't believe I shall ever outlive my admiration for such scenery as this," thought Frank. "Don't you enjoy it?" he asked. "Oh, so so; but the fact is, I came here chiefly because I thought you would like it. I've been the regular Swiss tour more than once." "You are very kind to take so much trouble on my account," said Frank. "Oh, I might as well be here as anywhere," said Sharpley. "Just at present there is nothing in particular to take up my attention. Did you order breakfast?" "Yes, Colonel Sharpley." "Go and ask if it isn't ready, will you?" Frank entered the inn, and soon returned with the information that breakfast was ready. They entered a small dining-room, where they found the simple meal awaiting them. The regular Swiss breakfast consists of coffee, bread and butter, and honey, and costs, let me add, for the gratification of my reader's curiosity, thirty cents in gold. Dinner comprises soup, three courses of meat, and a pudding or fruit, and costs from sixty cents to a dollar, according to the pretensions of the hotel. In fact, so far as hotel expenses go, two dollars a day in gold will be quite sufficient in the majority of cases. If meat is required for breakfast, that is additional. "How good the coffee is," said Frank. "I never tasted it as good in America." "They know how to make it here, but why didn't you order breakfast?" "I thought they would supply meat without an order." "I always want meat; I have got beyond my bread-and-butter days," said Sharpley, with a dash of sarcasm. "I have not," said Frank, "especially when both are so good. What are your plans for the day, Colonel Sharpley?" "I think we'll take a climb after breakfast," said Sharpley. "What do you say?" "I should like nothing better," said Frank, eagerly. "But," he added, "I am afraid you are going entirely on my account." "How well the boy has guessed it," thought Sharpley. "It is on his account I am going, but he must not know that." "Oh, no," he said; "I feel like taking a ramble among the hills. It would be stupid staying at the inn." "Then," said Frank, with satisfaction, "I shall be glad to go. Shall we take a guide?" "Not this morning," said Sharpley. "Let us have the pleasure of exploring independently. To-morrow we will arrange a long excursion with guides." "I suppose it is quite safe?" "Oh, yes, if we don't wander too far. I shall be ready in about half an hour." "I will be ready," said Frank. "And I'll smoke a cigar." Just then a gentleman came up, whose acquaintance they had made the previous day. It was a Mr. Abercrombie, an American gentleman, from Chicago, who was accompanied by his son Henry, a boy about Frank's age. "What are your plans for to-day, Mr. Sharpley?" he asked. "I hope he isn't going to thrust himself upon us," thought Sharpley, savagely, for he was impatient of anything that was likely to interfere with his wicked design. "I have none in particular," he answered. "You are not going to remain at the inn, are you? That would be dull." "Confound the man's curiosity!" muttered Sharpley, to himself. "I may wander about a little, but I shall make no excursion worth speaking of till to-morrow." "Why can't we join company?" said Mr. Abercrombie, in a friendly manner. "Our young people are well acquainted, and we can keep each other company. Enlarge your plan a little, and take a guide." "I wish the man was back in America," thought Sharpley. "Why won't he see that he's a bore?" "Really," he said, stiffly, "you must excuse me; I don't feel equal to any sort of an excursion to-day." "Then," said the other, still in a friendly way, "let your boy come with us. I will look after him, and my son will like his company." Frank heard this application, and as he had taken a fancy to Henry and his father, he hoped that Sharpley would reply favorably. He felt that he should enjoy their company better than his guardian's. Sharpley was greatly irritated, but obliged to keep within the bounds of politeness to avoid suspicion, when something had happened, as he meant something should happen before the sun set. "I hope you won't think me impolite," he said, "but I mean, by and by, to walk a little, and would like Frank's company. To-morrow I shall be very happy to join you." Nothing more could be said, of course, but Henry Abercrombie whispered to Frank: "I'm sorry we're not going to be together to-day." "So am I," answered Frank; "but we'll have a bully time to-morrow. I suppose I ought to stay with Colonel Sharpley." "He isn't any relation of yours, is he?" "Oh, no; I am only traveling in his company." "So I thought. You don't look much alike." "No; I suppose not." Half an hour passed, but the Abercrombies were still there. "Shall we go?" asked Frank. "Not, yet," said Sharpley, shortly. He did not mean to start till the other travelers were gone, lest he should be followed. For he had screwed his courage to the sticking point, and made up his mind that he would that day do the deed which he had covenanted with Mr. Craven to do. The sooner the better, he thought, for it would bring him nearer the large sum of money which he expected to realize as the price of our hero's murder. Twenty minutes afterward the Abercrombies, equipped for a mountain walk, swinging their alpenstocks, started off, accompanied by a guide. "Won't you reconsider your determination and go?" asked the father. Sharpley shook his head. "I don't feel equal to the exertion," he answered. "I hope you'll have a pleasant excursion, Henry," said Frank, looking wistfully after his young friend. "It would be pleasanter if you were going along," said Henry. "Thank you." Frank said no more, but waited till Sharpley had smoked another cigar. By this time twenty minutes had elapsed. "I think we'll go now, Frank," said Sharpley. At the welcome intimation Frank jumped up briskly. "Shall I order some lunch to be packed for us?" he asked. "No; we sha'n't need it," said Sharpley. Frank laughed. "I think I'll get some for myself," said Frank, laughing, as he added: "I've got a healthy appetite, Colonel Sharpley, and I am sure the exertion of climbing these hills will make me fearfully hungry." "I don't want to be delayed," said Sharpley, frowning. "We sha'n't be gone long enough to need lunch." "It won't take me a minute," said Frank, running into the inn. "It is strange he is so much in a hurry all at once," thought our young hero, "when he has been lounging about for an hour without appearing in the least haste." However, he did not spend much thought on Sharpley's wayward humor, which he was beginning to see was regulated by no rules. Less than five minutes afterward he appeared, provided with a tourist's lunch-box. "I've got enough for you, Colonel Sharpley," he said, "in case we stay out longer than we anticipate." The landlord closely followed him, and addressed himself to Sharpley: "Will not monsieur have a guide?" he asked. "No," said Sharpley. "My son, Baptiste, is an experienced guide, and can show monsieur and his young friend the finest prospects." "I shall need no guide," said Sharpley, impatiently. "Frank, come along." "It will only be six francs," persisted the landlord, "and Baptiste--" "I don't want Baptiste," said Sharpley, gruffly. "Plague take the man!" he muttered to himself. "He is making himself a regular nuisance." "I wish he would take a guide," thought Frank, no suspicion of the importance to himself of having one entering his mind. CHAPTER XXII. OVER THE BRINK. They started on their walk provided with alpenstocks, for just above them was the snow-line, and they could not go far without encountering ice also. The Hotel du Glacier stood thousands of feet above the sea-level, and was a favorite resort with those who enjoyed the sublimity of mountain scenery. Though Sharpley was by no means the companion he would have best liked, Frank was in high spirits, as he realized that he was really four thousand miles from home, surrounded by the famous mountains of which he had so often read. "Have you ever been up this mountain before, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Not up this mountain. I have ascended others, however. I once crossed over Mount Cenis to Italy." "How? Did you walk?" "No. I went in a diligence." "It must have been fine. Shall we go into Italy?" "Perhaps so." "I should like it very much. I have read so much about Italy." "How I wish Ben Cameron were here!" said Frank, after a pause. He did not so much mean to say this to Sharpley, but the thought entered his mind, and he unconsciously uttered it aloud. "Who is Ben Cameron?" "He is a friend of mine at home. We were a great deal together." "Was he the boy that was with you when I first met you?" "Yes, sir." "Humph! I have no desire for his company," thought Sharpley. "Have you a glass with you, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Yes. Would you like to use it?" "If you please." It was a small spy-glass, not powerful, but serviceable. Frank adjusted it to his eye, and looked earnestly in a certain direction. "What do you see?" asked his companion. "Wait a minute. I am not certain. Yes, it is they." "Who?" demanded Sharpley, impatiently. "The Abercrombies. They are higher up than we, over there, but not very much out of our way. Shall we join them?" asked Frank, hopefully. "Where are they? Let me see," said Sharpley, seizing the glass. He thought Frank might be mistaken, but a glance through the glass satisfied him that he was right. There was Mr. Abercrombie, toiling up a steep ascent, with his son following, the latter assisted by the guide. "Do you see them?" "Yes." "Don't you think we can overtake them?" "Perhaps we might, but I for one don't intend to try." Frank looked at him inquiringly. "Why not?" "I thought you heard me decline to join them at the hotel. I have no fancy for company to-day." "Excuse me," said Frank, politely. "I might have remembered it." "You can join them to-morrow if you feel like it," said Sharpley, emphasizing the last clause. Frank noticed the emphasis, and wondered at it a little. It seemed to imply that he might not choose to do it, and that did not seem very likely. However, possibly the emphasis was unconscious, and his mind did not dwell upon it. They were now walking along a ledge scarcely more than six feet wide, terminating in a sheer precipice. "I wonder if accidents often happen here?" suggested Frank. "Such as what?" sharply interrogated his companion. "I mean such as slipping over these cliffs." "Not often, I presume," said Sharpley. "No one who exercises common prudence need fear slipping." His heart began to beat quicker, for he saw that the moment was approaching in which his fearful work was to be done. "The dangers of the Alps are very greatly exaggerated," he said, indifferently. "It looks dangerous," said Frank. "Yes, I presume so. Suppose we approach the edge cautiously and look down." There is a fatal fascination about danger. Just as the moth hovers persistently about the flame, to which in the end he falls a victim, so we are disposed to draw near dangers at which we shudder. We like to see it for ourselves, and, shuddering, to say: "Suppose I should fall in." Our young hero was of a daring disposition. He had never been timid or nervous, inheriting his father's physical traits, not his mother's. So Sharpley's proposal struck him favorably, being an appeal to his courage. "I should like to look over," he said. As he spoke he drew near the fatal brink, not observing that his companion was not at his side, but just behind him. "Now for it!" thought Sharpley, his breath coming thick and fast. One push from behind, and Frank was over the ledge, falling--falling--falling. There was one scream of terror, and Sharpley found himself alone upon the cliff. CHAPTER XXIII. GIVING THE ALARM. There are not many men who can commit a crime of violence without an inward shudder and a thrill of horror. Sharpley was not a professional murderer. He had never before taken life. His offences against law had been many, but none had stained his soul with blood till now. He felt faint as he saw the disappearance of his young ward, sped by his own hand to a death so fearful. "It is done and can't be undone," he muttered. "He will never know what hurt him. I am glad it's over. It was a dirty job, but I had to do it. Craven forced me to this. He must pay well for it." "Shall I look over the cliff?" he asked himself. [Illustration: OVER THE LEDGE.] He advanced a step, but drew back with a shudder. "No, I can't do it," he said to himself. "It will make me dizzy. I shall run the risk of falling over myself." He retraced his steps for a few rods, and then sat down to think. It was necessary that he should concoct some plausible account of the accident, in order to avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to fall upon him. Who could dream of any motive that would impel him to such a deed? Yet there was such a motive, as he well knew, but the only one who shared the knowledge was in America, and he was criminally connected with the crime. Sharpley soon determined upon his course and his explanation. The latter would necessitate a search for the boy, and this made him pause. "But, pshaw!" he said, "the boy is dead. He must have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. I must get back to the hotel and give the alarm." An hour later Sharpley approached the inn. He had walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play. He rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly knocking over the portly landlord, whom he encountered in the passage. "What is the matter, monsieur?" asked the landlord, with eyes distended. "The boy!" gasped Sharpley. "What of the boy, monsieur?" "He has fallen over a precipice," he exclaimed. "_Oh, ciel!_" exclaimed the landlord. "How did it happen?" "We were walking on a narrow ledge," explained Sharpley. "On one side there was a steep descent. I don't know how many hundreds of feet deep. The boy approached the edge. I warned him to be careful, but he was very rash. He did not obey me. He leaned too far, lost his balance, and fell over. I sprang forward to save him, but it was too late." "It is horrible!" said the landlord. "Was he your son?" "No, but he was the son of a dear friend. Oh, how shall I break the sad tidings to his father and mother? Is there no hope of his life being saved?" "I fear not," said the landlord, gravely. "You should have taken Baptiste with you, as I advised." "Oh, my friend, I wish I had!" said the hypocrite, fervently. "Where is Baptiste? Let us go and see if we can find the poor boy?" "Here I am at your service, monsieur," said Baptiste. "I will take a comrade with me. We will save him if we can, but I fear there is no hope." Ten minutes later Sharpley, accompanied by two guides, and some of the guests of the hotel, who had been struck with horror on hearing the news, were wending their way up the mountain in quest of our hero. CHAPTER XXIV. SHARPLEY DISSEMBLES. There was some delay about starting, but at length the party got under way. Very little conversation took place, and that little related only to the accident. The spell of the awful tragedy was upon them, and their faces were grave and their spirits depressed. And what shall we say of the guilty man, who alone could unlock the mystery?--who alone could account for the boy's tragic end? His mind was in a tumult of contradictory emotions. He was glad that it was all over--that the fearful task which in America he had agreed to execute, which had haunted him for these many days and nights, was no longer before him to do, that it was already done. He saw before him, mercenary wretch that he was, the promised reward, in a sum of money which would be to him a competence, and which, carefully husbanded, would relieve all his money anxieties for the future. But, on the other hand, there came the shuddering thought that he had wrought the death of an unoffending boy, who had looked up to him as a guide and protector, but whom he had only lured to his ruin. "Are accidents frequent among the mountains?" asked one of the guests, addressing Baptiste, the guide. "No, monsieur; not in this part. When travelers are hurt or killed, it is because they are careless or go without guides." "As I did," said Sharpley, who felt it would be polite to take upon himself this blame, and so skilfully evade suspicion of a graver fault. "You are right, and I am much to blame; but I did not expect to go so far, nor did I think Frank would be so imprudent. But it is not for me to blame the poor boy, who has been so fearfully punished for his boldness. You would not have let him go so near the edge of the cliff?" "No, monsieur; or, if he went, I would have held him while he looked down." "It is what I should have done. Oh, how horrible it was to see him fall over the cliff!" And Sharpley shuddered, a genuine shudder; for, guilty as he was, the picture was one to appall him. "Oh, how shall I tell his poor mother?" he continued, acting wonderfully well. The rest were silent, respecting what they thought to be his grief. They had, perhaps, half achieved the ascent, when they fell in with the Abercrombies, who were just returning from their excursion. They regarded the ascending party with surprise. "What!" said Mr. Abercrombie to Sharpley, "are you just going up the mountain? You are very late." "Where is Frank?" asked Henry Abercrombie, looking in vain among the party for our hero, to whom, as already said, he had taken a fancy. There was silence at first, each of those in the secret regarding the rest. But it was to Sharpley that Mr. Abercrombie looked for a reply. The delay surprised him. "What is the matter?" he asked, at length. "Has anything happened?" "Somebody tell him," said Sharpley, in pretended emotion. Baptiste was the one to respond. "Monsieur," he said, gravely, "a terrible thing has happened. The poor boy has fallen into a ravine." "What!" exclaimed father and son, in horror. "Frank fallen? Why I saw him only this morning. I asked him to go with us. Is this true?" said Henry. "It is only too true, my boy," said Sharpley, covering his face. And he repeated his version of the accident with well-counterfeited emotion. "Is there no hope?" asked Henry, with pale face. Baptiste shook his head. "I am afraid not," he said; "but I can tell better when I see the place." "How can there be any hope?" asked Mr. Abercrombie. "He might have fallen on the deep snow, or on some intermediate ledge, and so saved his life." "Good Heaven!" thought Sharpley, in dismay. "Suppose it should be so? Suppose he is alive, and should expose me? I should be ruined. But no! It cannot be. There is not one chance in a hundred. Yet that one chance disturbs me. I must find out as soon as possible, in order that my mind may be at ease." "Come on!" he said, aloud. "While we are lingering here the boy may die. Let us make haste." "I will go with you," said Mr. Abercrombie. "And I," said Henry. CHAPTER XXV. A USELESS SEARCH. "Is this the place?" asked Baptiste, as, half an hour later, they stood on the fatal cliff. "This is the place," said Sharpley. "Let me look over," said Henry, advancing to the edge. "Are you mad?" exclaimed his father, drawing him back hastily. "I will look, gentlemen," said the guide. "It will be safest for me." He threw himself flat upon his stomach, and thus in safety peeped into the chasm. "Do you see anything?" asked Sharpley, agitated. "Wait till I look earnestly," and after a breathless pause, he answered slowly: "No, I see nothing; but the cliff is not so steep or so high as I thought. There are some bushes growing in parts. He might be stopped by these." "You can't see any traces of him, can you?" Another pause. "No. The snow seems disturbed in one place, but if he had fallen there, he would be there still." "Might he not have fallen there and rolled to the bottom?" "Perhaps so. I cannot tell." "Let me look," said Sharpley. The suggestion of the possibility that Frank might have escaped was fraught to him with danger. All his hopes of safety and success depended upon the boy's death. He wanted to see for himself. The guide rose, and Sharpley, imitating his posture, threw himself on the ground and looked over, borrowing the glass. But such a sense of horror, brought on by his own criminality, overcame him as he lay there that his vision was blurred, and he came near dropping the glass. He rose, trembling. "I can see nothing of him," he said. "He is certainly dead. Poor boy! He could not possibly have escaped." "Let me look," said Abercrombie. But he also could see no trace of the body. "I think," he said, rising, "that our best course will be to descend and explore at the bottom of the cliff." "It will be of no use," said Sharpley. "We can at least find the body and give it decent burial. Baptiste, is there no way of descending?" "Yes," said Baptiste, "but we shall need to go a long distance around." "How long will it take?" "An hour; perhaps more." "I am ready to go, for one," said Mr. Abercrombie. "Will you go, Mr. Sharpley?" "I do not feel equal to the exertion. I am too agitated." Glances of pity were directed toward him. "Baptiste," said Abercrombie, "if you will guide me, and any one else who chooses to join the expedition, I will pay you double price." "Monsieur," said Baptiste, who had feelings, though not indifferent to money, "I will guide you for nothing, out of regard for the poor boy." "You are an honest fellow," said Mr. Abercrombie, grasping his hand warmly. "You shall not lose by it." "May I go, father?" asked Henry. "No, my son. The exertion will be too great for you. Go home with the rest of the party." In silence the party returned to the Hotel du Glacier. Most were appalled by the sad fate of Frank Hunter, but Sharpley was moved by another feeling. There was not much chance of Frank's being found alive, or in a condition to expose his murderous attempt, but, of course, there was a slight possibility. While that existed he felt ill at ease. He would gladly have left the place at once, but this he could not do without exciting suspicion. He must wait till the return of the party. It was not till nightfall that the party were seen returning. Sharpley waited for their report in great suspense. "Have you found him?" he demanded, pale with excitement. Baptiste shook his head. He gave a sigh of quiet relief, which was interpreted to be a sigh of sorrow. "I thought you would not," he said. The next day he left the hotel. "I must go to America," he said, "to tell Frank's mother the terrible truth. I cannot trust it to a letter." "But suppose the body is found," said Baptiste. "Bury it decently and write instantly to me, and I will transmit the necessary sum. Or, hold, here are a hundred and fifty francs. If he is not found, keep them yourself." An hour later he was on his way to Paris. CHAPTER XXVI. MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL. "So this is the Hotel de Bugs," said Jonathan Tarbox, as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides, the well-known Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. "It looks like a nice sort of a hotel. I wonder if Frank and that rascally humbug are stoppin' here. I'd give twenty-five cents to see that boy's face. Strange what a fancy I've took to him. He's a reg'lar gentleman; as quick and sharp as a steel-trap." Mr. Tarbox had walked from the railway station. He was naturally economical, and, having all his life been accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and extravagance to take a carriage. He had inquired his way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel as above. The similarity in sound was sufficient to insure a correction. He entered the hotel and found the landlord. "I say, captain, I want to put up here to-night." "Will monsieur have a room?" asked the host, politely. "If you mean me, that's what I want; but I ain't a monseer at all. I'm a Yankee." "Monsieur Yang-kee?" said the landlord, a little puzzled. "Look here, captain, I ain't a monseer--I don't eat frogs. Do I look like it. No, I'm a straight-down, dyed-in-the-wool Yankee, from Squashboro', State o' Maine." "Will you have a room?" asked the landlord, avoiding the word monsieur, which he perceived the other disclaimed, for some reason which he could not very well comprehend. "Yes, I will, if I can get one cheap. I don't want none of your big apartments, that cost like blazes. I want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair." "We have _petits apartements_--very small price." "Give me one, then. Oh, hold on; is there a boy named Frank Hunter stoppin' here, with a man named Sharpley?" "_Non_, monsieur. He has been here, but he is gone." "Gone? When did he go?" "Three days ago." "Three days!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, thoughtfully. "He didn't stay long, then?" "Only one night." "Seems to me he was in a hurry. Isn't there nothin' worth seein' round here?" "Oh, yes, monsieur," said the landlord, with animation. "_Geneve_ is a very interesting city. Would you not like to see how they make the watches, and the boxes of _musique_? There are many places here that strangers do visit. There is the cathedral and the _Musee_. Monsieur should stay here one--two weeks." "And put up at your tavern?" "Eh?" "And stop up at your hotel?" "_Certainement_, monsieur." "That's what I thought. Anyhow, I'll stay here till to-morrow. But about this old rascal--" "Monsieur?" "I mean this Sharpley, and the boy--where did they go?" "I know not, monsieur. They went to see the mountains." "Well, captain, as mountains in this neighborhood are about as thick as huckleberry bushes in a pastur', I ain't none the wiser for that. Couldn't you tell me a little plainer?" But this the landlord, or captain, as Mr. Tarbox insisted upon calling him, was unable to do. As there was nothing else to be done, our Yankee friend selected a room on the top floor, which, by reason of its elevation, he was enabled to get for two francs a day. In European hotels the rooms become cheaper the higher up they are, and thus various prices are paid at the same hotel. It is not necessarily expensive, therefore, sojourning at a first-class hotel abroad; and, indeed, it is better than to take lower rooms in an inferior inn, supposing the traveler's means to be limited. "Well," said Mr. Tarbox, looking about him, when he was fairly installed in his room, "my journey ain't going to cost me so much, after all. I come third class to Geneva for less'n ten dollars, and I can live here pretty cheap. But that ain't the question. Where-abouts among these hills is Frank? That's what I'd like to know. I wonder what that step-father of his meant by his talk about accidents? If anything happens to Frank, and I find it out, I'll stir 'em up, as sure as my name's Jonathan Tarbox. But I'm getting hungry; I'll go down and see what kind of fodder they can give me. I guess I'd better clean up first, for I'm as dirty as ef I'd been out in the field plowin'." Mr. Tarbox made a satisfactory supper at moderate expense. He didn't go to the _table d'hôte_, for, as he said, "They bring you a mouthful of this, and a mouthful of that, and when you're through ten or eleven courses, you have to pay a dollar, more or less, and are as hungry as when you began. I'd rather order something _a la carte_, as they call it, though what it has to do with a cart is more than I can tell, and then I can get enough, and don't have so much to pay neither." Mr. Tarbox made further inquiries the next day, but could not ascertain definitely in what direction the travelers had gone. There were several possible routes, and they were as likely to have gone by one as by another. Under the circumstances it seemed to him that it was better to remain where he was. There was a chance of the two returning by way of Geneva, and they would be likely to come to the same hotel; while if he started off in one direction, it would very probably turn out that they had gone by another. One circumstance certainly favored his decision--it was cheaper remaining in Geneva than in journeying off at random in search of Frank, and Mr. Tarbox, therefore, decided to patronize the Hotel des Bergues for a short time at least, trying, meanwhile, to get some clew to the whereabouts of the travelers. He improved the time by visiting the objects of interest in Geneva, bewildering the natives by his singular remarks, and amusing strangers with whom he came in contact. Some were disposed to regard him as a specimen of the average American. Indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to the typical American introduced by our English friends in their books of travel and in their dramatic productions. He did indeed possess some national characteristics. He was independent, fearless, self-reliant, hating injustice and oppression, but he was without the polish, or culture, or refinement which are to be found in the traveling Americans quite as commonly as in the traveling Englishman or German. He is presented here as a type of a class which does exist, but not as an average American. It struck Mr. Tarbox that he might obtain some information of those whom he sought by inquiring of the travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had met with such a party. No diffidence held him back from questioning closely all who came. Some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice. In general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth, but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to assert themselves upon all occasions. But Mr. Tarbox was not one to be daunted by coldness, or abashed by a repellant manner. He persisted in his questions until he learned what he wanted. But his questions were without a satisfactory answer until one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. They were, in fact, Henry Abercrombie and his father, fresh from the scene of the accident. Mr. Tarbox introduced himself and propounded his question. Father and son exchanged a look of sadness. "He means poor Frank, father," said Henry. "Poor Frank!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "What makes you say that?" "Were you a friend of the boy?" asked Mr. Abercrombie. "Yes, and I am still. He's a tip-top fellow, Frank is." "I am sorry, then, to be the bearer of sad tidings." "What do you mean?" asked Jonathan, quickly. "Don't say anything has happened to the boy." "But there has. He fell over a cliff, and though his body has not been found, he was probably killed instantly." "Who was with him when he fell?" asked Mr. Tarbox, excited. "His guardian, Mr. Sharpley. The two had wandered off by themselves, without a guide. Frank approached too near the edge of the cliff, lost his balance, and fell." "That confounded skunk pushed him over!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, in high excitement. "You don't mean Colonel Sharpley?" exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie, in surprise. "Yes, I do. I followed them from Paris, because I was afraid of it." "But it is incredible. I assure you Colonel Sharpley showed great sorrow for the accident." "Then he's a hypocrite! If you want proof of what I say, just read that letter." CHAPTER XXVII. TARBOX TO THE RESCUE. Thus invited, Mr. Abercrombie read the letter of Mr. Craven, in which he referred to the possibility of an accident befalling Frank. "What does this prove?" asked the reader, looking up. "It proves that Sharpley pushed Frank over the cliff," said Mr. Tarbox, excitedly. "I don't see that it does." "Don't you see how he speaks of what is to be done if an accident happens?" "Yes, but--" "Doesn't that show that he expects it?" "But we must establish a motive. What reason could Mr. Craven have for the murder of his step-son?" "I'll tell you, for Frank told me all about it. Frank's got money, and so has his mother, but Frank's got the most. If he dies, his property goes to his mother. His loss will kill her, for she's delicate, so Frank says, and then this Craven will step into the whole of it. Don't you see?" "There is something in that," said Mr. Abercrombie, thoughtfully. "Indeed, it would explain a part of Colonel Sharpley's conduct on the day of the accident." "What did he do?" asked Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "I invited him to accompany my son and myself on an excursion. He refused, saying that he didn't feel like the exertion of an ascent. Then I invited Frank to accompany us, but he refused to let him go. He said he might take a short tramp, and wanted his company." "The skunk!" "Again, though urged afterward to take a guide, he refused to do so, but took a long walk--he and the boy being alone." "I'd like to wring his neck!" ejaculated Jonathan. "Besides, Frank could not have fallen unless he was very imprudent. Now, he never struck me as a rash or heedless boy." "He wasn't." "It doesn't seem at all like him voluntarily to place himself in such peril, yet Colonel Sharpley says he did." "He lies, the murderous skunk!" "It did not strike me at first, but I fear that you are right, and that the poor boy has been foully dealt with." "Isn't there any hope?" asked Mr. Tarbox, blowing his nose violently in order to get a chance to wipe away the tears which the supposed sad fate of our hero called forth. "How high was the hill?" "I fear there is no hope. We searched for the body, but did not find it." "Then he may be living," said Mr. Tarbox, brightening up. "There is hardly a chance of it, I should say," returned Mr. Abercrombie, gravely. "The descent was deep and precipitous." "Where is the villain Sharpley?" "He left the next day. He said he should hurry back to America to carry the sad news to the parents of the poor boy." "And get his pay from Craven." "I hope, Mr. Tarbox, that your suspicions are groundless. I should be very unwilling to believe in such wickedness." "I hope so, too. If it was an accident I should think it was the will of God; but if that villain has murdered him I know it ain't. I wish I could overhaul Sharpley." "What do you propose to do, Mr. Tarbox?" "I'll tell you, Mr. Abercrombie. Fust and foremost, I'm going to that place where the accident happened, and I mean to find Frank dead or alive. If he's dead, I'll try to find out if he was murdered or not. If he's alive, I'll take care of him, and he'll tell me all about it." "Mr. Tarbox," said the other, taking his hand, "I respect you for the strength of your attachment to the poor lad. I saw but little of him, but enough to be assured that he was a bold, manly boy, of a noble nature and a kind disposition. Pardon me for the offer I am about to make, but I hope you will allow me to pay the expenses of this investigation. You give your time; let me give my money, which is of less value." "Thank you, Mr. Abercrombie," said Mr. Tarbox. "You're a gentleman; but I've got a little money, and I'd just as lief use it for Frank. I'll pay my own expenses." "At any rate, I will give you my address, and if you get short of money I hope you will apply to me without fail." "I will, squire," said Jonathan. So they parted. Mr. Tarbox set out immediately for the Hotel du Glacier. CHAPTER XXVIII. SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE. But where all this while was Frank? Had he really fallen a victim to the murderous designs of his treacherous guardian? My readers have been kept too long in suspense as to his fate. At the moment of falling he was fully conscious, but too late, of his companion's treachery. In that terrible moment there flashed upon him a full knowledge of the plot of which he was a victim, and he had time to connect with it his step-father as the prime author and instigator of the deed. It was indeed a terrible experience. In the full flush of youthful life and strength the gates of death swung open before him, and he gave himself up for lost, resigning himself to his fearful fate as well as he could. But there was one thought of anguish--his mother! How would she grieve over his untimely death! And the wretch who had instigated his murder, would he stop short, content, or would he next assail her? In times of danger the mind acts quickly. All these thoughts passed through the mind of our hero as he fell, but all at once there was a violent shock. He had stopped falling, yet he was not dead, only stunned. There was a ledge part way down, a hollow filled with soft snow--making a natural bed, and it was upon this that he had fallen. Yet, soft as it was, the shock was sufficient to deprive him of consciousness. When he became sensible of surrounding objects--that is, when his consciousness returned--he looked about him in bewilderment. Where was he? Not surely on the ledge, for, looking around him, he saw the walls of a small and humble apartment, scantily provided with needful furniture. He was lying upon a bed, a poor wooden bedstead. There was another person in the room--a woman, so humbly attired that he knew she was a Swiss peasant. "Where am I?" he asked, bewildered. The woman turned quickly, and her homely, sun-browned face glowed with pleasure. "You are awake, monsieur?" she said, in the French language. I have already said that Frank was a French scholar, and could understand the language to a limited extent, as well as speak it somewhat. He understood her, and answered in French: "Yes, madame, I am awake. Will you kindly tell me where I am?" "You met with an accident, monsieur. My husband and my brother were upon the mountain, and found you on a ledge covered with snow." "I remember," said Frank, shuddering. "When was that?" "Yesterday. You have slept since then. How do you feel?" "I feel sore and bruised. Are any of my limbs broken?" He moved his arms and legs, but, to his great joy, ascertained that though sore, no bones were broken. "It was a wonderful escape," said the woman. "You must have fallen from the cliff above." "I did." "But for falling on the ledge, you would have been killed." "Yes," answered Frank, "but Heaven be thanked, I have escaped." "How did you fall?" asked the woman. "That was what my husband and my brother, Antoine, could not understand. You must have been leaning over." Frank paused. "I cannot tell you now," he answered. "Perhaps I will soon." "When you please, monsieur, but you must be hungry." "I am indeed hungry, madame. I suppose it is more than twenty-four hours since I have tasted anything." "Poor boy!" said the woman, compassionately. "I will at once get you something to eat. We are poor people, monsieur, and you may not like our plain fare." "Don't speak of it, madame. You are only too kind to me. I can eat anything." Frank had only spoken the truth. He was almost famished; and when the food was set before him, plain as it was, he ate with eager satisfaction, to the evident pleasure of his kindly hostess. But in sitting up, he realized by the soreness of his limbs and the aching of his back, that though no bones were broken, he was far from being in a condition to get up. It was with a feeling of relief that he sank back upon the bed, and with listless eyes watched the movements of his hostess. He was not equal to the exertion of forming plans for the future. CHAPTER XXIX. FRANK'S PEDESTRIAN TOUR. Although Frank was pretty well bruised by his fall, his youth and the vigor of his constitution enabled him to recover rapidly from the effects of the shock. On the third day he got up and took a short walk. On the fifth day he felt well enough to leave his hospitable entertainers. But where should he go? Should he return to the Hotel du Glacier and place himself again in the clutches of his treacherous guardian? He felt that to be out of the question. Besides, he rightly conjectured that Sharpley had already left the hotel. No, he must detach himself wholly from his enemy. He must rely upon himself. He must get home the best way he could, and then expose the conspirators, for he was convinced that Mr. Craven was involved in it. But a serious difficulty presented itself. He was about four thousand miles from home, and to return, as well as to stay where he was, required money. This led him to an examination of his finances. He never carried much money with him. Sharpley being treasurer. Opening his pocket-book, he found he had sixty francs only, or about twelve dollars in gold. Now, as my readers will readily judge, twelve dollars is hardly adequate for a return journey from Switzerland to America. Had Frank been dismayed at this situation it would hardly have created surprise, but, on the contrary, he felt in very good spirits. "I don't believe I shall starve," he said to himself. "If I can only get to Paris, I will seek out Mr. Tarbox, and I am sure he will lend me money enough to get home." But had he enough to get to Paris? Barely enough to travel third class; but then he must remember the good people who had found and taken care of him. For this alone, twelve dollars was inadequate. But he could take their names, and promise to send them more from America. His difficulty would have been far less great had he known that at that very moment Mr. Tarbox had just arrived at the Hotel du Glacier in search of him, prepared to help him to the best of his ability. But of this he knew nothing. So, on the morning of the fifth day, Frank announced to his humble friends that he must leave them. "But are you strong enough, monsieur?" asked the peasant's wife. "Oh, yes, madame; thanks to your kind care, I am quite recovered." "And monsieur will go to his friends?" "I have no friends in Europe." "What! so young and alone?" "I did not come alone. I came in charge of a man whom I thought friendly, but it was he who threw me over the cliff and nearly killed me." "Surely, monsieur is mistaken!" exclaimed the woman, astonished. "No," answered Frank. "He is my enemy. It is a long story; but at home I am rich, and I think he is employed by my step-father to kill me." In answer to questions, Frank gave a general account of the circumstances to the worthy people, and closed by saying: "When I have returned to America, I shall send you suitable compensation for your kindness. Now, I can only give you enough to pay what you have expended for me." He drew from his pocket two Napoleons (two-thirds of his available means), and insisted upon their acceptance. They at first refused to take the money, but finally accepted it. Had they known that Frank would be left with but twenty francs himself, they would have taken nothing, but Americans abroad are popularly supposed to be even richer than they are, and it never occurred to them to suspect our hero's present poverty. They stood in the doorway, watching him as he started off with a firm step, and a heart almost as light as his purse, and heartily joined in the wish, "Bon voyage, monsieur." Frank waved his hat, smiling, and set out on his way. Had our hero been well provided with money, nothing could have been more agreeable than a pedestrian journey amid the beautiful scenery of the Alps. Even as it was, Frank felt the exhilarating influences of the fresh morning air and the grand scenery, visible on all sides, for he was hemmed in by mountains. His proposed terminus being Paris, he kept a general northwesterly course, making inquiries when at all at a loss as to the road. At midday he found himself in a little village. By this time he was hungry. He did not go to a hotel. He felt that his slender store of money would not justify it. He stopped, instead, at a cottage, and for a few cents obtained a pint of milk and a small loaf. This fare was plain enough, but appetite is the best sauce, and his hunger made it taste delicious. He rested for three hours, then, when the sun's rays were less powerful, he resumed his journey. At seven o'clock in the evening he had accomplished about twenty-five miles, and was foot-sore and weary. He selected another cottage, and made application for supper and a bed. "Monsieur will do better to go to the hotel," said the peasant. "We are poor people, and our accommodations are too humble for a gentleman like monsieur." Frank smiled. He saw that they judged of his means by his clothing, which was of fine texture and fashionable cut, for he had purchased a traveling suit in London. "I have been robbed of nearly all my money," he explained (this was true, for it was in Sharpley's possession), "and I cannot afford to go to the hotel. If you will let me stay here, I will gladly accept what accommodations you have to offer." "Oh, in that case, monsieur," said the peasant's wife, cheerfully, "you are quite welcome. Come right in." Frank entered. He soon had set before him a supper of bread, milk and honey, to which he did ample justice. Then he asked permission to bathe his feet, which were sore. At nine o'clock he went to bed, and, as might have been expected, enjoyed a sound sleep, which refreshed him not a little. I have described this one day as a specimen of the manner in which Frank traveled. The charges were so small that he made his money go a long way. But the stock was so small that it steadily became less with formidable rapidity, and our young hero found himself with poverty staring him in the face. He had traveled over a hundred miles, nearly a hundred and fifty, when, on counting his money, he found that he had but forty cents (or two francs) left. This was a serious state of things. "What shall I do?" thought Frank, as he sat down by the wayside to reflect on his situation. "To-morrow I shall be penniless, and I must be six or seven hundred miles from Paris, more or less. One thing is certain, I can't travel for nothing. What shall I do?" Frank reflected that if he were in America he would seek for a job at sawing wood, or any other kind of unskilled labor for which he was competent. He could hire himself out for a month, till he could obtain money enough to prosecute his journey. But it was evident that there was very little chance of this resource here. The peasants at whose cottages he stopped were poor in money; they had none to spare, and they did their own work. Besides, it was not likely that his services would be worth much to them. There was one thing he might do. He might remain over a few days somewhere, and write meanwhile to Jonathan Tarbox, in Paris, asking him to send him fifty francs or so. But, somehow, Frank did not like to do this. As we know, it would have done no good, as Mr. Tarbox was now in Switzerland seeking him. He felt that he would like to make his way to Paris unaided if possible. But how to do it was a difficult problem. He was plunged in deep reflection on this point when his attention was called to a boy of seven, who came running past crying and sobbing. "_Qu' avez vous?_" asked Frank; or, "What is the matter with you?" "Oh, I can't understand French," said the boy. "What is the matter?" asked our hero, in English. "I am lost," was the reply. "I don't know where papa or sister is." "Don't cry. I will help you to find them. But, first, tell me what is your name, and how you happened to get lost." "My name is Herbert Grosvenor," answered the little fellow. He went on to say that his father was a London merchant, who was traveling with himself and his sister Beatrice. He had walked out in charge of a servant, but the latter had stopped at an inn and became drunk. Then he became so violent that Herbert was afraid and ran away. But he was too young to know the road, and had lost his way. "I shall never see my papa again," he sobbed. "Oh, yes, you will," said Frank, encouragingly. "I will take you to him. Do you remember where he is stopping?" The boy was luckily able to answer correctly that his father was stopping at the Hotel de la Couronne, in a large town, which Frank knew to be only two miles distant. "Come, Herbert," he said, cheerfully, "I will carry you back to your father. Take my hand, and we will set out at once, if you are not tired." "Oh, no, I am not tired. I can walk," said the little boy, brightening up, and putting his hand with confidence in that of his young protector. CHAPTER XXX. NEW FRIENDS. When Frank arrived at the hotel with his young charge he found the Grosvenor family in great dismay. The servant had returned, evidently under the influence of liquor, quite unable to give any account of the little boy. A party, headed by Mr. Grosvenor, was about starting out in search of him, when he made his appearance, clinging trustfully to the hand of our hero. "Oh, you naughty runaway!" said his sister Beatrice, a lovely girl of twelve, folding Herbert in a sisterly embrace. "How you have frightened us!" "I couldn't help it, sister," said Herbert. "What made you run away from Thomas, my boy?" asked his father. "I was afraid of him," said Herbert. "He was so strange." The cause of the strange conduct was evident enough to any one who saw the servant's present condition, for he was too stupefied even to defend himself. [Illustration: THE LITTLE RUNAWAY.] "It's a shame, father," said Beatrice. "Only think, our darling little Herbie might have been lost. I hope you will never trust him again with Thomas." "I shall not," said the father, decidedly. "Thomas has forfeited my confidence, and he must leave my service. I shall pay his passage back to London, and there he must shift for himself." "You have not thanked the young gentleman who brought him back, father," said Beatrice, in a low voice. Mr. Grosvenor turned to Frank. "Accept my warmest thanks, young gentleman," he said, "for your kindness to my little son." "It was only a trifle, sir," said our hero, modestly. "It was no trifle to us. How did you happen to meet him?" "I was resting by the road-side, when he came along, crying. I asked him what was the matter, and he told me. Then I offered to guide him to you." "And thereby relieved our deep anxiety. We were very much frightened when Thomas returned without him." "I don't wonder, sir." "You are English, I infer," said Mr. Grosvenor. "No, sir; I am an American." "You are not traveling alone--at your age?" said the merchant, in surprise. "I was not--that is, I came from America with another person, but I parted from him in Switzerland." Frank refrained from explaining under what circumstances he parted from Sharpley, partly from a natural reluctance to revive so unpleasant a subject, partly because he did not like to trouble the Grosvenors with his affairs. "It must be lonely traveling without friends," said Mr. Grosvenor. "My daughter and I would feel glad to have you join our party." "Oh, yes, papa!" said Beatrice. Frank turned towards the beautiful girl who spoke so impulsively, and he could not help feeling that it would indeed be a pleasure to travel in her society. I don't mean to represent him as in love, for at his age that would be foolish; but he had never had a sister, and it seemed to him that he would have been glad to have such a sister as Beatrice. But how could he, with less than forty sous to defray his traveling expenses, join the party of a wealthy London merchant? Had he the money that rightfully belonged to him, now in Sharpley's hands, there would have been no difficulty. "You hesitate," said Mr. Grosvenor. "Perhaps it would interfere with your plans to go with us." "No, sir; it is not that," and Frank hesitated again. It was an embarrassing moment, but he decided quickly to make the merchant acquainted with his circumstances. "If you will favor me with five minutes' private conversation," he said, "I will tell you why I hesitate." "Certainly," said Mr. Grosvenor, politely, and led the way into the hotel. The nature of Frank's explanation is, of course, anticipated by the reader. He related, as briefly as possible, the particulars of Sharpley's plot. The merchant listened with surprise. "This is certainly a singular story," he said, "and you have been treated with the blackest treachery. Do you know, or do you guess, what has become of this man?" "I don't know. I think he has started to return to America, or will do so soon." "And what are your plans?" "I mean to go to Paris. There I have a friend who I think will help me--an American with whom I became acquainted on the voyage over." "I suppose you are poorly provided with money?" "I have less than two francs left," Frank acknowledged. The merchant looked amazed. "You were actually reduced to that?" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir." "How did you expect to get to Paris?" Frank smiled. "That is what puzzled me," he owned. "I was sitting by the road-side thinking how I should accomplish it when your little boy came along." Now it was Mr. Grosvenor's turn to smile. "He solved it," he said. "Who, sir?" asked Frank. "My little boy," said Mr. Grosvenor, still smiling. "I don't understand," said our hero, puzzled. "I mean that Herbert shall act as your banker. That is, on account of your kindness to him, I propose to add you to my party, and advance you such sums as you may require." "You are very kind, sir," said Frank, relieved and grateful. "I really don't know what I should have done without some such assistance." "Then it is arranged, and you will join us at dinner, which is already ordered. I will order a room to be made ready for you." "I hope, sir, you will excuse my dress," said Frank, who, it must be confessed, might have looked neater. He had walked for several days, and was in consequence very dusty. Then again, his shirt and collar had been worn ever since his accident, and were decidedly dirty. "I am ashamed of my appearance, sir," continued our hero; "but Colonel Sharpley's treachery compelled me to travel without my trunk, and I have not even a change of linen." Mr. Grosvenor could not forbear smiling. "You are certainly in an awkward condition," he said. "I will apologize for you to Beatrice, the only lady of our party, and we will see after dinner if we cannot repair your loss." Frank used a brush diligently, and succeeded in making his outer clothes presentable; but, alas! no brush could restore the original whiteness of his dingy linen; and he flushed crimson as he entered the dining-room, and by direction of Mr. Grosvenor took a seat next to Beatrice, who looked so fresh and rosy and clean as to make the contrast even more glaring. But her cordial greeting soon put him at ease. "Papa has been telling me of that horrid man who tried to kill you," she commenced. "What a wretch he must be!" "I think he is one," said Frank; "but until the accident happened--that is, till he pushed me over the cliff--I had no idea of his design." "And he left you without any money, didn't he?" "With very little--just what I happened to have about me. I paid most of that to the peasant who found me and took care of me." "Didn't you almost starve?" "No; but my meals were very plain. I didn't dare to eat as much as I would have liked." "And I suppose that horrid man has gone off with your money?" said Beatrice, indignantly. "Yes, miss." "Her name isn't miss," said little Herbert. "It's Beatrice." "Herbert is right," said Beatrice, smiling. "I am not a young lady yet--I am only twelve." "Then," said our hero, who was fast getting to feel at home in his new surroundings, "as I am not a young gentleman yet, I suppose you will call me Frank." "I will call you Frank," said Herbert. "Then I suppose I must do so to be in fashion," said Beatrice, laughing. "I certainly don't look like a young gentleman in these dirty clothes," said our hero. "Perhaps Herbert will lend me a suit?" "I think," said Mr. Grosvenor, "we shall be able to refit you without drawing from Herbert's wardrobe." So the conversation went on, and our hero, before the dinner closed, found himself entirely at his ease in spite of his soiled clothes. CHAPTER XXXI. HOW THE NEWS WENT HOME. Frank had one source of anxiety and embarrassment connected with his recent adventure which had occupied a considerable space of his thoughts. It was this. How could he let his mother know that he was still alive without its coming to the knowledge of Mr. Craven? Convinced, as he was, that his step-father was at the bottom of the treacherous plot to which he had nearly fallen a victim, he wished him to suppose that it had succeeded in order to see what course he would pursue in consequence. His subsequent course would confirm his share in the plot or relieve him from any complicity, and Frank wanted to know, once for all, whether he was to regard his step-father as a disguised and dangerous foe or not. But he was not willing that his mother should rest long under the impression that he had perished among the Alps. In her delicate state of health he feared that it would prove too much for her, and that it might bring on a fit of sickness. He wished, therefore, in some way, to communicate to her secretly the knowledge that he had escaped. But if he wrote Mr. Craven would see the letter or know that one had been received. Evidently, therefore, he could not write directly to her. After some perplexity, he saw a way out of the difficulty. He had recently received a letter from his old friend and school companion, Ben Cameron, stating that the latter had gone to Wakefield, ten miles distant, to spend two months with an uncle, and asking Frank to direct his next letter there. It flashed upon our hero that he could write to Ben, giving him an account of what had happened, and asking him to acquaint his mother secretly, saying nothing of this letter in case he should hear that he, Frank, was dead. The day after he joined the Grosvenor party he carried out this plan, writing a long letter to Ben, which terminated as follows: "I feel sure that Mr. Craven is at the bottom of this attempt upon my life, and I think that his plan is to get possession of my money. He knows that mother's health would be very much affected by the news of any fatal accident to me, and that she would easily be induced to put all business into his hands. He would find it very easy to cheat a woman. You may ask why Colonel Sharpley should be induced to join in such a plot. That I can't tell, but I think he is not very rich, and that Mr. Craven has offered to divide with him in case they succeed. Otherwise, I can think of no motive he could have for attempting to kill me. We have always been on good terms so far as I know. "I may be wrong in all this, but I don't think I am. I suppose Colonel Sharpley has written home that I am dead, and I think that he will soon go to America to receive his pay for the deed. Now, Ben, as you are my friend, I want you to manage to see my mother privately, and tell her that I am well--perfectly well--that I have escaped almost by a miracle, and that though without money, I have found friends who will supply all my needs and give me money to return to America. She is not to let anybody know that she has heard from me, but to wait till I come home, as I shall soon. Especially if Mr. Craven tries to get hold of my property, tell mother to resist and refuse utterly to allow it. I advise her also to take care how she trusts Mr. Craven with her own money. "I shall not write you again, Ben, for fear my letters might be seen. But some day I shall come home unexpectedly. Let mother see this letter and then destroy it. "Your affectionate friend, "FRANK HUNTER." It was fortunate that Frank wrote this letter; but we must precede it, and, after a long interval, look in upon the home he had left. One day Mr. Craven took from the village post-office a letter. He opened it eagerly, and, as he read it, his face showed the gratification which he felt. But lest this should be noticed, he immediately smoothed his face and assumed a look of grave and hypocritical sadness. This was the letter: "DEAR MR CRAVEN:--It is with great sorrow that I sit down to write you this letter. I would, if I could, commit to another hand the task of communicating the terrible news which I have to impart. Not to keep you longer in suspense, your step-son, Frank Hunter, met with a fatal accident yesterday, while ascending the Alps with me. He approached too near the edge of a precipice, though I warned him of his danger, and insisted on looking over. Whether he became dizzy or slipped I cannot explain, but, to my horror, a moment later I saw the unfortunate boy slip over the edge and fall into the terrible abyss. I sprang forward, hoping to catch him, but was too late. I nearly fell over myself in the vain attempt to save him. I almost wish I had done so; for, though the act was the result of his own imprudence, I cannot help feeling responsible. I ought to have exercised my authority and forcibly restrained him from drawing near the fatal brink. Yet I did not like to be too strict with a boy of his age; I feared he would dislike me. But I wish I had run that risk. Anything would have been better than to feel that I might have saved him and neglected to do it. "I sympathize deeply with you and his mother in your sorrow at this bereavement. I shall sail for America in two or three weeks, in order to give Mrs. Craven and yourself a detailed account of this calamity. I will bring home what things I have of Frank's, thinking that it may be a sad satisfaction to his mother to have them. "I cannot write further. I have a terrible head-ache, and am completely used up by the sad scene through which I have passed. "Yours truly, "SHARPLEY." Mr. Craven took out this letter and read it a second time on his way home. "That's a good letter," he said to himself, sardonically, "so full of sympathy, regret, and that sort of thing. I couldn't have done it better myself, and I have rather a talent for such things. Egad! Sharpley has surpassed himself. I didn't give the fellow credit for so much hypocrisy. So he's coming to America to give us a detailed account of this calamity, is he? I know why he's coming. It's to get pay for his share of the plot. Well, if all goes well, I can afford to pay him well, though I really think his price was too high. Now that the young one is out of the way, I must manage his mother, so as to get his property into my hands. Forty thousand dollars! It will relieve me from all money cares for the rest of my life." As Mr. Craven approached the house, his face assumed a grave and sorrowful expression. He was preparing to inflict a crushing blow upon the devoted mother, who was even then counting the days to the probable return of her beloved boy. Entering the house, he met Katy in the hall. "Is your mistress in?" he asked. "Yes, sir; she's up stairs. Have you heard from Frank, sir?" "Yes, Katy," he answered in a significantly doleful tone. "Is anything the matter of him, sir?" asked Katy, taking the hint. "Oh, Katy, I've heard bad news," said Mr. Craven, pulling out his white handkerchief, and elaborately wiping his eyes. "Bad news! What is it, sir?" demanded Katy. "I can't tell it," wailed Mr. Craven. "Spit it out like a man!" exclaimed Katy, impatiently. "Is the dear boy sick?" "Worse." "He ain't dead!" ejaculated Katy, horror-struck. "Yes, he is; he fell over a precipice in the Alps, and was instantly killed." "What's a precipice, sir?" "He was on a steep hill and he slipped over the edge." Katy uttered a loud shriek, and sank on the lower stair, and throwing her apron over her face, began to utter what can only be designated as howls of grief. Mrs. Craven from above was drawn to the head of the landing by what she heard. "What's the matter?" she asked, in affright. "Oh! it's Master Frank, mum. He's kilt dead, he is!" "Is this true?" ejaculated Mrs. Craven, looking toward her husband with pale face. "Yes, my dear." There was a low shriek, and the poor mother sank to the floor in a dead faint. CHAPTER XXXII. BEN BRINGS GOOD NEWS. The news of Frank's death--or supposed death--was a terrible shock to Mrs. Craven. She was of a nervous organization, and her attachment to her son was the greater because he was her only child. She felt that after his death she would have nothing left worth living for. All her future plans and prospects of happiness were connected with him. Her husband, as we know, was nothing to her. She had married him partly because she thought he might be useful to Frank. "I wish I could die, Katy," she wailed, addressing her faithful attendant. In this hour of her affliction, Katy was nearer to her than Mr. Craven. "Don't say that, missis," said Katy, sobbing herself the while. "What have I to live for, now that my poor boy is dead?" And she indulged in a fresh outburst of grief. "My heart is broken, Katy." "So is mine, mum--broke right in two!" answered Katy, sympathetically. "To think that my poor boy should have met with such a terrible death." "He never knew what hurt him, mum. That's one comfort." "But I shall never see him again, Katy," said the poor mother, sobbing. "Yes, you will, mum--in heaven." "Then I hope I shall go there soon. Oh, I wish I had never let him go." "So do I, mum. He was so bright when he went away, poor lad. He little thought what was coming." It was a comfort to Mrs. Craven in her distress to speak to Katy, whose devotion she knew. To Mr. Craven she did not feel like speaking much. She knew that Frank had never liked him, and this closed her lips. She even, poor woman, accused herself for marrying again, since, had she not done so, Frank would not have gone abroad, and would still be spared to her. Mr. Craven wisely kept out of the way for a time. He wanted to introduce business matters, and so carry out the concluding portion of his arrangement, but he felt that it would be impolitic to do it at once. Mrs. Craven was in no frame of mind to give attention to such things. He could wait, though it was irksome to do so. Several days passed. Mrs. Craven's sharp sorrow had given way to a dull feeling of utter despondency. She kept to her room the greater part of the time, looking as if she had just emerged from a lengthened sickness. Mr. Craven wandered about the village, suppressing his good spirits with difficulty when he was at home, and assuming an expression of sympathetic sadness. But, when by himself, he would rub his hands and congratulate himself on the near accomplishment of his plans. One day, when matters were in this state of depression, Ben Cameron knocked at the door. He had received Frank's letter, and had come over at once to deliver his message. The door was opened by Katy, who knew Ben well as the most intimate friend of our hero. "Oh, Ben, we've had bad news," said Katy, wiping her eyes. "Yes, I've heard it," said Ben. "How is Mrs. Craven?" "Poor lady! she's struck down wid grief. It's killin' her. She doted on that boy." "Can I see her?" asked Ben. "She don't feel like seein' anybody." "I think she'll see me, because I was Frank's friend." "May be she will. She know'd you was always intimate friends." "Is Mr. Craven at home?" "No. Did you want to see him?" "No. I wanted to see Mrs. Craven alone." "You don't like him no better'n I do," said Katy. "I hate him!" exclaimed Ben, energetically, bearing in mind Frank's suspicions that Mr. Craven was concerned in the attack upon him. "Good on your head!" said Katy, whose manners and education did not preclude her making occasional use of the slang of the day. "I'll go up and see if my missis will see you." She returned almost immediately. "Come right up," she said. "She'll be glad to see Frank's friend." When Ben entered the room where Mrs. Craven, pale and wasted, sat in a rocking-chair, she burst into tears. The sight of Ben brought her boy more vividly to mind. "How do you do, Mrs. Craven?" said Ben. "My heart is broken, Benjamin," she answered, sadly. "You have heard of my poor boy's death?" "Yes, I have heard of it." "You were his friend. You know how good he was." "Yes, Frank is the best fellow I know," said Ben, warmly. "You say is. Alas! you forget that he is no more." Katy had descended to the kitchen. Ben looked cautiously around him. "Mrs. Craven," he said, "can you keep a secret?" She looked surprised. "Yes," she answered, faintly. "I am going to tell you something which must be kept secret for awhile. Can you bear good news? Frank is alive!" "Alive!" exclaimed the mother, jumping from her chair, and fixing her eyes imploringly, almost incredulously, on her visitor. "Yes. Don't be agitated, Mrs. Craven. I have received a letter from him." "Is it true? Oh, tell me quickly. Didn't he fall over the precipice?" "Yes, he fell, but it was on a soft spot, and he was saved." "Heaven be praised! Bless you for bringing such news. Tell me all about it." Ben told the story in a few words, and then showed the letter. How it eased and comforted the poor mother's heart I need not say. She felt as if life had been restored to her once more. "You see, Mrs. Craven, that there is need of silence and secrecy. We cannot tell whether Frank's suspicions have any foundation or not. We must wait and see." "Do you think Mr. Craven could have had anything to do with the wicked plot?" exclaimed Mrs. Craven, indignantly. "Frank thinks so." "I will tax him with it. If he framed such a plot he shall answer for it." "Hush, Mrs. Craven. Remember Frank's wish. It will defeat his plans." "It is true. I forgot. But how can I live in the same house with a man who sought the life of my poor boy?" "We are not sure of it." "Do not fear. I will do as my boy wishes. But I may tell him that I do not think he is dead?" "Yes, if you give no reason." "And I should like to tell Katy. She, poor girl, loves Frank almost as much as I do." "Do you think Katy can keep it secret?" "Yes, if I ask her to, and tell her it is Frank's wish." "Then I think you can venture. I will take the letter and destroy it, as Frank wanted me to." "Don't destroy it. You can keep it where no one will see it." When Ben went out he told Katy that her mistress wished to see her. She went up, and to her surprise found that Mrs. Craven had thrown open the blind of the hitherto darkened chamber, and actually received her with a smile. Katy looked bewildered. "Come here, Katy," said her mistress. Then she whispered in Katy's ear, "Katy, he's alive!" "What!" exclaimed the handmaiden, incredulously. "Yes, it's true. He's written to Ben. But you must keep it secret. Sit down, and I'll tell you all about it." "Oh, the ould villain!" was Katy's comment upon the story. "I'd like to wring his neck," meaning Mr. Craven's. "You must be careful, Katy. He isn't to know we've heard anything." "But he'll guess from your lavin' off mournin'." "I'll tell him I have dreamed that my boy escaped." "That'll do, mum. When will Master Frank be comin' home?" "Soon, I hope, but now I can wait patiently since Heaven has spared him to me." When Mr. Craven returned home at the close of the afternoon, he was astonished to hear Katy singing at her work, and to find Mrs. Craven dressed and down stairs, quite self-controlled, though grave. In the morning she was in the depths of despondency, and Katy was gloomy and sad. "What's up?" he thought. "My dear," he said, "I am glad that you are bearing your affliction better. It is a terrible loss, but we should be resigned to the will of the Almighty." "I don't think Frank is dead," answered Mrs. Craven. "Not think he is dead? I wish there were any chance of your being right, but I cannot encourage you in such a delusion. There is, unhappily, no chance of the poor boy surviving such a fearful accident." "You may call it foolish, if you will, Mr. Craven, but I have a presentiment that he is alive." "But, my dear, it is impossible." "Katy thinks so, too." Mr. Craven shrugged his shoulders. "I wish it were true, but there is no hope. You saw my friend's letter?" "Yes." "He said there was no hope." "He thought so. I am firmly convinced that Frank is alive." Mr. Craven tried to undermine her confidence, but, of course, without avail. He was troubled, for if she continued to cherish this belief she would not take possession of Frank's fortune, and thus he would be cut off from it. CHAPTER XXXIII. ALPINE EXPLORATIONS OF MR. TARBOX. Arrived at the Hotel du Glacier, Mr. Tarbox immediately instituted inquiries about the fate of Frank, and soon learned all that was known by the people at the inn. Being a decidedly straightforward person, he did not fail to insinuate, or rather to make direct charges, against Sharpley, but these found no credence. Sharpley's hypocritical sorrow, and his plausible explanation, had imposed upon them, and they informed Mr. Tarbox that Colonel Sharpley was an excellent gentleman, and was deeply affected by the accident which had befallen Monsieur Frank. "Deeply affected--in a horn!" returned the disgusted Jonathan. "In a horn!" repeated the landlord, with a perplexed expression. "What is it to be deeply affected in a horn?" "Over the left, then," amended Mr. Tarbox, impatiently. "I do not understand over the left," said the other. "Look here, my friend. Where was you raised?" demanded Mr. Tarbox. "Raised?" "Yes; brought up--born." "I was born here, among these mountains, monsieur." "Did you ever go to school?" "To school--_a l'cole? Certainement._ I am not one ignorant person," said the landlord, beginning to get angry. "And you never learned 'in a horn,' or 'over the left?'" "_Non_, monsieur." "Then," said Mr. Tarbox, "it is high time the schools in Switzerland were reorganized. I should like to speak to your school committee." "School committee?" "Yes. You have a school committee, haven't you?" "_Non_, monsieur." "That accounts for it. You need a smart school committee to see that the right things are taught in your schools. But about Frank--has his body been found?" "_Non_, monsieur." "Not been found! Why not?" "We have looked for it, but we cannot find it." "Poor boy!" said Mr. Tarbox, wiping away a tear. "So he has been left all the time lying dead in some hole in the mountains." "We have looked for him." "Then you didn't look sharp. I'll look for him myself, and when I've found the poor boy I'll give him decent burial. I'd rather bury that skunk Sharpley a darned sight. I'd bury him with pleasure, and I wouldn't grudge the expense of the coffin. Now tell me where the poor boy fell." "My son Baptiste shall go and show monsieur the way." "All right. It don't make any difference to me if he is a Baptist. I'm a Methodist myself, and there ain't much difference, I guess. So just tell the Baptist to hurry up and we'll set out. What's his name?" "My son's name?" "Yes." "Did I not say it was Baptiste?" "Oh, that's his name, is it? I thought it was his religion. Funny name, ain't it? But that makes no difference." Baptiste was soon ready, and the two set out together. The guide found it rather difficult to follow Mr. Tarbox in his eccentric remarks, but they got on very well together, and after a time stood on the fatal ledge. "Here it was the poor boy fell off," said Baptiste. "I don't believe it," said Mr. Tarbox. "The boy wasn't a fool, and he couldn't have fell unless he was--it was that skunk, Sharpley, that pushed him off." "Monsieur Sharpley was deeply grieved. How could he push him off?" It will be remembered that Sharpley left a sum of money in the hands of the guide to defray the burial expenses in case Frank's body was found. This naturally made an impression in his favor on Baptiste's mind, particularly as the money had not been required, and the probability was that he would be free to convert it to his own use. Accordingly, both he and his father were ready to defend the absent Sharpley against the accusations of Mr. Tarbox. "How could he push him off? Jest as easy as winking," replied Jonathan. "Jest as easy as I could push you off," and Mr. Tarbox placed his hand on the guide's shoulder. Baptiste jumped back in affright. "Why, you didn't think I was goin' to do it, you jackass!" said the Yankee. "You're scared before you're hurt. I only wanted to show you how it could be done. Now, jest hold on to my coat-tail while I look over." "Monsieur had better lie down and look over. It is more safe." "I don't know but you're right, Baptiste," and Mr. Tarbox proceeded to follow his advice. "It's a pesky ways to fall," he said, after a pause. "Poor Frank! it don't seem as if there was much chance of his bein' alive." "No, monsieur. He is doubtless dead!" "Then, where is his body? It is strange that it is not found." "Yes, it is strange." "I mean to look for it myself. Is there any way to get down here?" "Yes, but it is a long way." "Never mind that. We will try it. I've got a good pair of legs, and I can hold out if you can." "Very well, monsieur." They accordingly descended and explored the chasm beneath, climbing part way up, looking everywhere for the remains of our hero, but, as we know, there was a very good reason why they were not found. Frank was, at that very moment, eating a hearty breakfast with his friends, the Grosvenors, in Coblentz, preparatory to crossing the river and ascending the heights of Ehrenbreitstein. He little dreamed that his Yankee friend was at that moment looking for his body. Had Mr. Tarbox been able to see the said body, he would have been relieved from all apprehensions. After continuing his search for the greater part of a day, Mr. Tarbox was obliged to give it up. Though possessed of a considerable share of physical strength, obtained by working on his father's farm from the age of ten, he was obliged to own that he was about "tuckered out." He was surprised to find that the guide appeared comparatively fresh. "Ain't you tired, Baptiste?" he asked. "_Non_, monsieur." "Well, that's strange. You're a little feller, compared with me. I could swaller you almost, and I'm as tired as a dog--clean tuckered out." "I was born among these mountains, monsieur. I have always been accustomed to climbing among them; and that is the reason." "I guess you're right, Baptiste. I don't think I shall take up the business of an Alpine guide jest yet. What sort of plows do you have in Switzerland, Baptiste?" "I will show monsieur when we go back." "All right. You see, Baptiste, I've invented a plow that goes ahead of all your old-fashioned concerns, and I'd like to introduce it into Switzerland." "You can speak to my father, monsieur, I have nothing to do with the plowing." Mr. Tarbox did speak to the landlord, after first expressing his disgust at the manner in which agricultural operations were carried on in Switzerland; but he soon found that the Swiss mind is not one that yearns for new inventions, and that the prospect of selling his patent in Switzerland for a good round sum was very small. As he had failed in his search for Frank, and as there seemed no business inducements for remaining, he decided to leave the Hotel du Glacier and return at once to Paris. He did so with a heavy heart, for he really felt attached to Frank, and was grieved by his unhappy fate. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE PLOW IS A SUCCESS. The Grosvenors traveled in a leisurely manner, stopping at places of interest on the way, so that they did not reach Paris for a fortnight. Mr. Tarbox had been back over a week before Frank arrived at the Hotel du Louvre. Our hero had by this time got very well acquainted with his party, and the favorable impression which he at first made was considerably strengthened. Little Herbert took a great fancy to him, and Frank allowed the little boy to accompany him in many of his walks. Frequently, also, Beatrice was of the party. She, too, was much pleased with our hero, and treated him in a frank, sisterly way, which Frank found agreeable. Mr. Grosvenor noticed the intimacy established between his children and Frank, but he saw that our hero was well brought up, and very polite and gentlemanly, and therefore was not displeased by it. In fact he was gratified, for he saw that it added considerably to the pleasure which they derived from the journey. On the morning after their arrival in Paris Frank prepared to go out. "Where are you going, Frank?" asked little Herbert. Beatrice also looked up, inquiringly. "To see a friend of mine, Herbert." "What is his name?" "It seems to me that you are inquisitive, Herbert," said his father. "Oh, it is no secret," said Frank, laughing. "It is Jonathan Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine." "What a funny name!" "Yes, it is a queer name, and its owner is a little queer, also, but he is a good fellow for all that. He is a genuine specimen of the Yankee, Mr. Grosvenor." "I should like to see him," said Mr. Grosvenor, smiling. "Invite him to call." "I will, sir, thank you. Though he is unpolished, I believe you will find that he has something in him." Mr. Tarbox was back in his place in the exposition building. He had not ceased to mourn for Frank. Still he felt in better spirits than usual, for he had had an interview with a wealthy American capitalist, who had looked into the merits of his plow, and half-promised that he would pay him ten thousand dollars for a half ownership of the patent. This would make Mr. Tarbox a man of great wealth in his native place (Squashboro', State o' Maine), and enable him to triumph over his friends and relations, who had thought him a fool for going to the expense of a trip to Europe, when he might have invested the same sum in a small farm at home. He was busily engaged in thinking over his prospects, when he was startled by a familiar voice. "How do you do, Mr. Tarbox?" said Frank, saluting him. "What!" gasped Mr. Tarbox, fixing his eyes upon our hero in a strange mixture of incredulity, wonder, bewilderment and joy. "Why, Mr. Tarbox, you don't seem glad to see me," said Frank. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?" "Are you alive?" asked Mr. Tarbox, cautiously, eying him askance. "Alive? I rather think I am. Just give me your hand." The Yankee mechanically extended his hand, and Frank gave him a grip which convinced him that he was flesh and blood. "But I thought you were dead!" "You see I am not." "I saw the cliff where you tumbled off, and broke your neck." "I got it mended again," said Frank, laughing. "But you say you saw the cliff. Have you been to Switzerland?" "Yes. I mistrusted something was goin' to happen to you." "How could you mistrust? What led to your suspicions?" "A letter that your step-father wrote to that skunk, Sharpley, in which he talks about your meeting with an accident." "But," inquired Frank, in surprise, "how did you get hold of such a letter? I knew nothing about it." "You left it here one day by accident." "Where is it? Let me read it." "First, let me ask you a question. Didn't that skunk push you off the cliff?" "Yes," said Frank, gravely. "And how did you escape?" "Some peasants found me on a snow-covered ledge on which I had fallen. They took me home, and nursed me till I was well enough to travel." "Are you with that skunk now?" "No; I never would travel with him again," said Frank, shuddering. "Where is he?" "I don't know. But let me have the letter." He read in silence the paragraph which has been quoted in an earlier chapter. When he had finished he looked up. "I am afraid," he said, gravely, "there is no doubt that Mr. Craven employed Colonel Sharpley to make away with me." "Then he is a skunk, too!" "Mr. Tarbox, I would not mind it so much but for one thing." "What is that, Frank?" "He is married to my mother. If he lays this plot for me, what will he do against her?" "He will try to get hold of her money." "I fear so, and if she resists I am afraid he will try to injure her." "May be you're right, Frank." "I think I ought to go home at once; don't you think so?" "I don't know but you're right, Frank. I'm almost ready to go too." "Oh, I forgot to ask you what luck you had met with." "I expect I'll do first-rate. There's a gentleman that's talkin' of buyin' one-half my plow for ten thousand dollars." "I congratulate you, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, heartily; "I hope he'll do it." "I guess he won't back out. He's been inquirin' about it pretty close. He thinks it's a big thing." "I've no doubt he's right, Mr. Tarbox." "It'll take the shine off all the plows that's goin'." "Perhaps business will detain you, then, Mr. Tarbox." "No, Mr. Peterson--that's his name--is goin' back to America in a week or two, and if he strikes a bargain I'll go too. Won't dad open his eyes when his son comes home with ten thousand dollars in his pocket? May be he won't think me quite such a fool as he thought when I started off for Europe, and wouldn't buy a farm, as he wanted me to, with that money I got as a legacy." "But you will have half your patent also." "Of course I will, and if that don't bring me in a fortun' it's because folks can't tell a good plow when they see it. But there's one thing I can't understand, Frank." "What's that?" "Where did you get all your money to travel after you got pitched over the precipice by that skunk?" "Oh, I didn't tell you that. Well, after I was able to travel I examined my purse, and found I had only twelve dollars." "That wa'n't much." "No, particularly as I had to pay ten dollars to the good people who picked me up. I shall send them more as soon as I have it." "Jest draw on me, Frank. I ain't rich, but ef you want a hundred dollars or more, jest say so." "Thank you, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, gratefully. "I wouldn't hesitate to accept your very kind offer, but I do not now need it." He then proceeded to explain his meeting with the Grosvenors just when he stood in most need of assistance. He dwelt upon the kindness they had shown him, and the pleasure he had experienced in their society. "I'm glad you've been so lucky. Grosvenor is a brick, but it ain't surprisin' he should take a fancy to you." "I suppose that is a compliment, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, smiling. "Perhaps it is. I don't know much about compliments, but I know I felt awful bad when I thought you was dead. I wanted to thrash that skunk within an inch of his life." "I guess you could do it," said Frank, surveying the athletic form of his Yankee friend. "I'll do it now if I ever come across him. Where do you think he is?" "I think he has gone to America to ask pay for disposing of me." "I guess so, too. They told me at that Hotel du Glacier (the last word Mr. Tarbox pronounced in two syllables) that he was goin' home to break the news to your folks. I guess your step-father won't break his heart badly." "I must follow him," said Frank. "I shall feel uneasy till I reach home and unmask their villany." "I hope we'll go together." "I'll let you know, Mr. Tarbox, when I take passage. Then, if your business is concluded, we will be fellow-passengers once more." CHAPTER XXXV. MR. CRAVEN MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. Mrs. Craven was placed in a difficult position. At the special request of Frank, as conveyed in his letter, she had agreed to keep secret her knowledge of his safety. Of course, she could no longer indulge in her sorrow, which at first overwhelmed her. Her only course was to affirm her belief in his deliverance, though she was not at liberty to name the grounds upon which her belief was based. This must necessarily seem strange, as a "presentiment" was a very slender reason for the change in her manner. Had she been willing to play a part, Mrs. Craven might still have counterfeited grief, but this, again, was not in accordance with her nature. She preferred to be misunderstood, and to excite surprise in those who were ignorant of the facts. But this was not her only perplexity. There was the haunting suspicion that the man whom, unhappily for herself, she called husband, had instigated the wicked plot against the life of her only son. Frank believed it. It might not be true; yet, while there was a possibility of its truth, how could she continue to treat him with her usual courtesy? She sought to do it, but she could not. Though studiously polite, her manner became very cold--almost repellent. When Mr. Craven approached her she could hardly avoid shuddering. Of course, this change became perceptible to him, and he was puzzled and disturbed. It upset all his calculations. He thought she would accept the fact of Frank's death--of which, by the way, he had no doubt himself--and would be so overcome by sorrow that he could readily obtain her consent to those business steps which would place the entire control of Frank's fortune in his hands. Yet here she was, declining to believe that he was dead, and evidently her confidence in him was, for some reason, chilled and impaired. Mr. Craven was impatient to broach the subject, and finding his wife's manner still the same, and with no prospect of alteration, he devised a plausible mode of approaching the subject which was so near his heart. One evening, after the supper dishes were removed, just as Mrs. Craven was leaving the room, he called her back. "My dear," he said, "will you sit down a few minutes? I have a few words to say to you." She complied with his request. "Ahem!" he commenced. "I have taken a step to-day of which I wish to apprize you." "Indeed." "Yes, my dear. Sensible of the uncertainty of life, I have to-day made my will." "Indeed!" she said again, exhibiting no particular interest in Mr. Craven's communication. "You do not ask me in what way I have left my money!" "I do not suppose it concerns me." "But it does, materially. I have no near relatives--at least, none that I care for. I have bequeathed all my property to you." As Mr. Craven possessed nothing whatever apart from the money which his wife permitted him to control, this magnanimous liberality did not require any great self-denial or evince any special affection on his part. However, his wife did not know that, and upon her ignorance he relied. He expected her to thank him, but her manner continued cold. "I am obliged to you for your intention," she said, "but I am not likely to survive you." "We cannot tell, my dear. Should you live to be my widow, I should wish you to inherit all I left behind me." "Thank you, but I should prefer that you would leave all you possess to the relatives you refer to." "I have none that I care for." "I suppose we must sometimes leave property to those we do not particularly like." Mr. Craven was very much disappointed by the coldness with which his liberality was received. He wanted to suggest that his wife should follow his example and leave him her fortune, increased as it was by Frank's, of which she was the legal heir. But this proposal was not so easy to make. Nevertheless, he determined, at any rate, to try for the control of Frank's estate. "There's but one thing more I want to mention," he said. "But first let me say, that my will must stand without alteration. Of course, you can make such disposition of my property as you like when it falls to you, but to you it must go. Now, for the other matter. I beg you will excuse me from saying anything to grieve you, but it must be said. It is necessary for us to take some measures about poor Frank's property." "Why is it necessary?" "Since he is dead--" "But he is not dead," said Mrs. Craven, quickly. "Not dead? Have we not Colonel Sharpley's testimony? He saw the poor boy fall over the cliff." Mr. Craven drew out his handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes, but his wife displayed no emotion. "Then I don't believe Colonel Sharpley," said Mrs. Craven. "Don't believe him!" exclaimed Mr. Craven. "What possible motive can he have for stating what is not true?" "It may be that Frank fell, but that would not necessarily kill him." Still she shuddered, as fancy conjured up the terrible scene. Mr. Craven shook his head. "My dear," he said, "I regret to destroy your hopes. If such a fancy could be indulged without interfering with what ought to be done, I would say nothing to disturb your dream, wild and improbable as it is. But Frank left property. The law requires that it should be legally administered." "Let it accumulate till my boy returns." "That would be foolish and idle. The poor boy will never need it more;" and again Mr. Craven buried his emotion in the depth of his handkerchief. "His bright and promising career is over for this world. He has gone where worldly riches will never benefit him more." But for her private knowledge of Frank's safety, Mrs. Craven would have been moved by his pathetic reference; but, as it was, she stood it without manifesting any emotion, thus plunging her husband into deeper and more angry bewilderment. "As I said before," returned his wife, "I firmly believe that Frank is still alive." "What proof--what reason can you offer?" demanded Mr. Craven, impatiently. "None, except my fixed conviction." "Based upon nothing at all, and contradicted by the most convincing testimony of eye-witnesses." "That is your view." "It is the view of common sense." "There is no need of doing anything about the property at present, is there? I am the legal heir, am I not?" "Ahem! Yes." "Then it is for me to say what shall be done. I am in no hurry to assume possession of my boy's fortune." Mr. Craven bit his lip. Here was an impracticable woman. Apparently, nothing could be done with her--at least as long as she shared this delusion. "I shall soon be able to convince you," he said, "that you are laboring under a happy but an untenable delusion. I expect Colonel Sharpley in the next steamer." Mrs. Craven looked up now. "Is he coming here?" she asked. "Yes; so he writes. He wishes to tell you all about the accident--how it happened, and some details of poor Frank's last experiences in Europe. He felt that it would be a satisfaction to you to hear them from his own lips. He has, therefore, made this journey expressly on your account." Mrs. Craven looked upon Sharpley as the murderer of her boy. It was his hand, she believed, that thrust him from the cliff and meant to compass his death. Could she receive such a man as a guest? "Mr. Craven," she said, abruptly, "if Colonel Sharpley comes here, I have one request to make." "What is it, my dear?" "That you do not invite him to stay in this house." "Why, my dear? I thought you would like to see the last companion of poor Frank," returned Mr. Craven, surprised. "I cannot bear the sight of that man. But for him, Frank would not have incurred such peril." "But Sharpley is not to blame for an accident. He could not help it. I regret that you should be so unreasonably prejudiced." "Call it prejudice if you will. I could not endure the thought of entertaining him as a guest." "This is very strange, my dear. What will he think?" "I cannot say, but you must not invite him here." Mrs. Craven left the room, leaving her husband angry and perplexed. "Surely she can't suspect anything!" he thought, startled at the suggestion. "But no, it is impossible. We have covered our tracks too carefully for that. On my soul, I don't know what to do. This obstinate woman threatens to upset all my plans. I will consult Sharpley when he comes." CHAPTER XXXVI. SHARPLEY'S RETURN. A few days later, as Mr. Craven sat in his office smoking a cigar, while meditating upon the best method of overcoming his wife's opposition to his plans, the outer door opened, and Sharpley entered. "Well, Craven," he said, coolly, "you appear to be taking it easy." "When did you arrive?" asked Mr. Craven. "Yesterday. You ought to feel complimented by my first call. You see I've lost no time in waiting upon you." "I received your letter," said Craven. "Both of them?" "Yes." "Then you know that your apprehensions were verified," said Sharpley, significantly. "The boy was as imprudent as you anticipated. He actually leaned over too far, in looking over an Alpine precipice, and tumbled. Singular coincidence, wasn't it?" "Then he is really dead?" said Mr. Craven, anxiously. "Dead? I should think so. A boy couldn't fall three or four hundred feet, more or less, without breaking his neck. Unless he was made of India rubber, he'd be apt to smash something." "Did you find his body?" "No; I didn't stop long enough. I came away the next day. But, fearing that I might seem indifferent, and that might arouse, suspicion, I left some money with a guide, the son of the landlord of the Hotel du Glacier, to find him and bury him." "I would rather you had yourself seen the body interred. It would have been more satisfactory." "Oh, well, I'll swear that he is dead. That will be sufficient for all purposes. But how does your wife take it?" "In a very singular way," answered Mr. Craven. "In a singular way? I suppose she is overwhelmed with grief, but I shouldn't call that singular--under the circumstances." "But you are mistaken. She is not overwhelmed with grief." Sharpley started. "You don't mean to say she doesn't mind it?" he asked. "No, it isn't that." "What is it, then?" "She won't believe the boy's dead." "Won't believe he is dead? Did you show her my letter?" "Yes." "That ought to have been convincing." "Of course it ought. Nothing could be more direct or straightforward. At first it did seem to have the proper effect. She fainted away, and for days kept her room, refusing to see any one, even me." "Well, that must have been a sacrifice," said Sharpley, ironically; "not to see her devoted husband." "But all at once there was a change. One day I came home at the close of the afternoon, supposing, as usual, that my wife was in her room, but, to my surprise, she was below. She had ceased weeping and seemed even cheerful--though cold in her manner. On complimenting her upon her resignation, she astonished me by saying that she was convinced that Frank was still alive." "Did she assign any reason for this belief?" asked Sharpley, thoughtfully. "Only that she had a presentiment that he had escaped." "Nothing more than this?" "Nothing more." "Pooh! She is only hoping to the last." "It seems to be something more than that. If it was only hope, she would have fear also, and would show all the suspicion and anxiety of such a state of mind. But she is calm and cheerful, and appears to suffer no anxiety." "That is singular to be sure," said Sharpley; "but I suppose it will not interfere with our designs?" "But it will. When I ventured delicately to insinuate that Frank's property ought, according to law, to be administered upon, she absolutely declined, saying that there would be time enough for that when he was proved to be dead." "I can remove that difficulty," said Sharpley. "She will hardly need more than my oral testimony." Mr. Craven shook his head. "I forgot to say that she has taken an unaccountable prejudice against you. She doesn't want me to invite you to the house. She insists that she is not willing to meet you as her guest." "What does this mean?" asked Sharpley, abruptly. "Do you think," he continued, in a lower tone, "that she has any suspicions?" "I don't see how she can," answered Craven. "Then why should she take such a prejudice against me?" "She says, that but for you, Frank would never have gone abroad." "And so, of course, not have met with this accident?" "Yes." "Then, it's all right. It's a woman's unreasonable whim," said Sharpley, apparently relieved by this explanation. "That may be; but it is equally inconvenient. She won't believe your testimony, and will still insist that Frank is alive." A new suspicion entered Sharpley's mind--this time, a suspicion of the good faith of his confederate, of whom, truth to tell, he had very little reason to form a good opinion. "Look here, Craven," he said, his countenance changing. "I believe you are at the bottom of this." "At the bottom of what?" exclaimed Mr. Craven, in genuine astonishment. "I believe you've put your wife up to this." "What should I do that for? Why should I bite my own nose off--in other words frustrate my own plans?" "I am not sure that you would," returned Sharpley, suspiciously. "How could it be otherwise?" "You want to cheat me out of the sum I was to receive for this service." "How?" "By pretending you can't get possession of the boy's property. Then you can plead inability, and keep it all yourself." "On my honor, you do me injustice," said Craven, earnestly. "Your honor!" sneered Sharpley. "The least said about that the better." "Be it so; but you must see that my interests are identified with yours. I will prove to you that all I have said is true." "How will you prove it?" "By bringing you face to face with Mrs. Craven. By asking you to come home with me." "She said she did not want to receive me." "You shall learn that from her manner. After you are convinced of it, after you find she won't credit your tale of Frank's death, we will consult as to what shall be done.' "Very well. It will be strange if, after what has already been accomplished, we cannot circumvent an obstinate woman." "I think we can, with your help." "Very well. When shall we try the experiment?" "At once." Mr. Craven took his hat and led the way out of his office, followed by Sharpley. They walked at a good pace to the handsome dwelling already referred to, and entered. "Katy," said Mr. Craven, "go up stairs and tell your mistress that Colonel Sharpley is here. He has just returned from Europe." "Yes, sir," said Katy, looking askance at Sharpley, whom, in common with her mistress, she regarded as a would-be murderer. "Ma'am," said she, a moment later, in Mrs. Craven's chamber, "he's here." "Who's here?" "That murderin' villain, ma'am." "What! Colonel Sharpley?" said Mrs. Craven, dropping her work in agitation. "Yes, ma'am; and Mr. Craven wants you to come down and see him." "How can I see that man, who tried to take the life of my dear boy?" said Mrs. Craven, in continued agitation. "What shall I do, Katy?" "I'll tell you what I'd do, ma'am. I'd go down and see what I can find out about it. Jest ax him questions, and see what he's got to say for himself." Mrs. Craven hesitated, but she wanted to learn something of her absent boy, and followed Katy's advice. As she entered the room, Sharpley advanced to meet her, with extended hand. She did not seem to see it, but passed him coldly and sank into a rocking chair. He bit his lip with vexation, but otherwise did not show his chagrin. CHAPTER XXXVII. MRS. CRAVEN'S FIXED IDEA. "You will probably wish to ask Colonel Sharpley about the circumstances attending poor Frank's loss," said Craven, in a soft voice. "I am ready to hear what Colonel Sharpley has to say," returned Mrs. Craven, coldly. "I see you are displeased with me, madame," said Sharpley. "I can understand your feelings. You associate me with the loss of your son." "I do!" said Mrs. Craven, with emphasis. "But that is not just, my dear," said Mr. Craven. "Accidents may happen at any time--they are beyond human foresight or control. It is my friend Sharpley's misfortune that our Frank came to his sad end while in his company." "While in his company?" repeated Mrs. Craven, looking keenly at Sharpley. "You think I should have prevented it, Mrs. Craven. Gladly would I have done so, but Frank was too quick for me. With a boy's curiosity he leaned over the precipice, lost his balance and fell." "When did this happen--what day of the month?" "It was the eighteenth of August." Mrs. Craven remembered with joy that the letter which she had read, addressed to Ben Cameron, was dated a week later; it was a convincing proof of Frank's safety. "You are sure that it was the eighteenth?" "Yes, perfectly so," answered Sharpley, not, of course, seeing the drift of her question. "Did you find Frank's body?" asked Mrs. Craven, with less emotion than Sharpley expected from the nature of the question. "No," he answered, and immediately afterward wished he had said yes. "Then," said Mrs. Craven, "Frank may be alive." "Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Craven and Sharpley in unison. "Why impossible?" "The precipice was too high; it was absolutely impossible that any one could have fallen from such a height and not lose his life." "But you did not find the body?" "Because I started for home the very next day to let you know what had happened. I left directions with a guide to search for and bury the body when found. He has doubtless done it. A letter from him may be on the way to me now announcing his success." "When you receive the letter you can show it to me," said Mrs. Craven, quietly. "Certainly," said Sharpley. Then he regretted that he had not, while in Europe, forged such a letter, or, failing this, that he had not positively declared that he had personally witnessed Frank's burial. This would have removed all difficulty. "I have not expressed my sympathy in your loss," said Sharpley; "but that is hardly necessary." "It is not at all necessary," said Mrs. Craven, "for I believe Frank to be alive." "How can you believe it," asked Sharpley, with difficulty repressing his irritation, "in the face of my testimony?" "You are not sure of Frank's death." "I am as sure as I can be." "I am not," said Mrs. Craven, quietly. "But, permit me to ask, how could he possibly escape from the consequences of such a fall?" "That I cannot explain; but there have been escapes quite as wonderful. I have a presentiment that Frank is alive." "I did not think you were so superstitious, my dear," said Mr. Craven. "Call it superstition if you please. With me it is conviction." Involuntarily the eyes of the two--Craven and Sharpley--met. There were irritation and perplexity in the expression of each. What could be done with such a perverse woman, so wholly inaccessible to reason? "Confound it!" thought Sharpley. "If I had foreseen all this trouble, I would have stayed and seen the brat under ground. Of all the unreasonable women I ever met, Mrs. Craven takes the palm." "I have not yet told the circumstances," he said, aloud. "Let me do so. You will then, probably, understand that your hopes have nothing to rest upon." He gave a detailed account, exaggerating the dangerous character of the cliff purposely. "What do you think now, my dear?" asked Mr. Craven. "I believe that Frank escaped. If he has, he will come home, sooner or later. I shall wait patiently. I must now beg to be excused." She rose from her chair, and left the room. "What do you think of that, Sharpley?" demanded Craven, when she was out of ear-shot. "Did I not tell you the truth?" "Yes, your wife is the most perverse, unreasonable woman it was ever my lot to encounter." "You see the difficulty of our position, don't you?" "As to the property?" "Yes. Of course, that's all I care for. Believing, as she does, that Frank is alive, she won't have his property touched." "It is a pity you are not the guardian, instead of your wife." "It is a thousand pities. But what can we do? I want your advice." Sharpley sat in silent thought for five minutes. "Will it answer if I show your wife a certificate from the guide that he has found and buried Frank?" "Where will you get such a certificate?" "Write it myself if necessary." "That's a good plan," said Craven, nodding. "Do you think she will resist the weight of such a document as that?" "I don't see how she can." "Then it shall be tried." Three days later, as soon as it was deemed prudent, Sharpley called again at the house. He had boarded meanwhile at the hotel in the village, comprehending very clearly that Mr. Craven was not at liberty to receive him as a guest. Mrs. Craven descended, at her husband's request, to meet the man whom she detested. She had received a second call from Ben, who, with all secrecy, showed her a line from Frank, to the effect that he was well, had found good friends, and should very shortly embark for America. It was an effort for the mother to conceal her joy, but she did so for the sake of expediency. "When I was last here, Mrs. Craven," said Sharpley, "you expressed doubt as to your son's death." "I did." "I wish you had had good reason for your doubt, but I knew only too well that there was no chance for his safety." "Well?" "I am now prepared to prove to you that he is dead." "How will you prove it?" "Read that, madame," he said, extending a paper. She took the paper extended to her, and read as follows: "HONORED SIR:--As you requested, I searched for the body of the poor boy who fell over the cliff. I found it concealed among some bushes at the bottom of the cliff. It was very much bruised and disfigured, but the face was less harmed than the body, so that we knew it at once. As you directed, I had it buried in our little cemetery. I will point out the grave to you when you come this way. "I hope what I have done will meet your approval, and I remain, honored sir, your servant, "BAPTISTE LAMOUREUX, "Alpine Guide." "That removes every doubt," said Mr. Craven, applying his handkerchief to his eyes. "Poor Frank!" "When did you receive this letter, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Mrs. Craven. "Yesterday." "It was written by a Swiss guide?" "Yes, madame." "He shows an astonishing knowledge of the English language," she said, with quiet meaning. "He probably got some one to write it for him," said Sharpley, hastily. "So I thought," she said, significantly. "What difference can that make, my dear?" demanded Mr. Craven. "It seems to me of no importance whether he wrote it himself, or some traveler for him. You can't doubt Frank's death now?" "I do." "Good heavens! What do you mean?" "I mean that I am confident that my boy is alive. No one can convince me to the contrary," and she rose and left the room. "The woman is mad!" muttered Sharpley. "So she is," said Craven, rubbing his hands, as an evil thought entered his mind. "She is the subject of a mad delusion. Now I see my way clear." "What do you mean?" "I mean this. I will obtain a certificate of her madness from two physicians, and have her confined in an asylum. Of course, a mad woman cannot control property. Everything will come into my hands, and all will be right." "You've hit it at last, Craven!" said Sharpley, with exultation. "That plan will work. We'll feather our nests, and then she may come out of the asylum, or stay there, it will be all the same to us." CHAPTER XXXVIII. RETRIBUTION. The two rogues lost no time in carrying out their villanous design. They thirsted for the gold, and were impatient to get rid of the only obstacle to its acquisition. Sharpley found two disreputable hangers-on upon the medical profession in the city of New York who, for twenty-five dollars a piece, agreed to pronounce Mrs. Craven insane. They came to the village, and were introduced to Mrs. Craven as business friends. The subject of Frank's loss was cunningly introduced, and she once more affirmed her belief in his safety. This was enough. An hour later, in Mr. Craven's office, the two physicians signed a paper certifying that his wife was insane. They received their money and went back to the city. The next day was fixed upon by the conspirators for taking Mrs. Craven to an insane asylum. Late the day previous a Cunard steamer arrived at its dock. Among the passengers were two of our acquaintances. One was Frank Hunter, our hero, sun-browned and healthy, heavier and taller, and more self-reliant than when, three months before, he sailed from the port of New York bound for Liverpool. The other no one can mistake. The blue coat and brass buttons, the tall and somewhat awkward form, the thin but shrewd and good-humored face, are those of Jonathan Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine. "Well, Frank, I'm tarnal glad to be here," said Mr. Tarbox. "It seems kind of nat'ral. Wonder what they'll say in Squashboro' when they see me come home a man of fortun'." "Your plow is a great success, Mr. Tarbox. You ought to be proud of it." "I be, Frank. My pardner says he wouldn't take twenty thousand for his half of the invention, but I'm satisfied with the ten thousand he gave me. I didn't never expect to be worth ten thousand dollars." "You'll be worth a hundred thousand before you're through." "Sho! you don't mean it. Any how, I guess Sally Sprague'll be glad she's going to be Mrs. Tarbox. I say, Frank we'll live in style. Sally shall sit in the parlor, and play on the pianner. She wouldn't have done that if she'd took up with Tom North. He's a shiftless, good-for-nothin' feller. But, I say, Frank, what'll your folks say to see you?" "Mother'll be overjoyed, but Mr. Craven won't laugh much. I hope," he added, gravely, "he hain't been playing any of his tricks on mother." "Do you think that skunk, Sharpley, has got back?" "I think he has, and it makes me anxious. Mr. Tarbox, will you do me a favor?" "Sartin, Frank." "Then, come home with me. I may need a friend." "I'll do it, Frank," said Jonathan, grasping our hero's hand. "Ef that skunk's round the neighborhood, I'll give him a piece of my mind." "Thank you," said Frank. "I am not afraid of him, but I am only a boy, and they might be too much for me. With you I have no cause to fear." They reached the village depot, and set out to walk. Frank met two or three friends, who looked upon him as one raised from the dead. He merely spoke and hurried on. When a few rods from the house, their attention was called to a woman, who was running up the street, without any covering upon her head, sobbing like one in distress. "Why, it's our Katy!" exclaimed Frank, in great agitation. "Good heavens! what can have happened?" "Katy!" he cried out. "Oh, Master Frank, is it you?" exclaimed Katy, laughing hysterically. "You're come in time. Run home as fast as ever you can." "Why, what's the matter?" demanded Frank, in great alarm. "Them rascals, Mr. Craven and Sharpley, pretend that your mother is crazy, just because she won't hear to your bein' dead, and they're takin' her to the crazy 'sylum. I couldn't stand it, and I run out to see if I couldn't get help." "The blamed skunk!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, swinging his arms threateningly. "Let me get a hold of him and he won't never know what hurt him." Meanwhile, Craven and Sharpley had forced Mrs. Craven into a close carriage, and they were just driving out of the yard when our hero and his friend rushed to the rescue. Mr. Tarbox sprang to the horses' heads and brought them to a stop, while Frank hurried to the door of the coach, which he pulled open. Inside were Mrs. Craven, her husband and Sharpley. They looked angrily to the door, but their dismay may be conceived when they met the angry face of one whom both believed to be dead. "Oh, Frank!" screamed Mrs. Craven. "You are come home at last." "Yes, mother. Let me help you out of the carriage." "You shall not go!" said Mr. Craven, desperately. "Frank, your mother's insane. We are taking her to the asylum. It is for her good." "Save me, Frank!" implored Mrs. Craven. "I will save you, mother," said Frank, firmly. "Drive on!" shouted Sharpley, savagely. "Look a here!" exclaimed a new voice, that of Jonathan Tarbox, who was now peeping into the carriage. "That is the skunk that tried to murder you." "What do you mean, fellow?" demanded Sharpley. "If you don't understand, come out and I'll lick it into you, you skunk! Tell your mother to come out, and let that skunk stop her if he dares!" and Mr. Tarbox coolly drew out a revolver and pointed it at Sharpley. "I'll get out, too," said Mr. Craven, faintly. "No, you won't. I've got a letter of yourn, written to that skunk, advisin' him to pitch Frank over a precipice." "It's a lie!" ejaculated Craven, pallid with fear. "It comes to the same thing," said Mr. Tarbox, coolly. "When he's tried for murder, you'll come in second fiddle." Sharpley saw his danger. Mr. Craven was already out of the carriage. He made a dash for the door, but found himself in Jonathan's powerful grasp. In a moment he was sprawling on his back in the yard. "Jest lie there till I tell you to get up," he said. By this time two neighbors--athletic farmers--entered the yard. Frank briefly explained the matter to them, and Mr. Tarbox asked their assistance to secure Sharpley and Craven. "Let me go, Frank. I'm your step-father," implored Craven. "If that man has attempted your life, I know nothing of it. Blame him; not me." "Oh, that is your game," said Sharpley, "you cowardly hound! You want to sell me and go scot-free yourself. Then, gentlemen, it becomes my duty to say that this man has no business here. At the time he married this boys mother he had a wife living in London." "It's a lie!" faltered Craven. "It's the truth. I saw her two months since, and so did the boy. You remember Mrs. Craven, whom you relieved?" "Yes," said Frank, in astonishment. "She is that man's wife." "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Frank. "Then my mother is free." "Moreover, he hired me to carry you abroad, with the understanding that you should not return, in order that he might enjoy your fortune." "You miserable snake in the grass!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, energetically. Mr. Craven, who was a coward at heart, was thoroughly overwhelmed at the revelations of his baseness, and made no resistance when taken into custody. Sharpley and he were closely confined until indictments could be found against them, and, to anticipate matters a little, were tried, convicted and sentenced to ten years in the State prison. It was found that Mr. Craven had squandered several thousand dollars belonging to his wife, but Frank's fortune was intact, and they indulged in no useless regrets for the money that was gone. Frank went back to school, where he remained until the next summer, when he induced his mother to visit Europe under his guidance. They visited his friends, the Grosvenors, by whom they were cordially received. They went to Switzerland, where Mrs. Hunter (Craven no longer), beheld, with a shudder, the scene of her son's fall and escape. Some years have now elapsed. Frank is a young man, and junior partner in a prosperous New York firm. He is not married, but rumor has it that next fall he is to visit London for the purpose of uniting his fortunes to those of Beatrice Grosvenor, whose early fancy for our hero has ripened into a mature affection. It is probable that Mr. Grosvenor will be induced, after his daughter's marriage, to establish himself in New York, in order to be near her. Frank's mother still lives, happy in the goodness and the prosperity of her son. She has improved in health, and is likely to live many years, an honored member of Frank's household. Our Yankee friend, Jonathan Tarbox, is one of the magnates of Squashboro', State o' Maine. He and his partner have built a large manufactory, from which plows are turned out by hundreds and thousands annually. He is now Squire Tarbox, and Sally Sprague has changed her last name for one beginning with T. I should not be surprised to see him a member of Congress, or Governor of Maine some time. Frank has settled a pension upon the real Mrs. Craven, who will probably never see her husband again, as he is reported in poor health, and not likely to leave the prison alive. Sharpley succeeded in effecting his escape, and it is not known where he has taken refuge. Ben Cameron is a trusted clerk in Frank's employ, and our hero will take care that his old school friend prospers. Though his path lies in sunshine, Frank is not likely to forget the peril from which he so narrowly escaped. THE END. -------------------------------------------- Transcriber's Notes: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Punctuation has been silently corrected. Archaic and variable spelling have been preserved. Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.